CUCKLED or CUCK'D: A Tickling Story

***Some definitions***

tickle

VERB

1. to touch, stroke, or poke (a person, part of the body, etc) so as to produce pleasure, laughter, or a twitching sensation

cuckold

NOUN

1. a man whose spouse has committed adultery, often regarded as an object of scorn

VERB

2. (transitive) to make a cuckold of

cuckle

VERB

1. (niche) to tickle another man's spouse or girlfriend, with or without the informed consent of the man or his partner. Most commonly acknowledged among tickling fetishists.

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***PART I***

***Chapter 1***

'What did you think?' Anthony Clarke asked his wife, Amy, as they left Screen 7 of their local cinema with their arms around each other. Because he was taller than the average Englishman and she was petite, this meant: his arm around her shoulder and her hugging tightly to his waist.

'I liked it. It was funny...'

'Is there a "but" coming?'

'But, it would have been better if those two blokes behind us weren't acting like idiots all the way through.'

'Yeah, I know--' He was cut short as the two blokes pushed past Amy.

'Oi!' she shouted.

They stopped and turned. '"Oi," what?' said the first, who was dressed in double-denim.

'There's enough room! You don't have to push past me!' said Amy.

'We just heard you call us idiots,' said the second, who wore an ill-fitting baseball cap and a typically grotty expression. 'Do you know who we are?'

'A couple of arseholes with shit fashion sense?' said Amy.

The blokes stepped forward.

'Easy...' said Anthony, moving between them, and not a moment too soon from Amy's perspective. He towered over them with his athletic physique as Amy hoped he would snap them both like lolly sticks.

'What you gotta say about it?' said Double-Denim. Other cinema-goers rubbernecked as they passed.

'If your big, square head wasn't blocking the view, we'd have been able to see the film,' said Grot. 'So, put a muzzle on your woman before she gets you messed up!'

Anthony said nothing. An unpredictable silence from the blokes was accompanied by looks of lingering contempt.

'Thought so,' said Grot with a sneer Amy craved to see slapped from his face. Instead, the blokes sauntered away, laughing.

Anthony turned to Amy with a tight-lipped shrug. He put his arm around her and they continued to walk out of the cinema and into the warm July evening. He had a futile hope that the look in her eyes would be gone by the time they got home. Instead, as they reached the car, Amy couldn't contain herself.

'What happened there?' she asked.

'What do you mean?'

'Why did you let them get away with that?'

'What was I going to do? Fight them?'

Amy waited for him to answer his own question.

'I'm just glad they didn't get racial,' he said.

'You mean, if they'd insulted you for being black, you'd have kicked off, but they can tell you to "muzzle me" and you're alright with it?'

'Baby, it's over. Sorted without anyone getting hurt too.'

She couldn't argue with this point; obviously she didn't want him to get hurt in a fight, but she knew the decision to not tell the blokes to piss off was more to do with mousiness than a deliberate placating tactic.

She remained quiet all the way home. In the five years since they met, this was the first time they had encountered a serious confrontation. Yes, they received unsurprising scowls from the usual basket of individuals who had some inexplicable issue with seeing a black man and a white woman in love, but nothing had ever been said directly to them. She partly attributed this to Anthony's height and build, and assumed--incorrectly, it seemed--that if any trouble ever occurred he would be more than capable of standing up for her.

Now she was not so sure and felt guilty for being a bit less attracted to him because of it.

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 2***

Some weeks later Anthony was experiencing a period of unease and couldn't remember a time when he felt this way so consistently.

Three years ago, when he asked, 'Will you marry me?' Amy had responded with delight and an unequivocal "Yes!" and this evening his question had been, 'So, when do you want to start trying for a kid?'

To his mind, the question and the home-cooked, candlelit dinner over which he asked it, was the most romantic moment he had concocted since the proposal. However, this time Amy responded by taking a drink of wine, then saying, 'I hadn't really thought about it.'

She talked about children often while they were dating to ensure they were both on the same page, but had stopped mentioning them recently. This added to Anthony's feeling of unease and it caused him to drop the topic. If she had something bad to say, he didn't want to hear it.

