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Payback by Proxy -
The Inexplicable Urge
 
by
D_J
 

SPECIES:  ShiziCor Sapients

COMMON NAME:  Non-Corporeal (sentient life form)
 

Laughter = Sustenance
 

The above formula was the cardinal fact for this species, whose existence was as old as man itself.
Not just any laughter, mind you...
Involuntary laughter.
Non-consensual laughter.
Tickled laughter.
 

Now, because the members of this species did not have solid form - it was more of an energy pattern than anything else - it couldn't directly tickle anyone for any worthwhile period of time.
It needed a surrogate for that.
If a sudden 'urge' to tickle someone just occurred to you... perhaps it was the power of suggestion. If you actually 'acted' on that urge to tickle... and your technique was clumsy or ineffective... the undetectable noncorporeal might have helped out by temporarily taking control of your motor functions.
The sustenance of laughter which gave it life - tickled laughter - well, it also had to be sustained laughter. As a noncorporeal, it needed at least two corporeals to get a good meal. One to act as the surrogate tickler, sharing in the fun... and the other to provide the delicious laughter at the surrogate's urging. In a pinch, any laughter would do, too prevent outright starvation... but tickled laughter was essential for continuity of life.

Strangely, it could sense ticklishness... and even test for it. The next time you feel a "shiver" run through you, for no apparent reason - it just may be one of these creatures checking you out. A sudden, well, tickle-like sensation scooting across your belly - or worse, your soles - just may be a "hello" from a member of this sentient species that can cause these momentary (and all too quick, for its liking) sensations. Studying you, and perhaps taking note.
Like connoisseurs of vintage wines, they were connoisseurs of ticklish laughter. Not all ticklish people were alike. Almost everyone was ticklish to some degree or another. But there were those whose ticklishness transcended description... whose reactivity and responsiveness just eluded the necessary superlatives available in the human languages.
Curiously, of the two genders on earth, females were more reliably ticklish - but male responsiveness was more voliatile, and it provided more... nutritional value. So of course, these beings tended to seek out the more satisfying specimens...
Pretty much every male over eighteen years of age was a potential target. Appetizers or desert courses were provided on occasion by sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. The best meals came from dudes that were generally younger, healthier, fitter... whose bodies could endure seemingly endless hours of tickling without the inconvenience of passing out - or worse.

These noncorporeals had evolved socially as well. Over the centuries, they adopted a code of conduct. Now don't laugh - at least not yet, for the noncorporeal will get to you soon enough - but they have rules. Their primary directive was "No killing." It took them a while to learn that one. All during Earth's ancient history - Greek, Roman, Arabian, or Chinese, just to name some examples - tickling their meal to death was de rigeur. No longer. They weren't entirely heartless...
As they understood humans better - and as the number of people kept increasing - they chose not to deprive any family of a loved one, just for the sake of some dining pleasure. Males in poor health were passed over as well. One undiagnosed heart condition plus hours of tickled fun equals one dead meal ticket. No need for that, with so many strong targets at hand. Fitness buffs, non-smokers, even vegetarians... Very few men in their forties had the 'right stuff', but exceptions could be found.
They'd also stopped feeding from immature males. The vast majority of their targets were adults, according to the custom of their societies.
Naturally, these noncorporeals watched any and all ticklings that they could...
tracking promising candidates for future exploitation. Once they found a hot prospect, they had a tendency to keep them on the menu, as it were - sampling them again and again over a period of years.
Perhaps it was inevitable, but these noncorporeals came to view themselves as great disseminators of justice. While it was great to prey on insanely ticklish dudes, they absolutely loved finding such guys who "deserved it!" or who were "asking for it!"
One or two examples come to mind.
 

These two university age dudes, Mike and Randy, lived at the same frat house.
Randy was an MBA student, while Mike was in athletics. Both were " total horn-dogs," to quote the vernacular. They always had girlfriends, and they cheated on them constantly, covering for each other by telling bare-faced lies. They met during Frosh week, also known as 'Hell Week' - hazing crap, what can I say - and seemed to be in tune with one another from the get-go. Not just because they loved catting around, either... Mike and Randy complemented each other nicely in terms of attitudes, beliefs, likes, dislikes, fears.
Fears.
They both shared some phobias. Surprise! Such as...
Tickling. It was difficult for either guy to even say the word! Not even to each other. It was almost a morbid fear, resulting from childhood experiences (and a few teenage experiences) where people took the time to acquaint them with their almost morbid sensitivity.
Those ticklers were compelled, of course, by the inquisitive noncorporeals. Cousins, 'funny' uncles, 'crazy' aunts, older siblings. Pool parties and going to the beach were a special delight for the non-corporeals given the wealth of bare flesh... especially bare feet.
Though Mike didn't know why, he sometimes found himself seized with "tickle lust" - courtesy of the noncorporeal invading his thoughts. Those fleeting moments were filled with a sudden, almost irresistible urge to tickle... and they usually seized him when his roomie, Randy, unknowingly placed himself in a vulnerable situation. When he would reach for something on the upper bookshelf, exposing his sides and armpits, the "tickle-me-to-death" welcome mat was rolled out for Mike to struggle with.
Mike would beat himself up for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts - but it wasn't his fault. The noncorporeal had sensed something else in him. Talent. He had the potential to be a superior tickler.

One of the few topics which never seemed to come up was their unwillingness to walk around barefoot. That had brought trouble on each of them before. So they usually wore well-padded socks, comfortable sneakers... at least slippers at all times. They protected their feet outside the dorm room, too - telling themselves it was the pavement, or the gravel paths that they disliked. Certainly not the tickly sensation of the grass. As a result, they had soft soles - uncallused, nice and smooth, no warts or blemishes. Well-defined arches.
They took care to protect their feet... unintentionally making them "tickle landmarks." No one they met was allowed to find out how damn ticklish their feet were, so the guys were careful to avoid surfaces which would remind them - and betray their little secret to others.
If the noncorporeals had their way, all men would be just as considerate. Too many of them had the wrong attitude - "oh well, it's just my feet." Layers of calluses... Some of them had soles which were almost leathery. It was highly annoying. At least footwear was commonplace now - and in the northern hemisphere, there were all those months of cold weather, so the soles would be protected. Kept warm, usually... Encased, and soft.
So many meal tickets walking around!
The reactions from a man's entire body would usually be "harvested"... but there was something incomparably tasty about a big, muscular dude - the "master of his domain" - reduced to helplessness by simply stroking, caressing and otherwise teasing his bare soles. Absolutely hilarious from a noncorporeal's perspective, and apparently so galling to the male being tickled!
 

