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The Dance
by Night Owl
(Story Content: M/f, Abduction, Bondage, Tickle Torture)
There's a dark place
inside me, one that makes me smile. A place where spiders tickle my soul as I watch them scurry across the dusty floor. Where stone walls are so thick, a cry for help might not be heard from the outside. When the
time is right, when the person is right, when I am right, I will take someone with me.
And down there, she will stay.
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June 12, 1983
I spent days, weeks searching for
my partner in the dance. She had to be just right. Soft and innocent. Yes. And young. A college student, for instance -- tight bodied, firm breasts, long legs, and long silky hair. When I started my search, I felt
like a different person somehow. I saw the world in a new light. A world full of young, beautiful women, ripe for the picking. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Then at last, I found my partner.
Her name
was Karen. I knew that much from the nametag pinned on her blouse. She worked at King Soopers, a large grocery chain that seemed to have a store on every major street corner in Denver. There were quite a few young
women employed there, all quite attractive, but this one was perfect for what I had in mind.
I followed her in from the parking lot and waited as she stood behind the service counter. At about 5' 7", she
had a trim, supple-looking body. Her fair skin looked as smooth as porcelain. She wore a pair of jeans that hugged her petite frame nicely, and a sheer, white sleeveless blouse; so thin, in fact, that I could see
the faint outline of her bra underneath. I watched her intently as she raised her arms to tie back her long chestnut hair. I've always had this delightful fetish for a woman's shaved underarms, and hers were
exquisite. Just the sight of those deep, silky curves alone, made my cock rise and swell under my jeans. She ducked briefly into a room behind the counter, then emerged in her work smock and proceeded to one of the
registers. I quickly slipped into the back room when no one was looking, and searched the time card rack until I found her name:
DONAHUE, KAREN
EMPLOYEE #226
The work schedule was posted nearby, so
I was able to flip through it and jot down her entire week -- days, times, work assignments, everything. Then I gazed at my young beauty one last time before heading home.
Later that evening, I was there
waiting for her in the parking lot as she left work. I watched her get into her car, then followed her home. In just eight hours, I knew this woman's name, where she lived, and how to check her work schedule for
each week. Not bad for a day's work! Now that I had found the perfect target, I was ready to make plans for our special encounter.
Which brings us to the subject of my story.
Of all the forms of
sexual play, my greatest passion has always been tickling. And not just a light tease here or there, but the kind of deep, full-body tickling that can drive a woman mad. Even when I was a child, I would tickle the
girls as a form of horseplay, but I never thought of it as anything erotic until reaching puberty when sex came into the picture.
As a teenager, I began noticing some of the young, budding women in my
classes. Like most boys at that age, my creative mind entertained fantasies that obviously involved sex, but only after holding the girl down, and wiggling my fingers all over her body until she finally gave into
what I wanted. In time, my interests turned to S&M, but I never outgrew my love for tickling. Occasionally, I would find a partner who was open to using bondage and tickling in our sex play, but there was still
something missing that left me feeling unfulfilled.
It was too easy.
What I really wanted, was an unwilling participant, one that I would have to kidnap and restrain, then force her to endure long,
painful hours of the most intense tickling I could dish out. I wanted to hear the genuine fear in her voice as she begged me for mercy, and those glorious sounds of tortured, unsolicited laughter. Over the years, my
wish became an obsession, it grew and festered inside me, until I was left with no choice, but to make the fantasy a reality.
And that's when I began my search.
After finding Karen, I went over my
options on how I could kidnap her. Waiting in the bushes outside of her home was out of the question with so many neighbors close by. I also ruled out the community college where she attended her classes, because
that would mean taking her in broad daylight. I realized my best chance for making the pickup without being detected would be in the parking lot after she left work, but it would have to be late at night when the
store was mostly empty. So I waited almost a month, checking her schedule each week until she was finally assigned a late shift -- Saturday, 3:00 to 11:30, one half hour after the store closed. Both the time and day
were perfect. The parking lot was usually full on the weekends, forcing the employees to park their vehicles in the back where the lot was poorly lit at night. On that day, Karen would have to do the same, and by
closing time, her car would be one of a few left, if any, sitting alone in the shadows. A cluster o
f bushes stood nearby, and a large trash bin. Both offered a perfect spot for me to hide and wait. There
was also an alley where I could park my van with a quick exit to a side street nearby.