At one point during the past winter Anthony realised that he had attained the life to which he always aspired. Amy asked what he wanted for his 28th birthday and he couldn't think of a single thing. He didn't want or need to accumulate any more "stuff". He had just been made marketing director at London's top luxury furniture company; they had two cars; a detached three-bedroom house in a leafy Berkshire village; and enough spare money at the end of the month to help his mother. However, the one thing in his life he treasured above all else was Amy -- his perfect woman. Not just because of her alluring personality and natural beauty, but also because he had a thing for older women. Admittedly, she was only three years older, but her class and maturity shone through.

They met when Amy was working as a sales manager in the beauty division of upmarket department store Pemberton's in London's Knightsbridge. Her attention was captured the moment she saw him. He was attending a sales meeting with some colleagues and the girls in her department congregated by her side to gawp at him, but the smile he gave was directed exclusively at her. Sure enough, when his meeting was over, he found her and gave her his number. She played it extra cool and cut the conversation short to minimise the chances of him detecting how flustered she was. They went on a date later that week and within two years they were married.

And now, as they continued the meal, he contemplated what might have changed. He trusted her integrity -- she never gave an inch to any other man; once she was his, she was his, and he knew she wasn't cheating on him. Her poise, beauty and vibrant sunset-blonde curls always drew looks from men but Anthony didn't care. In fact, he liked it.

Then the voice of reason trotted up his shoulder and slapped him on the head -- he needed to stop the denial of what he knew to be true: Amy's attitude had changed the night of the cinema confrontation. He needed to prove to her that he was a "real man" and a fleeting thought of organising a way to save her from an attacker was dismissed as soon as it arrived -- that would definitely go wrong. She would probably kill the guy before he got the chance to step in!

He mulled over all the ways he could think of to demonstrate his alphaness until he landed upon one idea that might just work...

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 3***

It was 1:30pm on Friday when Amy got on the train at Waterloo. She had some holiday time owed to her and felt like an afternoon at home. As soon as Anthony heard this he said he would also be home so they could do something together. She smiled in response but her smiles were losing their conviction.

She arrived home to hear the sound of Anthony's sexy R&B Spotify compilation playing somewhere in the house. 'Anthony?' she called.

There was no response.

'Anthony?' she said, louder.

'Come upstairs,' he called back, without his usual gentle tone.

Amy didn't appreciate it. 'Please!' she said, before noticing rose petals scattered in a trail that lead up to the bedroom. She sighed. For a moment she hoped he would think the sigh was due to how sweet he was rather than her not being in the mood for lovey-dovey romance, but when she reached the bedroom her mouth dropped at the sight before her: Anthony stood at the side of the bed dressed only in white silk boxer shorts, white sports socks and a silver masquerade eye mask. His skin glistened, showing off his pecs and abs, which were sculpted to perfection -- he had obviously been working out before she arrived. In his hand he held a black riding crop and on the bedroom chest of drawers lay a selection of leather restraints. He seemed to swell with pride at how pleasantly surprised she appeared, but didn't smile back and so maintained a look of control.

'Take off your clothes,' he said.

Amy was instantly turned on.

She slowly took off her jacket and blouse and dropped them on the landing floor. She then turned her back to him and, keeping her legs straight, slid her skirt from her waist to the floor. Anthony swallowed but tried to disguise it. Amy was wearing the black hold-up stockings he liked; the pair with the seams that ran down the back of each leg.

She turned and strutted towards him in a very seductive manner. He had to lick his lips. He was tempted to just throw her on the bed and make love to her straight away but resolved to stick to his original plan.

She reached back to unclip her bra.

'No,' he said.

'No?' she repeated, with additional naughty girl overtones.

'Keep your bra, panties, stockings and shoes on. Get on the bed.'

Amy's nose twitched -- she recognised the spark of attraction that she felt in their first few years together. 'You want me on my back or my front...Sir?'

'On your back to begin with. Spread out your arms and legs.'

Amy happily complied. Anthony put down the crop and took his time wrapping the soft leather cuffs firmly around her wrists and ankles. He then padlocked each one to the D-hooks at all four corners of a sub-mattress restraint kit that he had previously secured in place. He pulled at the fastening attached to her right wrist. It yanked her arm swiftly into the mattress.

'Woo!' she said in surprise.