Anyway, enough of that. Let's talk about a common enough belief among younger men - that women will believe anything they're told.
Sooner or later, Randy and Mike were bound to learn differently. Despite the fact they they were caught lying over and over, they'd just shrug and carry on with other women, as if nothing had happened. Hit-and-run infidelity, with no concern for the emotional devastation they caused. Whatever their excuses, they had an "honor among thieves" mentality.
But "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" would've been good words to live by.
This was fertile ground for the noncorporeals. Two unbelievably ticklish dudes, in need of a little comeuppance. And so many wronged girlfriends. Hmmmmm...
Like most guys, they never clued in on the fact that women talk to each other about everything.

Shelly (Randy's girlfriend) and Deena (Mike's girlfriend) were friends long before the two Don Juans entered their lives. In their regular chick chat, they discovered a number of inconsistencies in stories told by their respective boyfriends. This prompted them to do a little research. Of course, there are those who might think the word 'spying' would be more apropos.
This led to the discovery of clandestine girlfriends, with assignations spread throughout the week - all over campus. They realized that their men had worked outside the usual birds-of-a-feather lines - nursing students hanging out with other nursing students, musicians primarily with other musicians. And this lessened the chance of their cheating ways being exposed, even as it maximized the amount of raw unbridled sex they could have.
All the noncorporeal had need to do was plant a few seeds.... into a couple of girlie-girl minds. Hmmmmmmmmm...

One evening, both Randy and Mike found themselves alone, all prospective dates being unavailable...
Well - unavailable to them, but gathering in one of the lecture halls in the Arts complex.
With Shelly and Deena serving as co-chairs, they shared what info they had... causing no small amount of consternation amongst the assembled women. Over the next few hours, everyone had a chance to vent - and chime in. The topic of discussion inevitably turned to payback. Avenging the cavalier way in which they had been treated...
Their time in bed with the guys had revealed certain things. Likes, dislikes, what buttons to push and in what order. A list of similarities resulted:

1. They're both dudes (duhhh!)
2. Both very good looking, athletic, fit... (Well - "hotties," in the girls' vernacular)
3. Pompous jerks. They pushed smaller guys around when they could.
4. Sensually, they were very greedy, insistent on getting their own "needs" met
5. And they were minimally attentive lovers. That is, once satiated it was roll-over-and-go-to-sleep time... or bolt for the door, late for a class, or an assignment, whatever-gets-them-the-hell-out-of-there type of guys
6. Both "did it" with their socks on. In fact, none of the girls could remember ever seeing either of them barefoot (except in the shower)
7. In fact, the women came to realize as they talked that both men were insanely ticklish. They freaked completely at any tickling, getting very defensive - even hostile.

The non corporeal had such a good old time - prompting a thought here, planting the seed of a plan there...

The "girls" held one more get-together... during the day, so as not to arouse suspicion. This time, some guys participated... Specifically invited dudes, owing to previous humiliations they had publically suffered at Mike or Randy's hands (or both!). Don't go getting a dirty mind, now. Yes, guys agreed to pitch in. And yes, a couple of them were gay. But no, none of them looked at this as a sexual opportunity - they viewed it quite simply as righteous retribution for the humiliations they had suffered. It was about power. It was about revenge.
Did you ever hear the line about revenge being a dish best served cold?
Look out, Randy.
Look out, Mikey.
 

Shelly asked Randy to accompany her to a Pioneer Village, as she was writing a paper on the social customs of the day. For those of you who have never been to (or heard of) Pioneer Villages - they are historical structures that have been restored, with the villagers being played by local high school and college students, dressed in period costumes.
Randy thought watching paint dry might be more fun, and said as much. Undeterred, Shelly suggested that he invite his roommate Mike along... They could have a few "laughs" together.
Reluctantly, Randy agreed, and was able to convince Mike to accompany them. Deena didn't put up too much resistance...
 

They went during the week, to avoid the bigger crowds. The village was composed of a number of wooden structures of the "log cabin" variety, each of which served a different purpose. There were stables, and a "smithy" side by each. A one-room schoolhouse, a sheriff's office, a church, et cetera, et cetera.
Randy walked alongside of Mike, pretty well ignoring Shelly and Deena - oblivious to the fact that a number of the village folk were in fact peers of theirs, from the college. The tour guide would stop periodically to hold forth on the purpose of a building or structure...
Deena brought along a digital video camera, to keep an accurate record for Shelly's "paper."
Right in the centre of town sat the final stop of the customized tour...
Two sets of stocks, side-by-side.
They were there to give visitors a special photo opportunity. And they had metal hooks to hold the old black chains together. Big hinges.
Once somebody was in there, they'd stay put until they were released.

As Shelly expected, Randy immediately balked. He shot a look over at Mike.
Being caught like that would be bad enough - and though he trusted Mike all the rest of the time, he was seriously nervous. It was the foot-stocks, of course. Far too tempting. What if Mike... got it into his head to have some fun? At Randy's expense?
He'd catch Mike staring, sometimes. They never talked about it. Hell, that was why he'd bought slippers anyway. The last time, in particular, he'd felt a tingling on his foot and had barely been aware of scratching it - and Mike hadn't moved but he was looking right over. Hypnotized, almost. Daydreaming hard, until he realized Randy was scowling. It was the only thing about his roommate that was really... weird.
With a smirk, Mike forced himself to keep his eyes on the stocks. It was an obvious connection - ankles get trapped in there, the feet are bared... and let the fun begin.
He couldn't help picturing Randy caught like that - so much more embarrassed than even Deena would be! Good thing he didn't have stocks in the dorm room, the last time Mike showed off his feet. Laying on his bed, engrossed in his reading... slowly rubbing one sole with the toes of his other foot.
It had never been harder for Mike to just stay where he was. Randy was teasing him, and he knew it - as if his feet were saying, "Oh yeah, dude - we're ticklish as hell. Whatcha gonna do about it"? A quick jump over, pinning his legs - and Mike would show those feet exactly what he could do. But then he saw Randy looking over and Mike knew he was busted, looking away sheepishly. All embarrassed about the odd thoughts that just came from out of nowhere...

