Once upon a time there was a naughty young man from Germany named Klaus. Lured by the prospect of a little online fun, he made the mistake of stumbling into my spider’s web. Naturally the poor thing didn’t fully realize what he was getting himself into. Still, technically, he agreed to my terms. So what if he was a tad naive? That’s not my problem. One has to grow up sooner or later. It’s a big bad world out there.
Perhaps I should explain. My name is Elizabeth. I make my living as a management consultant, but that is not what I live for. No, what I live for is far more complex and creative than that.
My passion in life is tickling. Specifically, I like to tickle men. Strange? Perhaps. Kinky? Indeed. But harmless, you say to yourself. As kinks go, you chuckle, it could be much worse; she could be into something frightening, like whipping. If she had to have a kink, you say, at least it’s something relatively benign.
I love that you think that. It makes my job so much easier.
You see, you no doubt grew up in a happy family in which tickling was a commonplace occurrence: a casual show of affection, or friendly teasing. Nothing the slightest bit threatening about that, is there? Of course not.
Happily for me, tickling is considered a mainstream activity. People simply do not call the police or file lawsuits over tickling incidents. That’s because the rest of the world has yet to realize the true potential of this exquisite art form.
Yes, my friend, tickling is an art, and when done correctly it is also the perfect torture. Perfect because it leaves no marks, save for any the victim may happen to inflict on himself as he struggles. It is unbearable, and yet it does not kill or maim the victim. It provides endless hours of entertainment to the tickler while leaving little or no incriminating evidence. It usurps control of the victim’s own body as he writhes in agony; and all the while–the final indignity–the victim is forced to laugh as if he’s having the time of his life.
I ask you, what could be more perfect than that?
But I digress. Back to Klaus: A pretty young lad of about twenty, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. Lips slightly swollen, as if waiting to be kissed. Best of all, he had soft, white skin, which lent him an air of vulnerability. There was something about his skin that made me want to bite into it. If I were a vampire, his lovely throat would be the first to receive my fangs. Oh, tender, succulent Klaus! Of all his virtues, it is his complexion that I will always think of first when I remember him. Can there be any worthier pursuit, any headier thrill, than to evoke an intense reaction from the smooth, sensitive skin of a foolish youth?
My first taste of Klaus was on an Internet forum. In his innocence, the little darling posted a message with the subject “Seeking a woman to tickle me until I beg for mercy!” Ah, such a silly boy, I thought. Doesn’t he realize any tickler worth her salt wouldn’t want to tickle him “until” he begs? A truly sadistic tickler would insist on tickling him far beyond that point. Mere begging should pose no obstacle. If anything, it only fuels my fire, ensuring that the tickling will continue for a good while longer. The sound of a young man begging for mercy is what I live for. Why on earth would I want to cut off my pleasure prematurely?
His post was innocent, so I responded in kind. I sent him an email saying I was “intrigued by this whole F/M tickling thing.” Implying, of course, that I was new at this. Golly gosh! A sweet, ingenuous tickling neophyte, that’s me! I sent him a photo of myself looking fresh-faced and wholesome, a photo taken by my mother at our last family reunion. He rose like a fish to my shiny, spinning lure. I had only to reel him in. It was almost too easy.
Soon we progressed from email to real-time chat. I “cyber-tickled” him several times with great success. Predictably, he expressed a desire to take the next logical step: from virtual reality to physical reality.
With painstaking patience I tightened the proverbial noose around his neck. I told him I was tempted to meet him face to face, but that I felt it was far too soon. I told him I had grown very fond of him, and that I was deeply grateful to him for helping me recognize my “newfound” fascination with tickling, but that I didn’t think it was a good basis for an actual relationship. I hinted at the possibility of another man in the picture. Then I backed off.
For over two weeks I crouched in waiting. Klaus’s emails continued to trickle in: casual at first, then questioning, then pitiful. By the end of the fortnight, he was hopelessly in love with me…the moron! It amazes me how easily manipulated men are. A little aloofness goes such a long way. What is it about the attainable woman that is so undesirable? A perfectly adequate woman, interested and eager and available, is shuffled aside time after time. Yet, take the exact same woman and assemble a little obstacle course in front of her, and suddenly the swains are falling at her feet in droves. It’s the challenge, not the woman herself, that the silly sods find irresistible.
Thus it was no surprise when Klaus’s desperate protestations of love began filling my In Box. I played it cool, ignoring him one day, cyber-tickling him the next, forever keeping him guessing. Works every time. Within a month sweet little Klaus was half crazed with one single-minded ambition: to come to America and be my tickle-toy. Feigning reluctance, I agreed.