His instinct was to ask if she was okay, but he saw she was amused and so reached down and took his time pulling the fastening the strap of her right ankle. He maintained eye contact as he did so and saw the smouldering appreciation in her eyes. He had got this very right!

He repeated the action on her left ankle, then her left wrist, and stood back to enjoy his handiwork: his beautiful blonde bride, three years older than him, in the sexiest underwear and high heels, totally turned on and tied so securely that she might leave an X-shaped indent in the mattress.

Amy's gaze was fixated on the outline of his erection in the silk boxers and how it seemed to pulse in time to his heartbeat.

'Are you comfortable?' he asked.

'Yes, Sir,' she said, looking up at him and fidgeting in anticipation of what he had in store. 'What are you going to do now--?'

A loud smash downstairs made them both jump. They looked at one another.

'What was that?' said Amy.

'I don't know.'

'Untie me.'

'Wait.'

'Anthony!'

'Shh!' he whispered. There were sounds of movement downstairs. He went out of the bedroom and picked up a vase from the landing dresser.

'Anthony!' she whispered again.

He leaned back into the room and put his finger to his lips, then snuck over to the stairs. The sounds of movement had stopped. His heart was pounding and his erection had gone. He hoped the noises had been caused by a bird or something that had fallen down the chimney shaft but, of course, a bird wouldn't explain a broken window. Then he remembered what he was wearing. He took off the mask and when he looked again, two skinny young white men--one covered with pock scars and one wearing a black beanie hat--were approaching the bottom of the stairs. They saw him. All froze.

Anthony gripped the vase, but noticed both men held long crowbars.

'Get the hell out my house!' he shouted as he raised the vase.

The young men mirrored his action with the crowbars. Anthony slung the vase and they flinched as it sailed between them and shattered against the front door. He raced back to the bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Amy was terrified, 'What's going on?!'

'Burglars,' he said and rushed for his phone.

The door shook with loud thuds that caused Amy to shriek. Anthony watched the door bend in its frame as he dialled 9-9-9. 'Open the door, man!' shouted one of the burglars.

'Get me out of here!' said Amy, pulling at the restraints.

Anthony dithered and the door splintered open. The two young men were shocked at the sight before them.

'Put the phone down!' said Pock, pointing his crowbar at Anthony. Anthony's hesitation prompted him to aim the crowbar at Amy instead.

'Baby...!' she said, alarmed.

Anthony lowered the phone. As a faint voice said, 'Emergency. Which service...?' he hung up.

'Good,' said Pock, 'Now sit down!' he pointed to a wave-shaped powder blue leather chaise longue by the window. Anthony did as he was told. 'Now, my mate is going to keep an eye on her. If you move, he's going to reshape her legs with the crowbar, get it?'

Anthony nodded.

Pock put down his crowbar and spotted a selection of leather restraints -- two wrist cuffs, two ankle cuffs and a waist restraint. He immediately picked them up and went over to chaise longue. 'Put your legs up. Sit on it properly,' said Pock.

Anthony and Amy shared a look -- regret in his eyes; fear and frustration in hers.

Pock slung the waist restraint around the lower end of the chaise longue, weaving it between the steel supports of the chair and and pulling it tight over Anthony's kneecaps. He then put the wrist restraints on him, pulled some cables from the back of the bedroom TV and tied each wrist securely behind the chair to the strong rear support of the frame. As an extra measure, he did the same with the final set of ankle restraints, tying the D-rings together and securing them to the legs of the chair.

Pock stood up and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His demeanour changed. 'I'm really sorry about this. You're not usually home at this time.'

Beanie looked similarly apologetic, 'We don't wanna hurt you, we just need money. If you have some, tell us where it is and we will just go.'

Amy was incredulous, 'Oh, sure! Seeing as you asked nicely...!'

'Amy--' said Anthony, trying to calm her.

'What!?' she snapped at him. 'Get the hell out of my house!' she shouted at the men.

Beanie and Pock began to search the room. The first drawer Beanie opened was filled with Amy's underwear. He accidentally pulled it out too far, spilling g-strings, brassieres and hosiery onto the floor.

'Jesus Christ!' Amy exclaimed.

'Look,' said Anthony, 'There's a safe in the cupboard--'

'You're giving them our money?!' cried Amy.

'They're going to find it anyway, we may as well.'