"Don't be such a baby!" Shelly scolded Randy. "It's only for a minute. And those things don't really lock, anyway. Once we've taken the pictures, we'll let you out."
"Yeah, don't be a wuss!" Mike added, surprising himself even as he said it. From his own past, he had a pretty good idea why Randy was worried. But he goaded his bud into it anyway...
The noncorporeal was nearly hysterical with excitement as its plan neared fruition.
"Well, if you're so brave - why don't you do it?," countered Randy, getting really annoyed with Mike. What the hell...
Shelly and Deena shot each other a knowing look. This was going to be easier than they thought.

"Right," Mike shot back. It was not the word he was going to say, but it just came out. What the fuck am I doing, he thought wildly? "Uh... We'll do it together, then. It'll make for a better picture." Inside, he was suddenly... frightened. It was one thing to get Randy's feet stuck -
Randy opened his mouth, but couldn't seem to say anything. Both dudes hated backing down from a challenge.
Shelly jumped in. "Please?" she said sweetly. "Pretty please... I'll give you a special treat if you do!"
Nervously - yeah, he was definitely spooked, and Mike knew why! - Randy chuckled. "What kind of treat?"
"Special," was all Shelly would say.
Mike chimed in. "Hey, what about me? I want a special treat."
Deena rolled her eyes in mock exacerbation. "Fine. Whatever Randy gets... you get too!"
"You're on!" said Mike, who turned and gave Randy a playful punch on the shoulder. It felt better to act brave, even if he didn't feel it. He would've liked the idea a lot more if Randy was the only one who'd be stuck... "Come on, man - it'll be good for a laugh!"
The invisible noncorporeal knew that truer words had never been spoken.

The village "sheriff" and his "deputies" quickly moved in and "arrested" Randy and Mike. They hadn't bargained on dudes locking them into the stocks, much less shorter guys - who looked vaguely familiar... But their pride kept them from backing out.
Randy wanted to yell, in the worst way - and Mike had to fight the urge to pull back... as the top half of the stocks came down, and it looked much more sturdy than they'd thought. They were just sitting there, letting these geeks trap their wrists - and their ankles!
As they fidgeted, chuckling nervously, Mike consoled himself with the knowledge of how totally spooked Randy had to be, on the inside.
Thick metal hasps were quickly closed, and all of the chains were hooked.
Randy had figured that he could always pull his arms out, if he tried hard enough. But the wrist-holes were too small. And the stocks were disturbingly heavy. Worst of all, there was no way he was going to get his feet free by pulling or kicking, either.
Mike tried to act normal... as he tried to lift the stocks apart. With the chains in place, holding the top and bottom parts together, it was out of the question.
Definitely stuck - and they didn't like it at all.
More people were slowly walking up...

Randy looked at the heavy oak trapping his legs, and peeked over at the bottoms of Mike's shoes. The analytical part of his mind - increasingly worried, now - told him that from where Shelly stood, most of his body was hidden. Neutralized. Just feet, and hands... and his head, peeking over.
Deena circled around the immobilized pair, panning the camcorder to capture every detail. Shelly dug in her purse, pulled out a digital camera of her own and started snapping photos.
"Okay," Mike barked -
"You know," the sheriff said thoughfully, "From where I stand, the stocks hide their clothing. Except the shoes."
"An anachronism," agreed one of the deputies.
"Definitely out of place."
"How could we make it... more realistic?" Shelly asked coyly, winking at the sheriff and his deputies.
"Uh, look," Randy interrupted, "You guys can let me go. Any time now -"
"Us. Let US go... pod'ner," Mike said quickly, using his best pioneer drawl.
"Well, lose the shoes and socks, I think," the sheriff offered.
"No," Randy said hollowly.
Mike pulled and pushed at the stocks. They know! Somehow. Oh, shit...

"Noooooo," Randy wailed.
"Not a... good idea," Mike grunted.
'Why not, boys?" Shelly and Deena chirped in unison.
"Errrrrr...," was the best Randy could offer, as he desperately looked over at Mike. But the other guy's face looked... bad. Shocked. And they had to come up with something to keep their shoes right where they were! Be cool, fuckhead. That's what he wanted to say to Mike. Don't act nervous, or else they might...
...they might get curious, Mike thought too, shaking his head just a little. "Uh... It's just that we, uh - stink. You don't wanna smell it. He sweats a lot. Both of us... A few hours in these shoes, and you don't wanna, errrrr, put up with that." His voice trailed off.
"Smells bad," Randy finally added.
"Oh," said the Sheriff. In the pause that followed, both Mike and Randy started to relax -
"No problemo. Men, get over to the stable and fetch a bucket. Bring that scrub brush they use on the horses, and a bar of lye soap..."
The trapped dudes immediately went pale.
"You can fill the bucket at the pump, over there."
Already, the deputies were running off to comply...
"No way," Randy gasped.
Totally freaked, Mike finally managed to say, "Scr... s-scrub brush?"
Sure, man..." the sheriff beamed. "We'll get these feet of yours scrubbed clean - smelling fresh as the daisies."
"Out out out lemme out of here right now!," Randy commanded.
Shelly stepped right up - and reached into her purse. Before he could even plead with her, she pulled out a huge padlock! Through the hasp it went, snapping closed with a gut-wrenching click.
Deena had brought a lock, too. She secured Mikey's stocks.
No amount of adrenaline rush was going to save either of them now.

