Though I play pranks, I never expected to be tortured– with tickle machine torture, that is!
I knew of sex machines, and sex torture, but tickle machines and tickle machine torture were completely unknown to me. That is, completely unknown to me before I met Bob. Bob was an older guy who constantly fluttered around me, giving me smiles and extra-large tips for my “extra-large jugs” of beer whenever I’d serve him at the bar. He spent his time trying to get me to laugh, and unlike many of my bar patrons, he always succeeded. (His secret? Puns).
One day, he gave me a proposal that I couldn’t turn down. According to Bob, he wanted to give me money in exchange for trying out a tickle machine he’d built. And who better to try it on than his sexy next door college neighbor bar girl?
“Completely clothed,” he told me. “Except your feet. Wanna try out my new machine?” Then he took a swig of beer.
When I gave him a raised eyebrow, he smiled. “Bring a friend, even. She can watch.”
And really, who was I to deny that? So after my shift, I talked to the other bartender, Grace, and she agreed to watch. He promised to pay both of us $200, and me another $200 on top of that for getting in his machine. Then, he left us with half the money and an address to his house.
“I’ll bring my dog, too.” Grace showed me a picture of her German Shepard. “He’ll stay in the car, but I’ll run for him if anything shady happens.”
“Eh, at worst, my feet hurt for a little bit.”
“At worst, your face will hurt for a little bit.”
Setting It Up
The next day, Grace and I drove down the country, graveled roads to Bob’s place. He came out to meet us and motioned to his garage. Inside, there were all sorts of machine parts– gears, oil, springs– but the only thing that seemed clean was both a chair and a little box with belt straps and feathers, sitting on an end table.
“Feet go there?” I asked.
Grace laughed at me, but indeed, my feet went into the shiny metal contraption. “It’s like one of those automated cat toys,” Bob assured me. “Just to give your feet a little tickle.” The chair was soft while the box was hard. When I explained how uncomfortable the edge of the box felt, he lit up and put some soft foam underneath them. It didn’t seem like it’d be tickle machine torture, I thought then.
“That’s exactly what I want to know for my design!”
Then, he belted my feet down into place. The leather was firm, though cold.
“Ok, good. Move a little bit. Can you escape?”
Though I tried, I couldn’t move my feet out of the contraption. The buckles wouldn’t undo, no matter how I twisted my feet. Plus, there was little slack in the belt holding my feet in place. I was trapped.
“I’m starting it now,” Bob announced. Instantly, I felt the feathers on the soles of my feet. They swished back and forth, lightly dancing across my skin. And of course, I began to laugh.
Grace held my shoulder. “You okay, Elise?” she asked me, and I nodded. The feathers lightly slid along my toes, just enough of a sensation for me to react. My nerve endings were telling me to squirm away, but though I tried, my feet couldn’t budge from the machine. I could lift it up a bit, though.
“Needs to be heavier,” Bob mentioned and held it down. “Going to increase the speed.”
As soon as he spoke, the feathers no longer gently wiped over my feet. Now they pressed in, and I couldn’t help the shrieks that left my mouth. “No, no,” I said. But we kept going, and I grabbed onto Grace for support. My belly hurt from laughing, and I could hardly catch my breath.
Then, Bob turned it up again.
Tears began to pour from my eyes. He had to hold down the box with his whole body to make sure my feet stayed where they were supposed to be. Gasping, I struggled with laughing and breathing. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t speak to explain myself, either. The tickle machine torture had done its job well.
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