CUCKLED or CUCK'D: A Tickling Story

Anthony looked up. Catherine clamped her mouth closed, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling as she earnestly attempted to zone out the sensations of what was to come, but her pursed lips twisted with the smirk of inevitability: she wouldn't be able to resist.

She was playing his game.

She was willingly playing his game.

It was only when I made a noise that I realised I had been holding my breath in time with Catherine. It caught all three of us off-guard and they glanced at me. Anthony noted Catherine's momentary distraction and took full advantage.

The moments that followed are indelibly imprinted on my mind; more than any other event in my life...

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 19***

Anthony's fingertips wriggled deftly into Catherine's toned tummy muscles. She threw her attention to the sky but it was too late: her clamped lips forced her cheeks to expand like a trumpet player preparing to blast out a prolonged high note and she couldn't contain it. Her back arched, her nylon-covered toes clenched and her eyes widened just before her lips blew apart into an open-mouthed toothy smile accompanied by a torrent of the most glorious laughter I'd ever heard from her elegant throat.

She twisted and thrashed with a strength I'd never before seen her exert. The bonds kept her wrists and ankles in place but the contortions of her body untucked and ruffled up the bedsheet beneath her while her laughter filled the room like a symphony of celestial chimes. My anguish at seeing another man do this to her and my impulse to stop him was quashed by the part of me that was hypnotised by the undiluted eroticism of it all. An unfamiliar turmoil crept over me: Catherine's uninhibited laughter at the hands of a younger man was breaking my heart but also turning me on more than ever before.

His fingers played up and down her torso and prompted her to respond with cartoonish, non-sensual babbling that materialised in a way I hadn't managed to achieve in so many years of marriage: she appeared to be enjoying it.

At Anthony's hand, her mouth stretched so wide that there were moments she was almost unrecognisable to me. 'No-please-no-please-no-please!' she cried with an ever-rising tone before tumbling into an abyss of helpless laughter.

A subconscious need for self-preservation threw an idea to the fore and I decided to play the part of the observer; retreating to watch and enjoy the activity while devoid of emotional attachment -- an attachment we would recommence when we were once again our regular twosome. I tried to make believe I was watching Catherine perform in a stage play, but, just as the thought brought a degree of emotional comfort, her eyes met mine and dragged me at 200mph out of my spectator's chair and back into reality. She wheezed several times, evidently trying to form words and gasping for breath after each failure: 'Hhhhhhhh......Hhhheeeee...... Hhheee hee hee hee hee......'

A sense of dread built in me as I predicted what she wanted to say. If I was correct, it would disturb me to the core and be one more thing that would never be just something for me and Catherine alone; it would always include Anthony. I returned her unblinking stare, willing her to complete her sentence with words that were anything other than the ones I didn't want to hear, but, like a tightrope walker losing his balance, my focus seemed to draw the unwelcome conclusion with the strength of a junkyard magnet and she finally cried: 'He's tickling me!'

All energy left my limbs while, at the same time, my arousal strained at my underwear.

'He's tickling me! He's-tickling-me-he's-tickling-me-he's-tickling-me...!' she cried, steadily raising in pitch and desperation before erupting into an inelegant and drawn-out cackle. When Anthony concluded that this reaction showed no signs of dissipating, no matter how long he went on, he walked his fingers up her body. She responded with an involuntary whine when she predicted his next destination and did her best to retract her smooth armpits. Her efforts were in vain as he slowly followed the skin of her underarms into the hollows of her pits and teased at them. Her response was gradual.

'It tickles!' she said to him.

He nodded.

'It tickles! It tickles! It tickles!' she repeated with increased panic.

I was angered at her commentary and couldn't help thinking: "Stop saying that, woman! If you get into a fight, you don't tell your attacker, "You're hurting me!" after every bloody punch! He knows what he's doing; stop giving him the satisfaction of letting him know it's working on you!"

However, despite a countenance of revulsion that made my face ache, I couldn't deny my fascination. Catherine's underarms were one place on her body that I had never targeted during the times I'd annoyed her by tickling her. I had only ever suspected how she would react. Now I knew: she went absolutely crazy. The muscles in her beautifully toned arms showed their definition as she pulled against the restraints, and the veins in her reddening neck protruded as she howled with guffaws.