A little crowd had formed around the increasingly skittish duo. Randy looked at their faces, for some help... and did a double-take. He recognized one woman, and another. So many of them were old girlfriends. How did they all end up working here?
Mike, on the other hand, wasn't bewildered at all. As soon as he recognized a few faces - many old conquests of his, and Randy's - he was absolutely sure that something awful was about to happen.
His peripheral vision caught movement to his left. Looking down, he saw one of the deputies unlacing Randy's runners. Then, horribly, there was a tug at his own left foot! And his right.
Panic took over, and both men flailed around. The stocks held up fine, creaking and wobbling a little.
Mike couldn't stop growling with the effort. Randy was keening quietly - a high-pitched noise that totally gave him away - and when he caught himself, he started threatening the crowd, the sheriff, even Shelly. And if it wasn't for the torture that was obviously coming to him too, Mike thought he'd probably enjoy the unhinged agitation in Randy's voice.
"Please, please, oh you just gotta stop!," Randy squealed.
Mike looked over -
Oh, sweet heaven... Randy was barefoot.
They wouldn't.
A cool breeze wafted over his own bare soles. Mike looked at his best friend... and saw his own stark terror reflected back at him. So Randy knew. And yet there was just a pure inability to believe what was happening to him. Mike could understand that.
Maybe, just maybe, they would start laughing now, and let them go... Please -
Someone stepped forward. Long black robe, curly white wig. The judge... She had been Randy's girlfriend way back in freshman year, for most of the spring.
"Magistrate," announced the sheriff. "These men are charged with taking liberties with a number of the town's women."
"Oh noooooo, no noo noooo-oooooo," Randy begged.
"How do you plead?," the Magistrate snapped.
"No no no no," Randy kept saying. "Stop this! Now. Let me go, let me go!" Shrieking. Totally unglued -
The magistrate looked at Mike. He opened his mouth -
And before he could say anything... a feather traveled down his right foot.
No one was close enough to have done that -
Mike hissed, and gulped in air.
Light fingers touched his armpits!
And they started to move.

There wasn't a soul near his sides, but Mike definitely felt... movement?
He started to cackle. All the tension came out - in laughter. He shook his head, trying desperately to talk. Not guilty, he kept thinking, just say the words, you can do it, if you don't say it they'll get busy.
But the tingling circled round and round and round his underarms, no matter how much he tried to pull his arms in, or jerk away, or bounce. Mike threw his head back and whooped.
Randy bucked - really hard. He jumped again, and started giggling continuously.
"Well?," the judge said. "How do you... plead?"
But they were both laughing too hard to speak.
This is just impossible, Mike thought. I'm imagining what it'll feel like. That must be it. Damn...
The fingers paused - and started moving again! That made no sense.
"Nooo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooooo," Randy whooped, with a voice full of anguish - and mirth.
The fingers stopped tickling Mike. That surprised him. It was bad enough to feel hands that weren't really there... but really, why would they stop? He and Randy were doomed, anyway. He gasped for air, ready to say "Not guilty!"
But another though occurred to him. "Do it."
Huh?
"J-just... do it," he barked suddenly. "Get it over with."
Randy was looking at him as if he was insane.
Maybe I am, Mike thought. Why would I go and say that?

"Guilty!" The magistrate sang happily. "Guilty as charged!"
There was a cheer -
Shelly stepped right up. Randy stopped laughing, and just shook his head. But she reached out -
"Unh," Randy grunted, clenching his teeth. Squirming. He exhaled hard...
Shelly's fingernails were scraping lightly at Randy's bare soles, moving from his toes to his heels... and back again. Mike stared - even though Deena was coming! - because the sight of Randy's tormented feet was so mesmerizing. High arches, incredibly smooth. Randy tried everything, but the stocks permitted very little wriggling around. His toes couldn't keep her dancing fingers away. There was no way he'd dislodge them from their devastating work.
Pain, light and sweet, traced down Mike's own soles.
A strange thought occurred to him, even as he looked down at Deena's happy, triumphant face. It wasn't odd that he wanted to escape the tickling, himself - that made perfect sense - but more than ever, he wanted to be the one with Randy's feet at his disposal. Softly teasing and slithering with his fingers... sneaking 'em in between his best buds' toes and wriggling mercilessly -
Mike fought the laughter that was going to explode out of him anyway. He kept shaking his head...
But Randy was roaring like he was on fire or something. Way too happy. Shelly really had him where she wanted him -
The urge was almost painful, it was so strong - and how bizarre... Wanting to do to Randy, what she was doing! Why? His best friend, of all people.
But the desire was stronger than it had ever been - perhaps because Deena was making him hoot like a fool.
The noncorporeal grinned, and urged Deena to get busy.
In an instant, Mike forgot about everyone and everything else. Shocking, intolerable, delicious.
Huh?
Delicious... Where did that word come from?
Mike couldn't focus on anything except the carnage that was happening almost six feet south of his brain. He didn't have the ability to wonder about it for long, but that word was coming back from the past. Later, the noncorporeal decided, it would help him remember...
 

A childhood experience at his cousins' place... one of the times where his Uncle had just laid waste to his cousin, and was then laying waste to him. His Uncle's two hundred plus pounds bulk sitting on his lower legs... And the light, skillful caresses blanketing his socked feet.
Between gales of laughter, he pleaded for mercy - hearing his cousin's voice. Encouraging his father... to strip away the thin veneer of fabric that were his socks. The last little protection that warded off total annihilation.
"Noooooo... not the s-socks!" Mike crowed.
But his cousin knew better. "Oh, come on... its delicious!!"
 

Deena's fingernails were wreaking pure havoc on his nervous system.
The noncorporeal encouraged the sheriff and his deputies to thoroughly enjoy their tasks - recording everything on Deena's camcorder, and three others. One each for close-ups on Randy and Mike, and the other two roving around, capturing the action every angle. The Sheriff was in his third year at the college, majoring in film editing and videography. He was made to relish the thought of the hours ahead of him, making a film on this particular form of punishment from the Pioneer days.
Shelly, nodding, made room for the "judge"... and then another woman... and another... They just kept walking up.
Tens of fingers, dancing on each of Randy's beleaguered soles... bending his toes back, and attacking the fleshy tops of the balls of his feet.. relentlessly sliding down where the toes joined. He bucked violently, again trying to pull his feet through the holes in the stocks... all to no avail.
Whole new levels of sensation swept over him, as the hands started in on his ribs. But he had no more success pulling his hands through the stocks, so his straining arms stayed well out of the way of the fingers that snuck into his armpits, across his abs...
Mike was far away, in his own world of tickles... as the same multi-pronged assault was eagerly performed all over him.
A young man walked up - from the direction of the front gate. The sign was now posted - closed today, private party. He laughed quietly, and started to rub Mike's right knee.
All told, just over two dozen people were compelled to attend to the captives. They didn't need all that much encouragement...
 

After a long while, Mike and Randy were spelled alternately.. That is, while Randy caught his breath, the din of his best friend's hysterics kept him praying that his own turn was still far away. Again and again, Mike found himself studying every detail of Randy's soles - the ruddy skin, the 'wake' left momentarily by the sliding fingers and fingernails of Randy's 'harem'.
Instead of dwelling on the fact that his own reprieve would end soon enough, Mike drank in and loved every moment of his friend's torment.
The noncorporeal oversaw it all, and grew increasingly more satiated as the afternoon wore on into evening.
 

