CUCKLED or CUCK'D: A Tickling Story

In the decades since I began work at Pemberton's, the HR department became highly imperious regarding staff interactions and it would've been just my luck to do such a thing, have it blow up out of all proportion and before you knew it: divorce. I love and worship my wife, Catherine. I always have done. And I never want to risk my marriage or my family.

The thing is, we got married at a time before the internet and, therefore, before fetish communities were commonplace. I can't understate how much tickling occupies my thoughts. I once considered that if I drew a pie chart of my collective topics of idle contemplation throughout life, tickling would occupy at least 75% of the pie. In my younger days nobody else ever mentioned tickling or indicated it was part of their regular sexual activities so I believed myself to be abnormal, which contributed to a lack of confidence. Unfortunately, when tickling is your main interest, the one thing you need is a partner, but I was far from being a Casanova and spent most of my youth as a singleton. I used to think that I had no physical appeal. At least, it was the conclusion I drew as to why no girl looked at me twice. I've since learnt a woman's attraction to men is more based on charisma, not that I have charisma in droves either.

Therefore, it's not really surprising that when the voluptuous 18-year-old Catherine Smedley entered my life and showed interest in me I was instantly smitten. I think she was as drawn to my stability and level of independence as I was to her unconventional good looks -- from her mother she inherited the cheekbones and button nose of a mediterranean beauty, and from her father she inherited the sturdy jaw that made him a formidable boxer. That said, I am someone who is drawn to quirky imperfections and so, to me, she is flawless. Particularly as--similar to several beautiful actress--she wears her jawline with exquisite femininity and it gives her the brightest of toothy smiles, which melts my heart every time.

Plus, I find her overwhelmingly sexy. The finest designers in the world equipped with the latest technology and most intricate of equipment could not design a body that fits more perfectly in my arms, and I'm very fortunate she keeps it under wraps! She is a free spirit and generally wears clothes that match the description: long and flowing. As such, she doesn't attract the staring eyes of the general male population. It's only when we're on holiday and she wears a swimming costume that shows off her yoga-toned body that I witness so many men eyeing her up and hoping they get a reciprocal glance. Of course, she never gives one.

When Catherine and I met it was obvious we had similar interests -- we viewed relationships in the same way, shared a sense of humour, provided comfort and support to one another, balanced each other's shortcomings and, most importantly, Catherine was extremely ticklish!

And so I couldn't help it -- I asked her to marry me and, to my delight, she accepted.

Unfortunately, there has always been one significant blemish on the jigsaw: Catherine hates to be tickled. I discovered this fairly early on in our relationship. The first time I prodded her waist she reacted in a way I could only previously fantasise about -- she spasmed and giggled with a smile that lit up the room. It was the single most erotic moment I had ever experienced and I still pleasure myself to the memory twenty-two years later.

However, I've been forced to acknowledge that the positivity of her response was, in large part, due to the flirtatious nature of our early courtship. Since then, whenever I have prodded her or grabbed her from behind or stroked the sole of her foot on a quest to emulate that first occasion, she reacted with increasing annoyance until one day she yelled at me, 'Don't do that! How many times do I have to say the same thing!? I don't like being tickled!'

We never raise our voices to one another and so having my favourite erotic word spat at me by the woman I adore was such a jarring incident that it finally conveyed the message. I've never tickled her since. In fact, I haven't so much as poked her in the waist in over a decade. She permitted, and even enjoyed, me paying attention to her divine feet as we made love, but I recognised that, ensnared by love and enraptured by the magical swirls of romance, my youthful impatience to propose overlooked how important it would be for me to only settle down with someone who entertained tickling.

So, secured into a life with a wife and two children, I resigned myself to taking mental snapshots of the women who passed by for use in fantasy scenarios whenever I got the bathroom to myself. A regular star of these fantasies was Amy Sergeant, although it frustrated me that I had no clue as to how she would react to being tickled, if at all!

One day, having not seen Amy for a couple of weeks, I asked her co-worker if she was on holiday. 'No, she's left,' the girl replied before continuing to stock a cupboard with make-up, oblivious to the impact this news had on me.

'Where has she gone?' I asked, as casually as possible.