On the day of his arrival I made sure I had an important business meeting that prevented my picking him up at O’Hare. I made him take a cab to my house fifty miles from the airport and cool his heels on my back porch for several hours. It was a chilly, drizzly evening and, on my advice, he had dressed lightly as for a summer afternoon. All the time he was waiting, Cinammon, my Rottweiler, bared her teeth and snarled at him through the sliding glass door, keeping him on edge. After his transatlantic flight he undoubtedly would have liked nothing better than a good long nap, but Cinammon deprived him of even that small comfort.
Just a word about Cinammon. She can be cunning and coy, but once she sets her sights on something, she clamps down on it and doesn’t let go. She is first and foremost true to her instincts–what D. H. Lawrence called the religion of the blood. What she loves, she marks as her own, and what she attacks, she kills. When she sees raw meat, she wolfs it down, and heaven help the fool who tries to wrestle it away from her. Needless to say, I feel a certain affinity with my Rottweiler bitch.
When I arrived home, I entered by the front door and shouted at Cinammon to quiet down. I acted almost surprised to see Klaus sitting on my porch as I had directed him to do only two days before; as if I’d forgotten he was coming. I let him in, shooing Cinammon away from his bare calves, on which her ferocious gaze was firmly locked. I looked him up and down. “You look different from your picture,” I said coolly. It was true: in fact he looked far better than his picture, but my inflection suggested the opposite.
I fed him a hastily prepared dinner, behaving like a stressed-out executive with little time for social amenities. I neglected to show him around the house, so he had to ask me where the bathroom was. I made a point of correcting his halting English and making him repeat himself. We ate in front of the television, with Cinammon eyeing him hungrily the whole time. By the end of the evening my houseguest looked frazzled and forlorn.
“Elizabeth,” he asked solemnly, “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Of course,” I said, with a certain breezy detachment. He looked unconvinced.
“Don’t you even want to give me a hug?”
I smiled. “Is that what you came all this way for? A hug?” He shook his head uncomprehendingly. I took his hand and led him downstairs to the basement. It was a finished, carpeted basement, tastefully decorated but drafty. With a firm hand around the back of his neck, I propelled him into a large room, shutting the door behind us so that poor Cinammon was left out. She voiced her displeasure from the other side of the thin door with a long, low growl.
“How do you like my playroom?” I asked. Of course, “playroom” was a euphemism. “Dungeon” would have been more accurate, except that it was well-lit and the walls and ceiling were painted light pink. I’d once read that in scientific studies, it was found that a man placed in a pink room became less secure, less assertive, than a man placed in a blue or red room. Somehow, the color pink psychologically unmanned him.
Klaus’s hazel eyes widened in awe. “So much equipment!” I knew he was wondering how someone who had so recently been surprised to discover her latent sadistic tendencies had acquired such a vast array of props.
The walls of the room were windowless, and lined with various implements hanging from brass hooks: whips, straps, cuffs, ropes, harnesses, paddles, blindfolds, gags–a veritable treasure trove. Arranged neatly on the floor were large wooden stocks and a long, low hammock made of rope. In one corner, a sturdy wooden X-shaped cross was bolted to the floor and ceiling. Klaus looked around apprehensively. He glanced over his shoulder at the door I’d slammed shut behind him, and heard Cinammon scratching at it.
Carefully I disguised my growing excitement with affected nonchalance. He wasn’t bound yet, so I still had to play nice. “You like it? I did all this for you, Klaus,” I lied easily. “Of course, I don’t even know how to use half this stuff.” Inwardly I was roaring with laughter at my outrageous dishonesty. He still looked nervous, so I gave him a warm smile and quickly tickled his sides through his T-shirt to loosen him up. He hunched over with a surprised “Oooffff!” and grinned at me.
“Want me to tickle you now?” I asked, gently attacking his stomach and sides. The boy blushed as he chuckled. He’d probably expected we’d spend some time getting to know each other first. Like I’d waste any more time on that boring drivel. I whispered in his ear, tickling his neck and causing his shoulders to scrunch up. “C’mon, Klaus, you know you want it.” Wordlessly, he nodded.
I flashed him my best, virginal “nice-Utah-girl-who-bakes-a-great-apple-pie” smile and led him to the hammock. “Here, let’s try this out. Lie back and get comfy.” As I spoke, I lulled him into a false sense of security with soft, gentle caresses. I could tell Klaus was one of those nice young mama’s boys who hadn’t had much experience with women. That type is easy enough to identify: just speak softly in his ear, put your hand on his upper arm, and watch what happens. If he immediately turns to Jell-O and promises you the moon, he’s one of them. If not, he’s either gay, or been around the block a few times. The former group I don’t bother with; for the latter, I have a whole different modus operandi.