Their mutual ordeal finally ended at dusk.
The townsfolk drifted away. Even Shelly and Deena left, hitching a ride with one of the "girls". The sheriff and one of his deputies unlocked Mike and raised the stocks.
"Let's go!" the deputy said, walking off.
"Yeah -"
Mike saw the sheriff smile. Lost in thought... He reached into his cloak and tossed something under Randy. Then he nodded to Mike, and laughed as he trotted off.
Too tired to move, Mike just looked up at the sky, panting.
Fingers!
Oh, no...
His leg twitched. Both legs.
More tickling!
But no one else was around.
Invisible fingers slid up and down his soles, making him laugh again. It was really too much. After all that, his body must've been replaying it...
With an effort, he rolled off the stocks and landed on the grass. Now he itched, too. But he was so tired -
His armpits. Oh, shit.
Giggling, he tried to crawl away. It was so hard... but apparently it worked. He laid on his back, just breathing. How long had they been tickled? Seven hours? Eight?
He heard Randy moan.
Mike opened his eyes... and looked up at his bud's feet.

"Mike?," Randy asked hopefully. He'd heard Mike giggle, slithering on the grass, as he was coming over. What a fucked-up day. He was so glad it was over. What was Mike doing, anyway?
"C'mon," he said. "M-mmmmyy eeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeee-kik!" High-pitched squalling, once again, and it sounded nothing like his usual deep voice.
Oh, it was every bit as satisfying as Mike had hoped. He let his fingers glide up and down Randy's soles. All mine, he thought. Take that...
"Whuh huh w-what are ya dooo-hooo-hoooooing to me hee heeeee? Aaaaawwww puh huh p-pleeeeeezzz.... Aaah hah hah hah hah haaaaah!"
Mike didn't bother to answer. It was obvious what he was doing to Randy. His fingers grabbed into the sides of Randy's feet, his thumbs digging into the arches and tracing little maddening circles.
"Pleeeeeeee eeeeeeeeee eeeeeeezzzzzzzze... Muh huh huh my mmmm Mikey hee heeeee... nuh naaaaaaw pleeeeeeeeeeeezzzze..."
Once again, Randy's hysteria was full-blown.
Mike's fingers moved gracefully, caressing slowly, gently... And then he started picking up the tempo -
His own instincts were augmented by a master tickler who knew Randy well. Together, they drove his buddy to newer heights of madness. Dreams of freedom from the tickling had just been crushed, and Randy's body reacted accordingly.
Really, The noncorporeal decided, there was something exquisite about Randy's ticklishness. It vowed to savor his hysteria again and again.
Mike drooled at the effect he was having, and revelled in it. He was a kid again, at his Uncle's...
 

His cousins sat there, cross-legged on the floor next to him - while their father strummed Mikey's helpless soles, and his weight was impossible to shift...
Jeeee-eeze, his feet were so damn ticklish!!!
Finally, his uncle got off him and left the basement - promising an instant replay later on. As he lay there, panting... Mike looked at the one cousin who had told him the sensations were delicious. "If this is so f-fuckin' delicious," he growled, "why don't you volunteer for more?"
Jamie chortled, "Cuz... I get tickled every day, and twice on Sundays. But you - you only get to visit a couple times a year."
"Only? Are you serious? And using a word like... 'delicious,'" snorted Mike. "You really think the sensations are delicious, huh? Are you trying to tell me you like this?"
"I can't stand it," Jamie said immediately, "but... I love it at the same time. I really don't know how to explain it."
Mike was finally able to sit up and cross his legs - tucking his own bare feet in protectively. He glared at Jamie, looking him straight in the eye... and grabbed one of his cousin's ankles.
Jamie didn't resist at all.
Drawing his cousin's bare foot into his lap and holding it tightly, Mike used the fingers of his free hand to rake his cousin's bare sole.
Jamie yelped and tried to yank his foot away... but Mike maintained his grip, and applied his fingers again - on Jamie's instep, slowly, as his Uncle had done to him... "Delicious, huh?" scoffed Mike. "You ready?"
Jamie replied by taking a deep breath and nodding.
Mike looked down at the foot in his grasp, and realized he might actually... enjoy this. He let his fingers amble down the length of the sole, and creep back up. Jamie rocked back and forth, biting his lip, holding it in. Mike did it again, increase the speed of his fingers - and Jamie started giggling. Pulling harder. "Too m-much. Terrible... and good," Jamie laughed.
"Good, and terrible?," Mike said. And he rolled over, chuckling. His cousin's ankle was caught under his arm. He got to work - going for broke, skipping around, poking his fingertips between Jamie's toes.
Demented shrieks of laughter were his reward...
 

Randy's feet were all sweaty.
He just kept laughing and laughing...
Mike was the one who made that happen. Finally! All ten fingers, merciless and nimble, played all over Randy's chronically sensitive feet.

He was driving his roommate absolutely crazy. It was everything he'd imagined...
But really, he had to stop now.

It was just so much fun, though.

Five more minutes...

Alright, Mike thought, I'm going to stop now.
But his hands didn't stop tickling.

Just a few more minutes, and maybe he'd get it out of his system.
 

Finally, Mike just couldn't keep his fingers moving another second.
He laid back down, shivering. Damn. His clothes were soaked, and the night was pretty cool. It was so dark. How much time...?
Randy just panted for air.
Mike remembered the sheriff throwing something to the ground, and wondered if it was the key. He found a small hacksaw.
And the key to his own padlock didn't open Randy's.
"Please," Randy whispered.
"Uh-huh," Mike grumbled.
Cutting the lock open was gonna take a while...

Every few minutes, Mike just had to stop and rest.
And Randy kept talking. Begging, actually. He was furious - but he wasn't stupid. Right at that moment, he definitely held his tongue. Anything could set Mike off again...
And he had no idea how hard Mike was fighting the incredible urge to drop the hacksaw - sit back down, at Randy's feet, and continue tickling! All night.
"Just get me out of here, Mikey. Please."
"I am. Hang on. I'm sorry, dude. Really. Sorry..."
Both men were thinking hard - about what could resume, so easily, at any second.