Anthony again probed her torso. He was seeking vulnerable spots. I saw the moment he realised the secret that, up until that moment, had been kept solely for me: every spot on Catherine was a vulnerable spot. He had to move no more than half a centimetre in any direction to take her by surprise, in the same way another woman may need you to move from her waist; to her knees; to her armpits; and so on, in order to keep her on her toes, so to speak. Catherine was hyper-sensitive and could be tickled on virtually any part of her anatomy.

My instinctual need to blink deserted me as Anthony's large hands encompassed around both sides of Catherine's waist and lower ribs. His thumbs worked in symmetrical tandem as they probed gently at spots on the flanks of her waist, driving her to bellowing levels of hilarity.

Suddenly, his eyes looked directly into mine. I was taken aback, like a Peeping Tom caught red-handed. With Catherine lost in helpless laughter, he varied his current motion on her lower ribs, raising and lowering her reactions at will, like a masterful jazz musician picking up the instrument of a novice to "show how it's done". His point was crystal clear.

In return, I scowled at him. His acknowledgement told me that this simple act of defiance had overstepped a boundary. He got off the bed and came to my chair. Catherine was surprised at the abrupt cessation. Lingering giggles still emanated from within her as she wiped tears of laughter onto her shoulder. I did my best not to gulp as Anthony stood over me.

I think Catherine was on the verge of thinking something must be wrong when he leaned down and whispered: 'I know you, you fetishist. I know this must be killing you. I've researched. I've trained. I've practiced. I've taken lessons from professional Dominatrixes. I'm better than you, and I'm tickling your wife better than you've ever done it.'

He was vulnerable where he stood, but I was convinced that if I hit him it would hardly effect him and may well put my own fist out of action. Still, a rumbling resentment swelled from my gut into my limbs. The absence of anywhere to put this energy had me on the verge of tears.

'What are you two whispering about?' said Catherine.

Anthony straightened up, drank in my frustration with a dismissive sneer and turned back towards her.

'Get her knees next!' I said.

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 20***

'What!?' exclaimed Catherine.

Anthony hesitated and looked at me with an expression that I couldn't quite decipher; it either read, "Are you serious?" or, "Don't dare order me around." Possibly both.

'Get her knees,' I said. 'She can't stand it.'

Catherine threw a few light insults my way while Anthony and I locked eyes. He understood my move. It was my only choice: to appear as though I was in charge.

'Very well,' he said.

The tarnish on Anthony's mood certainly effected his method. As he knelt on the bed between her legs his relaxed persona took a back seat and he swiftly placed his hands above her kneecaps.

'No...' said Catherine, with a genuine fear. 'Please, not there!' Her panic served to elevate her vulnerability and when Anthony began those dreaded pincer squeezes--not too hard and not too soft--I fully comprehended the consequences of my actions.

Catherine lurched forward with a scream of wide-eyed panic. Her taut abdominals held her as upright as she could get as electric sensations flew through her body. She actually appeared to be going insane, not least because she was jabbering incoherently. She wasn't even really laughing until the undeniable sensations forced their way to the surface and transformed her expression from terror into one of pure hysteria. She hurled herself back into the mattress and thrashed from side to side with screams of laughter that were louder and more desperate than before.

Anthony served me a vindictive look that read, "This is what you wanted, right?"

I couldn't hold his eye. Although she was doing all she could to escape his grip, he was holding her in exactly the right way: balancing the pressure without a moment's respite. I hadn't thought it possible to regret this situation any more. Catherine was lost in a chaos of mirth; writhing around so much that the sweat-drenched pillows fell across her face and onto the floor; and strands from her new haircut clung to her face.

'Do you want me to cease?' Anthony asked her, while still focussed on me.

She nodded frantically, unable to form words.

'Would you prefer me to do anything other than squeeze your lovely knees, Catherine?'

She nodded as before and mouthed, "Yes, yes, yes," but this was accompanied only by wheezing laughter.

'Then I will...' he said and stopped. '...it's time I paid attention to your feet.'

My head fell against the back of the chair.