“Why don’t you take these off?” I suggested. Again he blushed deeply. The little weiner schnitzel! How adorable he was in all his green gullibility. As he sat up and undressed, I exclaimed, “Oh! I almost forgot!” and grabbed a small sheaf of papers and a pen from a corner table. “This is probably silly, but the lady at the store where I bought all this stuff suggested we do this. I…I…” I stammered as if embarrassed. “Look, I know you’re not going to sue me or anything, but she really seemed to think it was important. So if you could just sign this…” He had stripped down to his boxers and looked absolutely delectable: self-conscious and a little chilly, yet obviously eager to get started. I handed him the contract and pen. He reviewed the legal verbiage with a glazed expression. Meanwhile, I hooked my well-manicured fingers around the waistband of his boxers and slowly inched them down over his hips. “Well, well,” I smiled impishly, letting my eyes roam over his average-sized genitals, “What have we here? I see someone’s been eating his Wheaties.” I pulled the boxers down to his knees. “What a big boy you are!” I doubt a single word of that contract managed to register in his befuddled brain before he hurriedly signed it and handed it back to me with shaking hands.
“Well, I guess the next thing I should do is tie you up, right?” I asked, all innocence.
“Y-yes, that sounds good to me,” he said shyly. His diffidence sent a lightning bolt of desire shooting through me. My bashful boy! Excitement is so much more attractive in a man when candy-coated with a little modesty. I retrieved several lengths of thin rope and pretended to fumble with them.
“Gee, I hope I can do this right,” I said worriedly. “I’ve never been much good at knot-tying.” I wound a length around one wrist, fastening it securely to the hammock above his head in a tight bowline. That’s the knot I prefer for binding body parts, as it doesn’t slip and tighten when the victim struggles. No sense cutting off the poor blighter’s circulation and risking loss of a limb. Much more fun to prolong his tickling agony as long as possible without leaving behind any telltale marks, ensuring that any complaints he may have afterwards may be safely ignored. I fastened his other wrist and each of his ankles to the hammock in the same way. Then I tied more loops around his thighs, waist, and upper arms. Klaus bounced slightly in the hammock, testing his bonds with a nervous grin.
He was perfectly helpless: naked from head to toe, and tightly bound to a hammock made of ropes, allowing me unrestricted access to virtually every inch of his body. He could twitch in place and make the hammock swing gently from side to side, but that was all. I looked down at him and began to chuckle. It started out soft and ladylike, but from somewhere deep inside me a maniacal laugh erupted. The credulous fool! There was no escaping me now. I threw my head back and just laughed and laughed. Klaus’s sheepish smile faded slightly. I knew what he was thinking: was this the same Elizabeth he had fallen in love with? The timid, kind woman with the curious questions and the demure smile? I stood triumphantly over him, still dressed in my severe business attire, and caressed his face with my red lacquered talons.
“Okay, Klaus, you little apple streudel, you!” I grinned evilly. “I’m going to make your fantasy come true! I’ll tickle you as long as you like. When you’ve had enough, just say the safeword.”
“Wh-what safeword?” Klaus asked tremulously.
“Why, you silly boy, the one I specified in our little contract. Didn’t you read it before you signed it?”
“I–I didn’t see that part,” he confessed. “What’s the safeword?”
I ignored the question. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you never to sign anything without reading it first? Shame on you, Klaus. That was very naughty!” I began to tickle his softly furred underarms.
“Wait, wait!” he cried. “I’m not ready! What’s the safeword?”
“You shouldn’t be so trusting, Klaus,” I purred. “You should always read the fine print. Otherwise, you never know what you’re getting yourself into.” As I worked my fingers in and around his armpits he tried to jerk his body away. The hammock rocked slightly.
“O-k-kay, Elizabeth! I get your point!” he gasped. “Now please, this isn’t funny any more! You must tell me, what is this safeword?”
“The safeword,” I said sweetly, pretending to misunderstand, “is a special word that both parties agree on beforehand, and as soon as you say it, I’ll stop tickling you and set you free.”
Klaus swallowed hard. “But what is the word?” he cried in exasperation.
“The nice thing about having a safeword,” I continued calmly, as if I hadn’t heard him, “is that I can enjoy your pleas for mercy without having to worry that they’re serious. As long as you’re just yelling, ‘Stop, please stop!’ I can simply ignore you and keep tickling away until you say the special word that we agreed upon, which is explicitly specified in our contract, which you signed.”
The look in Klaus’s eyes told me he had seen the light, the light that shone so horribly and oppressively from his point of view, and so delightfully from mine. At first his expression conveyed nothing but terror. He was a healthy, vigorous male, however, and gradually terror began to give way to anger. He cursed me, and bucked violently in the hammock trying to free himself. I chuckled at his futile efforts. He spat a string of expletives at me. I waited until he used a particularly vulgar word that refers to a part of the female anatomy, and then I began tickling his feet.
“Tsk, tsk, such a naughty little boy!” I scolded him. “Such bad language! What’s the matter, Klaus? I thought you liked me. I thought you liked being tickled. Didn’t you come all the way here from Germany just so I could tickle you?”