It took him almost forty minutes to free his best friend - and Mike had to keep forcing himself not to even look at Randy's feet.
When he was getting a grip on the stocks, he had to tuck his fingers into the ankle-holes - and Randy flinched.
"Chill, man. Chill," comforted Mike. "No tickles. Just getting these things open..."

Randy was in no mood to talk about it. Still trying to catch his breath, he grabbed up his socks and shoes and headed for the parking lot. They had come in Mike's car...
They rode back to the dorm in total silence. On reaching their dorm room, they each went to their respective beds, and sat down to remove their shoes -
Glancing at each other, their eyes narrowed.
Each rolled into bed, shoes still on - with the laces triple-knotted.
 

Randy rolled out of bed at noon the next day, his chest and belly sore from the previous day's exertions. Looking across the room, he saw Mike's bed was empty - and his running shoes discarded on the floor.
Fetching a "Sunny D" from the bar fridge they shared, he downed it in one gulp. His throat was still parched. Then he sat back down on his bed, pulling his feet up with him to work on unknotting the laces -
The door flew open, startling him into a defensive posture. Suddenly, he was ready to spring.
Mike, halfway inside the room, froze himself - and dropped a crumpled wad of paper. He held both hands out in front of him, palms up...
Randy uncoiled, relaxing a bit.
"We're fucked," Mike announced. "So totally fucked!"
Stooping to the floor, he recovered the wad of paper and started uncrumpling it. A big, white poster...
Mike held it up for Randy to see.
"Noooooo..." whispered Randy.
Pictures of them. From yesterday. The upper third of the poster showed both guys, viewed from the side. They were smiling. Their shoes hadn't been removed yet.
Below that, bigger pictures. Head-on view - their faces contorted in laughter, bare feet exposed with a blur of fingers covering them, but none of the ticklers' bodies were visible.
There was a website address at the bottom of the poster. And a statement...
See ticklish Randy - and his partner in crime, ticklish Mike - demonstrate that crime does NOT pay. If you like the movie, you'll love the upcoming video series of eight hours, count 'em, EIGHT FUCKIN' HOURS of tickling. Journey with Randy and Mike as we visit their sweet spots. CD-ROMs available for purchase... Check the web at seven tonight.
"We're dead meat!," cried Randy.
"FuckfuckfuckFUCKED!," agreed Mike.
 
 
 

A few years later...

Mike and Randy sharing a house off campus. They both sat in their living room - Mike on the couch, surrounded by kinesiology texts, and Randy in a recliner with some economic treatise that he was working on. It was a hot Saturday afternoon. Indian Summer. The air conditioner was on the fritz, and the dudes wore only tank tops and shorts. Both were intent on their respective studies...
The noncorporeal turned Mike's head.
Randy's bare soles were just a few feet away, almost on the same level as Mike's unblinking eyes.
Without becoming aware of it, Randy was forced to curl and uncurl his toes slowly. Seductively. Taunting his roommate.
Mike tried to look away - and found he couldn't do it. His eyes refused to leave Randy's feet...
And memories started coming.
Randy had made it very clear that Mike wasn't allowed even to think about such things. But every time Mike forced his mind to another subject, images from the Pioneer Village kept assailing him.
He was just overwhelmed with the increasingly compelling desire to tickle Randy's feet again. Trap them, and really dig in. Much longer than before... And there were so many new things he wanted to try.
The noncorporeal refocused his thoughts again and again.
Randy put his papers down and reached for his drink. He looked at Mike - and noticed what his roommate was staring at.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Randy demanded, instantly hostile.
Mike gulped and looked away. "Nothing, I ain't doing nothing... Just thinking, that's all."
"Well, stop it. Right now," Randy fumed. "I shouldn't have to wear my socks and shoes every time I'm around you. It's too hot - and dude, you promised!!"
His feet stayed right where they were. So close...
"Will you cut me some slack?" Mike snapped. "I haven't fuckin' tickled you, or even tried to tickle you... Not since the Pioneer Village. I've been... good!"
Randy lowered the footrest of the recliner, and his feet slipped out of Mike's view.
That almost snapped Mike out of the noncorporeal's mental grasp.

"Yeah - but 'fess up, what were you thinking about, just now?" Randy pressed.
Mike was red-faced with embarrassment.
Randy eased off, using a more soothing tone. "Talk to me, Mikey... What's the deal with you and my feet?"
"I don't know!!" Mike shouted, standing up. Then he lowered his voice. "Sometimes, I swear... I don't know why, I get this overpowering fuckin' urge... well, you know."
Randy nodded. He didn't understand it. Mike was his best buddy. A great guy, except for that one quirk. And he'd made amends for the extensive tickling, three years earlier.
It was a subject that both felt was taboo... but for some reason he didn't quite understand, Randy kept on talking. "Exactly what is going through that pea-brain of yours - when you get these 'urges'?" And even as he said it, he was wondering why he didn't just shut up.
Mike was thinking frantically - but he tried to look humbled. "I dunno, man. Sometimes, when I see the bottoms of your feet, all I can think about is how ticklish they are and - sorry about this - what a hoot it would be to work those puppies over."
Randy shuddered. Work those puppies over? Shit, that was... diabolical. "You, uh, you get these urges often?"
Evasively, Mike finally replied, "Define 'often'."
"O-kay. Forget it. What do you do to overcome these urges... 'cuz it's obviously working, thank God!"
"Willpower, I guess," Mike said feebly.
They looked at each other for a long while. Neither of them said anything.
Mike finally broke the silence. "Look. Randy... would it really be... errrr, all that bad if... ummmmm -"
"Yes," Randy interrupted, catching on. "Fuck. Yes! Absolutely fuckin' awful." He took a deep breath, and lowered his voice. "Really, really that bad. Even if it was you... uh, workin' my puppies over."
Mike looked crestfallen, but he finally said, "Okay, then." He picked up his book and resumed reading, silently criticizing himself for being a weirdo.
The noncorporeal was hungry - and frustrated. But when both men returned to their reading, eager to drop the subject... it actually started to get mad.