Catherine's chest heaved. As Anthony shuffled backwards to kneel at the foot of the bed, the residual effect of the assault on her knees kept her laughing. There was a hopeless resignation to her spirit as she started to beg: 'No, not my feet. Not my feet. Not my fee-hee-hee-heet!'

'Did you know, Catherine,' said Anthony, 'some people are more sensitive in nylons while others are more sensitive on their bare feet?'

'Oh, my, God...' she said in dismay.

'Shall we see what kind of person you are?'

I closed my eyes and looked away. I wanted to fall asleep and wake when it was all over but I couldn't prevent from hearing everything.

'No, please! My feet are so ticklish!' said Catherine.

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Anthony.

The next sound was the unmistakable rip of nylon. I didn't want to look, but I had to be sure. Anthony knelt tall and proud over my wife's defenceless feet; one with its shape still accentuated by the sexy glossy stocking and the other naked, with the shredded material hanging from the ankle.

'My my my, Catherine,' he said. 'Is there any part of you that isn't sexy?'

Catherine was palpably flattered.

'Your wife's soles are the most luscious I've ever seen,' he said, turning to me. 'Don't you agree?'

'Yes,' I replied, barely audible.

'And you can take it from me, Catherine: I know what I'm talking about. You see, I also have a foot fetish. Yours surpass the beauty of most 20-year-olds' feet.'

I watched Catherine blush -- speechless from flattery and in anticipation of the impending sensations. Then Anthony lowered his face towards her bare foot. Having worshipped her feet so often, I could picture exactly what saw: her flawless toes, with nails painted exactly as I like them. My jaw dropped as I envisaged what came next, but as I closed my mouth I felt nothing and instead it was Anthony who closed his lips around her big toe. He sucked and licked for several minutes, working his way from toe to toe and revelling in every moment.

This calmed Catherine. I think she even went cross-eyes as she rested her head and hummed with pleasure. I'd never made her go cross-eyed before.

Totally unable to move, I caught sight of a framed family photo on the wall. It was the signature photo from the day Catherine, the twins and I visited a funky new portrait studio in Lightwater some time ago. The photographer got Catherine and I to give the kids a piggy-back race and he captured a perfect image. It was when we got the photo set back, and they seduced Catherine into spending out on a larger print than the one they originally pitched to us, that I felt a strong pang of guilt. Each day I fall a little more in love with Catherine and she looked so immeasurably happy to have such a perfect moment on paper that my heart swelled but my stomach sank to consider that I had been stalking Amy when I had such a beautiful and loving wife at home. It preceded the moment I resolved to stop stalking Amy, but failed to do so before that fantastical afternoon in Sunningdale.

And now, as a direct result, Anthony had dominated me. And my beautiful wife.

And he wasn't finished...

-- -- -- -- --

***Chapter 21***

A brief slurping sound from Anthony injected a shot of indignant adrenaline back into me -- he was spending far longer on Catherine's toes than I spent on Amy's.

I decided to assert myself once again and suggest he go back to Catherine's armpits, but as I was about to speak, Catherine gave a yelp. Anthony's hand hovered over her stockinged foot. He'd stroked it. And, unlike the soles of Amy's stockings, Catherine's were without any protective reinforcements or seams -- they were plain and slick. A tickler's perfect accomplice.

She looked down at him with a nervous smirk that I interpreted to be almost flirtatious. My indignation increased.

He released her glistening toes from his mouth. 'It's time for the test, Catherine.'

'No, please -- not my feet, Anthony. I'm begging you...'

Another thing she'd never said to me. Another gut-punch to my brain.

'Your wife is begging me,' he announced.

'I heard her,' I replied.

'Beg me more, then, Catherine. I want to hear you,' he said.

'Please. Please, don't tickle my feet,' she said without hesitation.

'I think you can do better than that,' he said, and teased the sole of her stockinged foot.

She yanked violently at the ankle restraint, which gave zero slack, and, once again, her pleas were accompanied by a rapid escalation of pitch and panic that ended with her surrender: 'Please don't tickle my feet, Anthony. I'm begging you, Anthony, I'm begging you please don't tickle my feeeeeeet!'

Her clad foot spasmed and twisted as she fought to avoid his finger tips, which glided with aggravating dexterity over her glossy sole.

'I still think you can beg me better than that,' he said. 'Let's see what happens if we invite your other foot to the party...'