Exasperated by the Spanish Inquisition of a second question, the girl replied, 'Nowhere yet. She's on her honeymoon right now.' She then smirked, 'Why do you ask, Mr--?'

'No reason,' I said and walked away, embarrassed at being caught out and flushed with irrational jealousy.

I had occasionally seen Amy's boyfriend meet her from work, and occasionally in the park with her at lunchtime. I had hoped he was transient and I felt the wind leave my sails the day I spotted her engagement ring. Still, I clung to the hope that they would break up. I knew it was an unpleasant and childish side-effect of envy and I wasn't about to leave Catherine and the kids, but if I couldn't have Amy I didn't want anyone else to have her.

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 5***

As the train left Waterloo, I craned my neck over the other passengers to see if there was still a wedding ring on Amy's finger, but her hands were folded on her lap, covering the answer.

Each stop lessened the number of people on the train until I was able to take a seat. I pretended to read my book but my eyes were almost constantly on her. If she looked at me and there was a smile of recognition, I planned to smile back and coolly spark up a conversation along the lines of, "Hi, have we met before?... Yeah, I recognise you too... I never forget a pretty face... Ahh, you're cute when you're embarrassed..." At least, that was the ideal scenario, but it was also wishful thinking because I knew my voice-box would wobble like the top vibrato setting on a Blackpool pier Hammond organ.

She reached into her handbag for lip moisturiser and her eyes met mine. My heart flipped like a pancake and I began to twist my lips into a smile that had no earthly hope of being "cool". However, I needn't have bothered due to the distinct lack of recognition and the fleeting disinterest that young, gym-fit, modelesque women naturally give to sheets of middle-aged magnolia wallpaper.

And, yes, she still wore a wedding ring.

With each passing station, I felt happy that Amy didn't get off. As the train pulled into my home station of Virginia Water, I hoped she would get ready to disembark. She didn't.

My phone received a text:

From Catherine:

Dont forget your're coking tonigth!

:) xxx

The train stopped and the doors opened. Residents of Virginia Water alighted from the train and I found, to my surprise, that I wasn't one of them. I wondered how much further I would be travelling. I was given the answer two stops later as we approached Sunningdale and Amy prepared to disembark. I waited a moment then nonchalantly headed for the second set of doors.

I maintained a discreet distance as I followed her down some pleasant and reasonably quiet village streets; my eyes glued to her shapely ankles. I noticed that she maintained an air of annoyance even though she was on an empty street, which I previously assumed was her preemptive strike against the daily barrage of unwanted male attention.

I did wonder what excuse I would give to Catherine if she drove past with the kids and saw me. "I just felt like a walk, honey.... Oh, am I heading away from our house...?" I couldn't decide whether the fact that I'd never done such a thing in twenty-two years made it a more or less plausible excuse.

Amy crossed the road. I slowed as she entered the gravel-covered driveway of a white-fronted house with a shiny new Mercedes outside.

As she went indoors a warmth grew inside me because I had a new insight into her life but this was short-lived and overshadowed by a pang of resentment towards the man who was sharing this life with her.

Over the subsequent months my train journeys were as they had always previously been, except with the additional daily disappointment of not coinciding with Amy again. By means of compensation, once or twice a week I found myself diverting past her house simply to absorb some sense of connection with her.

It was the day of the twins' 11th birthday when I got off the train at Sunningdale and it struck me as to how tragic it was to be making this trip rather than spending an additional couple of hours with my son and daughter. As a sufficiently happily married father of two, I finally realised I needed to stop this obsessional behaviour and devote my time to my loving family. It was a long overdue moment of maturation and I resolved that this would be the last time I would make this detour so I'd better enjoy it and then head on home.

But, as I passed Amy's house, I noticed that the front door was ajar...

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 6***

I stood watching the house for about ten minutes and the only activity on the street came from starlings flitting between the trees.

Was the latch broken? Had the house been burgled? Perhaps Amy or her husband just forgot to close the door properly. "They shouldn't leave the door open, though," I thought, "anyone could pass by." I convinced myself that it was my civic duty to go over, perhaps even look inside, and ensure everything was hunky-dory.

As soon as I stepped onto the gravel, the peaceful sounds of nature were disrupted by a shout from indoors. It was an angry female voice -- Amy's voice. I didn't catch the first part of what she said but the second was very clear: 'You could have wanked them off before they left!'