It fixed Randy's attention on a long paragraph, and had him raise the recliner footrest again - without even realizing he'd done it.
Mike watched the tempting feet come back into view. That son of a bitch is just rubbing it my face now, he suddenly thought. Rubbing...
The noncorporeal kept Randy's full attention on what he was reading - while it filled Mike with the most powerful, irresistible urge yet. He flinched...
Yes.
He made the decision - and was filled with relief. This was gonna be incredible.
Determined, and excited, Mike set his book down quietly and looked around the room, forming a game plan. He was going to do it. How wonderful... But he had to get those feet caught. Then he could tickle 'em all he wanted -
The recliner.
Already leaning back. Top-heavy.
And even better, Randy didn't even look up... as Mike squatted and started to creep over. Closer and closer to the waiting feet.
It was going to work. Mike just knew it. He couldn't wait.Carefully, Mike gripped of the underside of the footrest, took a deep breath, and sprang up.The chair rocked back.
Randy threw his arms out, scattering papers. No more reading today!
As the back of the recliner slammed into the floor, Mike hopped forward and went into another squat, grabbing the frame of the chair down at the bottom of the back side.
One more push. It wouldn't be easy, and he had to do it right away. At least Randy's weight had to be merely rolled again, and not lifted.
He had to pull this off. And then...
The thought fired adrenaline all through him. He pushed.
It worked wonderfully. The recliner kept turning over. There.
Randy's feet stuck out, facing up and away. The rolling had shifted his soles off the end of the footrest - in fact, the pad was pressing his down on the back of each ankle. That pressure was enough to keep him from tucking his legs in, or or pushing them out - sliding them around. His hands were free - but those little gaps would never allow him to crawl out. He was trapped in a padded cave... unless he managed to turn the chair over.
Happily, Mike climbed on and sat down.
There. The fate of his best friend's soles was officially... sealed.

Randy's feet tried to kick, and pump. The footrest did a fine job of blocking his efforts, holding the back of his heels immobile. He yelled and cursed at Mike, somewhat panicky, but all of his protests were muffled by the padding - and completely ignored. Mike was busy studying two spectacularly ticklish feet.
Placing a finger just beneath the toes on each foot, he slowly dragged them down to Randy's heels, and back up again... repeating the stroking pattern again and again.
Right away, the swearing ended. Angry grunts and growls, one impressive squeal - and Randy was off. He gave forth with truly riveting fits of laughter, shrieking, giggling and other unmanly sounds.
Mike nodded slowly, in appreciation of his best friend's responsiveness - and he continued to tickle, varying his technique from fast to slow, soft to hard and combinations thereof. The waiting was over. He couldn't have been happier...
 

An hour later, Randy was too weak to move.
Mike hopped down - but only long enough to get a few things from the bathroom that had been suddenly filling his thoughts. It was definitely time to enhance Randy's experience...
 

Thirty more minutes, and Mike was certain - Randy was truly wiped out.
Time to get him ready for more fun.
Mike pulled the recliner back over, yanked it closer to the kitchen, and set Randy in it - the wrong way around, so his feet were sticking up just past the headrest.
Running to his room, he dug in the closet for a gym bag - stocked for an occasion just like this...
It held a few items he had collected, here and there, without really knowing why. Sometimes he would discover he'd bought something, look at it and shrug. So it would go in the gym bag, with the other oddball purchases.
Hurrying back into the living room, his hands were already pulling out one of the coils of half-inch nylon rope.
Soft restraints were quickly and efficiently applied.
Once he'd tied Randy's hands together, Mike started grinning again. He had to work quickly - his roommate was trying to move. That was definitely not allowed. Looping two strands of rope between Randy's wrists, he bent down and shoved them under the frame of the chair. Chuckling, he raced around behind, pulled them through and caught Randy's ankles...
When those ropes were pulled tight, he had all the time he wanted to wrap Randy's wrists and ankles. Overkill was the order of the day. He wasn't getting off the chair, period. When the connecting ropes were pulled tighter, Randy was pinned as tight as Mike could want. Every kick jerked his arms down harder, and vice-versa.
Mike slid rope under around each calf and shin a dozen times, and wrapped more of the rope around and around the recliner, greatly reducing the movement of Randy's legs. Those wonderful feet couldn't be immobilized enough to suit him.
Naturally, this process didn't occur instantly. Several times, Mike had to interrupt his efforts and stand over Randy's soles... apply debilitating tickles until Randy became more "pliant."

When he was satisfied with the restraints, Mike turned the recliner around. He shoved the old footstool underneath the footrest, so it couldn't retract. And then he stepped back.
Randy groaned, squirming desperately - and yelling when he kicked hard, which slammed his arms back down against the footrest. He was soaked with sweat, and Mike could look down at his face and see the pure dread and frustration there...
Best of all... those ticklish feet. His soles were at least as vulnerable as they had been in the stocks. Hours of raging, sizzling fun were in store for them.
And Mike felt phenomenal. Full of energy.
He'd been waiting years for this...
With Randy safely tied, ready for the longest night of his life - there was always tomorrow, too.
Mike - and the noncorporeal - sighed with contentment.
And as for Randy... he watched his best friend sit on a stool, facing him. He opened an old gym bag, and looked at the tied feet within his reach -
There was something really chilling about the expression on Mike's face. Eyes shining, enormous smile... He looked like a jackal studying its next meal. Some kind of animal.
Randy expected him to start drooling at any moment. A new stab of fear went through him - because he realized there would be no reasoning with Mike. That part of his brain was shut off, or something...
When he started pulling things out of the gym bag, Randy knew, beyond all doubt, that he was about to endure something far worse - longer, yeah, but also a hell of a lot deeper - than that day at the Pioneer Village.

The feet were right there. Mike couldn't wait - but it felt even better to realize that there was no hurry now. The soles belonged to him now. They were his for the taking. Oh yeah, was he ever gonna put it to Randy!
With the recliner right there, close to the half-wall separating the living room from the kitchen, Mike had a place to set things down. Conveniently easy to grab... and right where Randy would see them, every time he opened his eyes.
First, the tools Mike had collected earlier - Randy's toothbrush, combs and hairbrushes, a bunch of Q-Tips, felt-tip markers, some round chopsticks. Then he chuckled... and opened the first of several plastic packages.
Randy watched as long, pointed feathers were pulled out. No. Absolutely not. The worst thing he could imagine, right at that moment - and he was seeing them in Mike's hands! Held up in the air, slowly pulled between his fingers - while he chuckled softly.
As he was teased, Randy wailed and wrestled around, all over again...
The gym bag also contained firm little brushes, two old silk scarves, artist's paint brushes of different sizes - and several brand new metal nail files, bought specifically for one debilitating purpose. When everything was arranged on the counter, Mike snapped his fingers and hopped off the stool...
There. That bottle of dishwashing soap from the kitchen sink completed the inventory.
"Ready?," Mike asked politely.
"Fuck off! You motherfuckin' bastard," Randy yelled.
Mike shrugged, and picked up the dish soap. Pouring it into his palm, he gently coated every surface of one beleaguered foot, then the other.
Randy giggled uncontrollably, trying to threaten his roommate, cussing him out - and pleading. He couldn't think clearly... and just when he needed Mike to realize, more than ever, what a impossibly horrendous nightmare he was putting his best friend through. He had to come up with something good, right now, to get Mike to stop and untie him.
The noncorporeal was having none of that. It reminded both dudes of their one-on-one adventure in the Pioneer Village.
Mike laughed villainously. This time, it was gonna be so much more cool!