My heart began to beat faster, and I felt that familiar tingle in my loins as the plan unfolded before me. Though not
full-proof, it was a promising scenario, and if something went wrong forcing me to abort the plan, I could always wait again for the next closing shift. It seemed as though Karen already belonged to me somehow, only
she didn't know it yet. I can't tell you how powerful that feeling was, and I grew anxious for the day when we would finally meet. That week, I went to work as usual, while in the evenings, I spent working in my
cellar. It was dark, damp and musty down there. Hardly the kind of place one would expect to find the sweet, innocent-looking creature I had now become obsessed with. I set up a ratty, old cot along one wall and
fastened four chains with leather cuffs to the bed frame. This was where my partner would spend her days while I was away at work.
Then our time had finally come.
When I arrived at the store just
before closing, I saw her white Ford Tempo sitting alone in the back of the lot. I parked my van in the alley and sat patiently in the bushes nearby until she came out of the store. I was thrilled to see her wearing
the same sleeveless top she had on the day I first saw her weeks ago. A good omen! Draped under one arm was her purse and smock. When she got to her car, I quickly moved in closer behind the trash dumpster. This was
my moment of truth! I waited until she turned to unlock the car door so her back was to me, then I sprang into action, covering the distance between my hiding place and her car in seconds. I grabbed her arms from
behind, pinning her elbows together, and before she could cry out, I shoved a handkerchief with chloroform over her nose and mouth. She struggled at first, then she tried to scream as I dragged her into the shadows
behind the dumpster. It was then, she went limp, having finally succumbed to the chloroform. I le
t her body crumple to the ground and pulled out the handcuffs. She looked so sweet and helpless as I pulled
her delicate arms behind her and locked the steel cuffs around her wrists. I was tempted to remove the blouse so I could get a better look at my prize, but resisted the urge, and put her in the van. There would be
plenty of time for that later.
She was out cold for over an hour, which gave me plenty of time to drive back to my house and carry her down to the cellar. While she rested, I removed her clothes and admired
her tight, young body. She was everything I had expected! She favored a bit of hair between her thighs, but I did not, so I shaved her carefully. Then I grabbed some rope and went to work.
Now that I had my partner, the dance could begin.
Almost two hours had passed before she stirred. I knew her thoughts would be a little hazy at first until the chloroform wore off, so I remained in the
shadows, content on just watching her for now. Her brown eyes fluttered open, she shook her head. I almost chuckled aloud at the look of puzzlement on her face. Then with comical suddenness, my beautiful captive
realized that she was completely naked, and hanging like a slab of meat in my cellar. Her screams rang loud within the stone walls.
"Ahhh. She has a good singing voice," I smiled to myself.
Tossing her long hair back, she looked up and saw the rope attached to the ceiling. The other end was tied to a pair of leather cuffs fastened around her wrists. Her arms were pulled high over her head, stretching
her body taut as she hung on that rope. Both ankles were tied together and her feet just barely touched the floor. A single naked bulb in the ceiling shined down on her like a spotlight, while the rest of the room
remained shrouded in darkness. As a final touch, I fastened a leather strap just below her elbows, so she couldn't even bring her head forward to look down and see for herself just how exposed and vulnerable she
was.
I gave her time to explore each facet of her predicament in turn. The tightness of the leather cuffs. Her body rotating slowly on the twisted rope. The cool air against her newly-bared flesh. Of course,
her screams went unanswered, and she thought herself alone in the room, exposed in the circle of light. She tried repeatedly to peer beyond its edge, but could make out nothing in the darkness from where I sat
watching. She began to plead, not sure if anyone was there to hear. I remained silent through all of this, hunger and anticipation building, my manhood pressing uncomfortably against my jeans, not from her beauty,
but from thoughts of the dance that would make her more so.
"Hello, my pet," I finally said to her.
The sound of my voice startled her, she looked about, and her screams began anew. Under
cover of the noise, I moved into position. Her eyes widened in horror when she saw me, and eventually my partner's screams formed into words. Who are you? What do you want? Where am I? What are you going to do to
me? These I let echo away unanswered until she was quiet again.
"Now try to relax. This won't take very long," I lied to her.
She began to shiver, even though the room was quite warm. I
circled her like a cat teasing it's prey. Her body looked soft and pale in the dim light. Every naked curve was made available to me. I could see her ribs etched under the swells of her young breasts, her nipples,
pink and pebbled as the cool air kissed them. Her underarms were a tickler's dream come true -- so deep and smooth, and probably not used to being touched. And I fully intended to touch them a great deal!
I
tugged on her restraints to test them -- hardly necessary, but a teasing effect nonetheless. Then slowly, I let my hands slide down her arms. My touch was excruciatingly light. Her body shuddered, her smooth, pearl
white skin immediately turned to goose flesh. By the time my fingers trailed into her armpits, my new partner was begging me to stop. I could tell she hated being tickled, but with her arms drawn up and tied above
her, there was nothing she could do to stop my vigorous attacks on her open pits. I dug my fingernails deeper into her flesh until she finally broke down and giggled out loud. That sweet, tortured laughter was like
music to my ears! Everyone is aware of how toned and tight the skin and muscles are on most 19 year olds. That of course, has its disadvantages when being tickled, as it greatly intensifies their sensitivity to
probing fingers.