I trod as quietly as possible across the gravel, enticed by the thought that I could snoop on some trouble in paradise.

'What did you want me to do?' said Amy's husband.

'Perhaps not telling them where our money was and what the code to the safe is would be a start!'

'And what if they started hurting you to get it?'

'They weren't going to hurt either of us! They were pathetic boys, not Russian interrogators, Anthony!'

'You wanted me to put faith in that!? They had a bloody crowbar aimed at you! Don't tell me you didn't think they could hurt you!'

I peeked inside the front door and saw a smashed vase on the floor.

'Why couldn't you have released me when you had the chance?' shouted Amy.

'There wasn't time--'

'More to the point, why couldn't you fight them instead of leading them straight to me? I could have beaten the shit out of those two on my own if I wasn't tied to the bloody bed!'

A cold thrill pulsed from my heart, throughout my body and I froze. This was followed by the thought that I needed to act quickly; if the neighbours saw a stranger earwigging at the front door there would be questions to answer.

I edged the door open and went inside, taking care not to disturb the broken glass. The air had a hint of sweet vanilla and roses.

'...and now you're tied up too!' There was a sardonic chuckle in Amy's last statement. I felt my mouth drop open and had to wonder if I was in a dream. All the reasons for why I shouldn't be sneaking into a house uninvited fell away.

I needed to hear more but didn't want any passing do-gooder to intrude on the situation so, as Anthony and Amy continued to argue, I went to gently close the front door but it jammed. I increased the pressure with no effect. As I added more pressure, I looked down and saw a curve of the broken vase hooked under the door, but before I could take the pressure off, the fragment snapped and the door slammed shut.

I cringed and the house fell silent.

'Who's that?' shouted Anthony, 'Is someone down there?'

I panicked and answered, 'Um, yes! I heard shouting and the door was open. Is everything okay?'

There was a brief murmured confab upstairs, which ended with Amy snapping, 'What choice do we have?!'

Anthony sighed. 'We're upstairs in the bedroom. We could use your help!'

'Okay...' I said. I followed a trail of well-trodden rose petals up the stairs until I could see into the bedroom at an angle that kept me hidden. As I edged forward the side of the bed came into view along with Amy's restrained wrist and ankle.

'Hello? Are you there?' she said, impatiently, but occurred to me: What if she recognised me? Should I just turn and leave? And, as this became the most rational option, I saw Amy's ankle tug at the restraint and I realised -- she really couldn't move.

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 7***

I popped my head into the bedroom and was agog to see Amy tied, spread-eagle to the bed in just her underwear, stockings and high heels. Her handsome, athletic husband was strapped to a chaise longue in just his boxer shorts and socks. I could feel my blood pumping all the way to my fingertips.

Sexy underwear was strewn all over the floor. I watched Amy for any signs of recognition. There were none.

'Hi...' said Anthony, acknowledging the bizarreness of the situation.

'What happened?' I asked.

'We got burgled. They tied us up and left.'

'Oh, that's horrible!' I said with genuine concern, 'Did they hurt you?'

'Only our pride,' said Amy, clearly still pissed off.

'Okay. What can I do?'

'Erm, untying us would be great!' she said.

I detected sarcasm. This was confirmed by the disapproving look Anthony gave her. Amy dismissed him with a, 'Psh.'

'Is there a key to these padlocks?' I asked.

'Yes. In the dresser,' said Anthony.

I dropped my coat onto a chair and found a bunch of four small keys. I stepped back to Amy and knelt at her right ankle. My courage to do anything other than release her was waning. So, as she was going to be free in 30 seconds, I permitted myself the time to appreciate being closer to her than I had ever been before and would ever be again.

My face hovered inches from her ankle. Evidently this was for a little too long because Amy was irritated to see me staring at her legs rather than unlocking her. 'Are you going to get me out of here or just eye me up?' she said.

Heat radiated across my face and I looked sideways at Anthony. 'Perhaps you can just untie me and I'll untie her,' he said.