Randy couldn't squirm enough to change his position. It freaked him out, just as much as before. His limbs were good and strong, but it wasn't going to do him a damn bit of good. Kicking and pulling as hard as he could, while Mike kept on tickling, and tickling -
He had to stall him. Talk him out of this...
"No. Wha... The soap. Why the soap?" Trying to sound calm was killing Randy. Curiosity was gonna backfire, maybe, but dammit - he couldn't just lay there and do nothing.
Mike looked at him. He couldn't see the psychotic gleam, in his own eyes... but he felt fuckin' perfect. All set. Randy was stalling, but it wasn't gonna save him from one minute of the hell that lay just ahead. "Well, Randy - my main man - the soap will make your soles... quite slippery. Oil would be better. Sorry, dude. So many different kinds, waiting to be tried out." He reached behind him, and picked something up.
No!, Randy wanted to scream. Stop, Mikey, please snap out of it... "What?," he barked. "Oil? What are you talkin' about? It's me, Mikey, stop it, c'mon -"
The hairbrush. Oh, yeah...
"I know. Oh, yeah. I know you - and these amazing feet of yours. I think you're trying to weasel out of what you got coming. But I'm glad to see you're interested. I know I am. That's the spirit, Randy. We're gonna have such a fantastic time tonight..." Randy started to whine, but Mike just kept talking. "To answer your question. You're gonna love this. Less friction on your bare soles - ooooh, I love saying that! Your bare soles - hee hee hee... These tied-up, completely bare soles are gonna feel so much more, without the friction. Say... from this lovely hairbrush."
Mike held the hairbrush aloft for Randy to see.
Immediately, Randy went ballistic again... "Keep that fuckin' brush off me you fuckin' homo foot freak, no, no, tickle freak, I'll fuckin' do ya... do you hear meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee heeeeeeyyaaaaaww haw haawwwww nnnnaaaaaaaah heeee heeee-eeeeeeeeeeeeeee......"
Of course, Randy's tirade was abruptly truncated by the movement of the hairbrush on his soaped-up soles.
Mike whistled happily as he traced patterns in the soapy residue on his absolutely best friend's bare, trapped, bare-totally-fuckin' naked, not-a-stitch-of-sock-fabric-or-shoe-leather or anything at all, exposed, vulnerable, hyperreactive bare tootsies, bare feet, bare soles...
The din of Randy's hysterics echoed off the walls.
"Good thing this house is in a cul-de-sac," Mike observed to his gibbering friend - and he had to yell over the raspy laughter. "Y'know somethin', Randy? The brush makes these neat parallel lines in the soap... on these great bare soles of yours. It's almost like a zen garden. Very peaceful... soothing..."
"Nyahhhhhhhhh Nnnn-nah nnnaaah nuh naaaaaaaah haaah hah hah haaaaaaeeeeeaaaahhh," Randy bawled.
"I am so glad that you agree, dude."
 

Mikey got up and stretched as often as he needed.
When he came back from taking a leak, Randy was still giggling!

Every tool got a leisurely tryout. And there were so many combinations possible...
 

Later, he got up and looked through the kitchen drawers for additional inspiration.
"Hey, Randy. You got any ideas, there? Things to use on ya... any other ways to amplify what's goin on? Make ya even more bonkers - as if that was even possible, huh?"
Not surprisingly, Randy just panted for breath.
"I guess I'm gonna have to clean up the mess you made," Mike grumbled. "And feed you. Hmmmmm..."
The noncorporeal thought all that could wait a while longer. It made a suggestion - Mike was much more receptive now. His head swung around...
"Hah. Say... You thirsty, Randy?"
Finally, the meaning of the words hit home. Randy was very thirsty. He opened his eyes.
Mike stood there, grinning. He held a cold bottle of water in one hand...
And a fifth of rum in the other.
"No, no, no," Randy rasped.
"You know it," Mike nodded. "Not too much. Just to getcha a little happy." Randy groaned pitifully. His best friend opened the water bottle - first - and held it so Randy could suck it dry. "We'll see how much more you like it when you're a little loose. We'll try everything. All over again. See how much better it works when we add alcohol - "
The captive closed his eyes.
"And you know, dude, I'm betting your armpits aren't gonna disappoint me. Or your belly. What do you think?"
"Noooo-hoooooo ooooooo -"
"Okay. Later. I won't forget. Pull that tank-top out of the way, and launch a full-scale fuckin' attack. Definitely." Mike unscrewed the cap from the rum bottle. "Three pulls, I think."
"No Mikey no no don't..."
Mike paused. "You rather I get you all willing... to do what I say? Full-court press on your tootsies for a while? I could go for that. Is that what you want?"
"Nooooo! D-dammit..."
Mike brought the bottle to Randy's mouth.
"Three good swallows. That's it. Good job, man."
Randy gasped for breath. "M-Mike -"
"You're really gonna hit the ozone now," Mike said conversationally. "That's what I think. Drink this water, now. Dude - don't fight it. There... You need plenty of fluids. And later, you know what? I'm gonna get to know your whole upper body!"
Randy choked once, but he managed to keep drinking. His eyes were wide with terror, though.
"But that's not until after I tie your toes back," Mike taunted. "That's gonna be a real rush." Snickering merrily, he tossed the empty water bottle in the direction of the sink... picked up two Q-Tips, and sat down, again, at Randy's feet.
 
 

Will Randy survive his best friend's intentions... errh, attentions?

Will this spell the end of a beautiful friendship? Or - will it be made right when Mikey... gets his turn?

Hmmmmm.
Only the noncorporeal knows for sure.

On to Part 2

13oct03