My partner also knew this now, and I could feel the heat of panic welling up inside her as I dragged my fingers down the sides of her ribs, then across the tight curves of her belly. She
tried to shelter herself by twisting and turning on the rope, but my hands followed her movements effortlessly. I wiggled my fingers over her breasts and played with her nipples until they stood painfully erect.
When she rolled her body away, I tickled the furrow between her buttocks. By then, she was gasping for air and sweating all over. I can't tell you what a thrill it was to see this sexy, young thing twist and writhe
helplessly before me; to feel her smooth, sleek flesh underneath my fingertips. I played her like an instrument, orchestrating movements that only a woman her age could achieve. I let my hands guide me over every
naked curve, while lingering in spots that gave me the best reaction. Several times, she tried to pull away, but the force of the rope only brought her back to me.
Between fits of laughter, she pleaded for me to stop,
"OHH GGODDD!! NO MORE!! PLEASSSSE!! I CAN'T STAND ANY MORE!!!!"
I truly felt her agony, but I also wanted more, and just when the
average person would show pity on her, I picked up the pace and tickled her nonstop for minutes at a time. She was full of sweat, full of tears, skin crawling and itching all over, and there was nothing she could do
to stop it. The rope creaked above as she danced for me, her body reacting as though a hot poker were being pressed against her flesh again and again. I wondered how much torture a human being could take before the
mind finally went insane. I put her through another ten minutes of the most intense tickling I could manage, causing her to frequently lapse into silent laughing -- my very favorite thing. Then I let her hang there,
limp and exhausted, while I planned my next attack.
I lifted her feet and tied the rope around her ankles to another rope that dangled down from the ceiling behind her, forcing my partner to bend her knees
back and arch her body sharply forward to accommodate this new position. She was now fully suspended with her dainty feet, very exposed. I began to wiggle my fingertips up and down her bare soles. Her body jerked on
the rope, and squeals of laughter emerged like an explosion that echoed off the cellar walls. The suddenness of the attack and the fact that she couldn't see what was happening to her feet must have been unbearable.
I dug my fingernails under her toes, then I dragged them over the soft, tender bridge of each foot.
She began whimpering like a like a child as my nails continued their teasing assault, gliding up and down
her flexing soles, first one and then the other. Rivers of sweat flowed from her open pores. Her struggles became violent. She was obviously deathly ticklish here, and part of me feared that she might hurt herself
physically unless I stopped, but the other half, the tickler in me, wanted to see more. So I gave her captive feet the full treatment, then I attacked her armpits again and elicited another string of painful
giggles. I tickled her ribs, her stomach, her nipples, then back to her armpits, I even tickled her navel. Her skin was super-sensitive at this stage, and very warm to the touch, like hot magma flowing through her
veins. I moved my hand between her thighs and wiggled my digits around her bare cleft. My partner tossed her head back and moaned, not in protest, but from pleasure. I could tell she had never been touched like this
before, and certainly not used t
o having been shaved down there. Her movements became more rhythmic as my fingers probed deeper into her slick, wet folds. I found her clit and teased it, stroked it,
stopping only when she seemed on the verge of having an orgasm. Finally when it appeared that she couldn't take any more, I pushed her over the edge and watched in awe as spasms of pleasure rippled through her bound
body.
I released my beautiful captive from her rope, then carried her over to the cot. She was like a limp sack of flesh, and far too exhausted to even put up a fight. Or perhaps, she thought the ordeal was
finally over. Part of her senses returned as I locked her wrists and ankles in the restraints. Then I treated her to a long, slow massage to ease the aches from her struggles, while whispering in her ear that this
was only the beginning.
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Even now, as I write to you, she is waiting for me. The poor girl was exhausted after our last session, so I'm letting her sleep awhile.
I've been
watching the news lately, and last night the police claimed there was a break in the case of the missing girl, Karen Donahue. I'm sure it's just bold talk, though I can't help but wonder if my plan was really as
full-proof as I thought. Perhaps I made a mistake somewhere along the way; a subtle detail carelessly missed. If that's true, then I suspect it will only be a matter of time before they come knocking at my door.
Am I frightened? Not really. As I mentioned earlier, very little matters to me anymore but the dance. And with that closing thought, I must end this story. You see, my partner is awake now. I can hear her chains
rattling down in the cellar . . .
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