Pock went to the cupboard and found the safe hidden behind Amy's shoe boxes. 'What's the code?' he asked.

'9-8-7-5-4-3-6,' said Anthony.

Amy was seething. Pock tapped in the code and the safe sprang open. Two piles of cash sat amongst their passports, some jewellery and Anthony's Rolex. 'Don't you dare touch my grandmother's earrings!' said Amy.

'I won't,' said Pock.

'We wouldn't do this unless we had a choice,' said Beanie. 'Is this all of it?'

Anthony indicated his wallet on the dresser. Beanie stepped over and pulled out £100. The young men went to leave, 'Thank you for this,' said Pock. 'We're going to have to leave you tied up. And sorry for interrupting...whatever you were doing.'

The young men trudged down the stairs, avoiding the broken vase, and left. Anthony knew Amy was looking at him and so focussed on appearing to be listening intently for something important.

'They're gone,' he said, with the conviction of an expert tracker from the Wild West.

Amy didn't respond.

Anthony mustered the courage to look at her. She was watching him with an expression that could indicate in any one of a thousand thoughts -- none of them good.

'Are you okay?' he asked.

She turned away. They sat in uncomfortable silence.

Finally Anthony spoke again, 'We should--'

'It's a shame they didn't leave one of your wrists untied,' Amy snapped. 'You could have wanked them off before they left!'

This insult was almost too much for Anthony, but he knew that showing visible signs of upset would be the last straw for her.

I knew none of this at the time...

-- -- -- -- --

***PART II***

***Chapter 4***

My name is... Actually, forget it. If you've been to London, you may have seen me but I wouldn't blame you if you don't remember my face, so why tell you my name?

It was an overcast afternoon when I got on the outbound train at Waterloo station. I maintained an apologetic smile as I squeezed my way between commuters and wedged myself into the only available space; under the armpit of an Eastern-European man in paint-spattered overalls.

For the 876th time I contemplated how much I wanted to stop doing this journey, when my eye was caught by some familiar blonde curls. I felt a rush of excitement as I recognised Amy Sergeant--or Amy Whatever-her-name-was-since-she-got-married--sitting in the middle of the carriage! She was gazing out the window with the effortless pout I knew so well. The last time I saw her at Pemberton's was around three years ago but since then she had gained signs of physical maturity that only made her even more sexy.

Back then I was (and I still am) a merchandise manager at Pemberton's. When I could stand on the shop floor and watch her at work it felt like rays of sunshine parting the clouds of daily drudgery.

I'm not a stalker, you understand; I just can't help but admire beauty. And I don't objectify. It's not like I didn't try to connect with Amy on a social level, but on the couple of occasions I struck up a conversation with her, she mistook me for a customer. I was fairly certain she wouldn't be able to pick me out of a line-up of strangers even though we worked in the same building for several years, but I can't blame her -- Pemberton's is a very busy store and the company Christmas parties are hectic events. There are probably people who work there who even I wouldn't recognise!

She was one of several attractive young women in the beauty department but many things about her flicked my switch the most. I think I was first attracted by her natural beauty. They say nobody is perfect, but I don't remember ever seeing someone as objectively immaculate who wasn't in magazines or on television. Plus, she was the only woman in the beauty department who resisted cosmetic injections or surgeries, and who didn't take makeup advice from Ronald McDonald. But the thing that stimulated my interest the most was the way she casually dangled a high heel from her toes whenever she sat and consulted with a customer.

I have to admit I have a foot fetish and, at lunchtimes in Hyde Park, I would often sit in view of her favourite spot, especially on warm summer days when there was a greater chance of her sitting on the grass and slipping off her shoes completely. I never worked up the courage to get too close, but her feet and ankles looked indescribably appealing even from a distance. Not only did they excite my foot fetish, they also fanned the flames of the other fetish I have that is even stronger: my tickling fetish.

If I had managed to befriend her, lunchtimes in the park would have given the perfect opportunity to give her the quick sole-stroke test. I often played over the whole, "Oh! So you're ticklish, are you...!?" scenario in my mind and the fun that could ensue thereafter.

Unfortunately, I'm so used to letting tickle porn do the work for me that my imagination for how she might react never really felt convincing. Also, the problems with this plan were twofold: one, I am too shy to make such a move and, two, I am married.