I'd been caught-out but his condescending tone irritated me. I always had the impression he was a mild-mannered guy but he clearly didn't like the thought of me gawking at his wife. Yes, I glanced at Amy, but he was half my age and I felt I should be given a bit more respect by the both of them, particularly as I was doing a good deed for them and, if I was any other type of person, I could do a lot more than just look.

With my eyes focussed on the carpet I slunk over to him and knelt at his feet. They looked really big and wide in his sports socks. The restraints were tied really tight with some kind of cable. The D-rings were pulled together, making the cable and the buckles difficult to reach and as I wriggled my fingers between his ankles to get to the buckles, I noticed his legs twitch.

A strange tingle of excitement washed through the pit of my stomach.

Even though I'm not gay, or even bisexual, over the years I have grown more and more curious to watch videos of men being tickled. When I first saw one by accident--yes, it was by accident; I was watching videos and clicked on the wrong thumbnail--I was almost physically repulsed, but somehow my curiosity was piqued. Soon afterwards I found myself deliberately searching for men being tickled and watched them with a disapproving snarl on my face, as if to prove to the invisible audience in the room that I wasn't really into it. Nowadays, whenever Catherine and the kids are out, I'm just as likely to watch men getting tickled as I am to watch women, and the snarl has gone.

All that said, it only existed in my fantasy world and I honestly hadn't ever considered what it would be like to personally tickle a man, not least because there had to be a degree of attraction for me to want to tickle someone -- an attraction that I had only ever felt for women. But in that moment, with tall, handsome Anthony bare-chested, defenceless and his big feet right next to my hands, I became unexpectedly aroused.

These thoughts all occurred in less than a second and I deliberately stroked his ankle again. He twitched again. It was more obvious this time. I quickly checked out his face. He was watching me, unaware that a tickling fetishist was kneeling right next to his bound feet.

And now I knew he was ticklish.

He looked me in the eye and I realised my nefarious thoughts were broadcast onto my face.

'What?' he asked.

'You're tied really tight,' I said. 'These cables won't loosen.'

'Untie my hands. I'll do it.'

I shuffled across the carpet on my knees, checking out his strong legs and defined torso as I went. I was glad to have the back of the chaise longue to hide behind because I had an erection that was fighting with my underwear.

I saw his wrist restraints were also tied by an electrical cable to the chair, but they seemed less secure than the ankles. I feigned an attempt to untie them as I actually secured them further. While logic was telling me to let them go, the straining in my pants stimulated my courage and libido simultaneously and the little voice inside me said that if I didn't do it immediately, I never would.

'These cables are really tight,' I said.

'You can't undo them?' said Anthony.

'For God's sake, what are they? Two pound fifty? We'll buy more! Just get scissors and cut them!' said Amy.

'No, wait, I think I can do it,' I said and gripped the side of the chair, as though holding it in place. My aim was to touch Anthony's ribs as I did so but he wasn't close enough. I made more noises of struggling to get the cables undone as I adjusted my position and let my hand wander round the front of the chaise longue. I felt the warmth from his body and knew I was close.

I retracted my hand a little so that it wouldn't look obvious. 'I'm getting there,' I said. Then I put my hand further than it had been before and felt soft muscle.

'Ouwp!' yelped Anthony.

I peered from behind the chair. 'Sorry, did I get you?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh,' I paused. My heart was pounding in my chest. 'That was a funny noise. Where did I get you? Here?' I said and prodded his lower ribs.

He recoiled and tensed up. A smile broke on his lips, 'Yeah, man. Don't do that.'

'A little ticklish, are we?' I said. My mouth was dry.

'Yeah. Untie me, man.'

'If that's the case, I'm not sure if I should!' I tried to adopt the casual demeanour of the quintessential evil ticklers in all the stories I'd read online, but as I got to my feet my voice wobbled like a warped vinyl record. 'As you obviously both enjoy BDSM, perhaps you need to experience it for real, rather than role playing the scene.'

'What are you talking about?' said Anthony.

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 8***

I didn't answer, mostly because all my efforts were going into controlling the facial ticks that were subverting my cool, calm grin. I went over to the bed; my erection leading me to Amy like a branch of witch hazel being magnetised towards a subterranean lake. She looked up at me but said nothing. I suspect my unintentionally erratic visage looked more scary than anyone who actually managed to fit the stereotypical movie-villain mould.