“Hahaha…I changed my mind! Let me go-ho-hoooOOOAAAAUGH!” He wiggled his feet helplessly.
“Silly boy. Not until you say the safeword!”
“Please Elizabeth…hehehe…you are not being fair! Ahaha…aaaiiiieeeeEEEEEE-hehehehe!”
I shook my head. “You’re the one who’s not being fair, my little spaetzle! Teasing me with your big wide eyes and telling me how badly you need to be tickled, and then trying to back out! Oh, my, that’s very naughty indeed! I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”
I tickled Klaus relentlessly until daybreak; each part of his body seemed more impossibly ticklish than the last. At first I used only my blood-red nails. As the evening wore on, I progressed to other implements: a toothbrush between the toes; a soft-bristled hairbrush to “groom” his armpits. Hours passed. Every so often I would give him a five-minute break and a small drink of water, which he promptly released through his pores. Enthusiasm made me tireless.
While I was consumed with one thought only–tickling Klaus–poor Klaus ran the full gamut of emotions. One minute he would be squirming and pleading desperately, the next he would be furious and stoical. After several hours of torment, he seemed to reach a plateau. Exhausted, he simply trembled in silence, laughing and weeping concurrently.
It is difficult to explain why torturing Klaus in this way was such ecstasy for me. The more he begged and struggled, the more my motivation increased. I suppose the only word to describe it is instinct. He was strong, I knew, but his naked white body, tied to my hammock, looked tender and vulnerable as a bean sprout. As frantically as he begged for mercy, his smooth skin begged to be tickled more frantically still. His foreign accent made his pleas even more appealing to my ears. It was a multi-sensual feast: the sight of him twisting and heaving, the feel of his sensitive flesh shivering under my fingers, the smell of his sweat, the taste of his salty tears as I kissed them away, but above all it was the sound of his cries that thrilled me. They were so forlorn, so heart-wrenching, as if torn from his gut. They moved me deeply, arousing my pity, yet it was a sensual pity that I wanted to savor endlessly.
In the morning I left Klaus still tied to the hammock while I napped, breakfasted and ran errands. I stopped at the supermarket, cashed a check at the bank, and took Cinammon out for a leisurely walk. On my return that afternoon, I prepared a late lunch for myself and brought it downstairs to enjoy in front of Klaus, who had fallen into a light sleep. When I woke him with a soft touch, he started as if electrocuted.
“You must be pretty hungry by now,” I remarked casually as I helped myself to a bite of rare steak which I’d charcoal-grilled in the backyard. “Goodness, this is way too much for me. Would you like some?” I stabbed a small piece of meat with my fork and held it a few inches from his mouth. He stared hungrily at it and tried to grab it with his teeth. With a smirk I pulled it away. Then I opened the door and let Cinammon in. “Here you go, girl. Eat up!” Klaus glared accusingly at me as we both watched my dog gulp down the juicy steak. Then I sent Cinammon away again and resumed tickling my comely prisoner.
“Sorry, Klaus. Naughty boys have to go to bed without supper, you know that.”
In all, I kept Klaus tied up in my basement for seventy-two hours. Once a day I allowed him to pee in a bucket, more out of concern for my own aesthetic preferences than his well-being. I fed him lightly, just once: a few bites of a peanutbutter sandwich. It was great fun to keep him hungry and tease him with food. His eyes welled up with tears and he looked so pathetic, it was delicious! When I tired of teasing and tickling him, I slept fitfully, dreaming of Klaus’s wounded cries. In my own ruthless way, I was quite fond of him. I knew that once I released him, I would never see or hear from him again, and that increased my reluctance to let him go. But on the third day it was time for him to get on his plane and return to Germany. I couldn’t hold him forever. I had no choice–he had to be yet another “catch and release”.
A few hours before his flight was scheduled to depart, I let Cinammon in the room. I wanted her there to protect me in case Klaus was contemplating retaliation. Then I untied him. He rose awkwardly, so stiff he could barely move.
“So…was that good for you?” I asked brightly. “I certainly had fun. I hope we can do this again sometime!” Klaus’s eyes widened in horror. I carried his two suitcases to the front hallway. He’d never even had a chance to unpack. Hurriedly, he threw on the clothes he’d been wearing when he first arrived and rushed clumsily out the front door, grabbing his bags as he went.
“Don’t you want a ride to the airport?” I asked innocently. Klaus’s only reply was a faint whimper as he staggered down my front walk toward freedom.
“Don’t you at least want to know what the safeword was?”
He stopped in his tracks and turned around, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. “What was it?” he sighed.
I smiled a wicked smile. “Dummkopf!”
Klaus blushed furiously and his face tightened with anger. At last he turned and walked away. I never saw him again, but I remember him often, and…in my own way…fondly.