'Neeow!' Catherine shrieked with an instinctive alarm, yanking her bare foot just as violently as before, without even being touched.

His fingertips wriggled towards her sole. 'Perhaps sufficient begging, with a greater range of vocabulary, might persuade me to stop.'

Catherine instantly played to his tune: 'Please, Anthony! I'm begging you! I'm ticklish! I'm helpless! I can't take it! You have all the power! Please don't tickle me on my feet! Have mercy, have mercy, have mercyyyyy!'

Each word mounted on top of one another and felt like a barrage of boxer's slugs to my face; knocking me right and left against the ropes. Then his fingers met her bare sole and she wailed before lapsing into a cataclysm of panicked laughter.

'Oh, my God...! You've got nails...! Your nails are so ticklish...! Oh my, God...! I need help...! I'm beg...begging you for mercy!' she cried amid her hysterics.

Anthony said nothing but continued to play with her feet: sometimes the stockinged foot, sometimes the bare foot, sometimes both together and Catherine returned to the commentary that further grated on my psyche:

'My feet, my feet! Oh my poor feet!' she cried.

"Shut up!" I thought, "They're not separate entities! You can't feel sorry for a part of yourself!"

Tears of laughter ran over her cheeks and she pleaded with me through her laughter: 'Help me, baby...! Nothing I can... can say will stop him...! He's tickling my feet...! He's tickling the bottoms of my feet...! Oh, my God...! He's so good at this...! It tickles, it tickles, it tickles...!'

'I know! I can see!' I finally snapped.

A look of confusion flittered across her brow. Anthony obviously sensed my temper but took it in his stride and, tearing open the other stocking with a single hand, simply confirmed, 'Yes: we have a winner. Bare it is.'

Catherine's attention was once again all his. The intense sensations of both of her sublime bare soles being expertly tickled returned her to the verge of insanity. The intensity of her torment somehow made her regress to a time before we met--when she wasn't as well spoken as she had been throughout our entire relationship--and she screamed: 'OH MY GOD...! Please, Sir...! Please, Master...! I'll do whatever you want...! Just please stop tickling me...! You win, you win, you win...!'

With this, Anthony's chest swelled with the pride of an all-powerful deity and I couldn't take any more.

'For God's sake!' I said, 'Just fuck her!'

Anthony looked at me. He slowed but didn't stop, swirling the tips of his fingernails all over Catherine's size eight soles and bringing her down from her uncontrollable hysteria to a steady stream of giggles that verged on pleasure.

'Say that again,' he said.

'Please,' I said, 'make love to her.'

Catherine looked to me with gratitude. She occasionally twitched at the sensations from her feet, but the writing of her groin was due to her complete arousal. She licked her lips and said to him, 'Yes, Anthony. I'm yours. Make love to me.'

Anthony slowed the motions to a stop.

'No,' he said.

Catherine and I were speechless.

'That's not what I'm here for, Catherine. I'm in love with someone else.'

Catherine's disappointment was clear, but this sentiment was something she understood.

Anthony collected his jacket from my chair and went to leave, then paused, silhouetted in the bedroom doorway. His demeanour was inscrutable but his parting word seemed final:

'Goodbye,' he said.

Catherine lay on the bed, brimming with unspent energy and huffing in frustration. The second we heard the front door close she turned to me: 'For the love of God, get over here and fuck me!'

-- -- -- -- --

***Epilogue***

Catherine snoozed in my arms. She never slept after sex, but this was just one more thing I needed to add to the list of "firsts" achieved that day.

It's funny how the post-orgasmic state seems to send one's Inner Lunatic back into his cave and allow one's Life Manager to emerge back out into the light of day in a pinstriped suit. It was only then that it occurred to me: even if it was guaranteed that I would never see or hear from Anthony ever again, I wouldn't feel at rest. The guilt of a sexual encounter without Catherine's knowledge was something that I would have to carry with me forever.

That was the only option.

Well, it wasn't the only option: I could be honest with her. If the day's events had proved anything, it was how she might have an open mind to things if approached in the correct way. And, knowing how understanding she can be, there's a very high chance she would forgive me. It could even bring us closer.

But if that was the case, I need not have let another man do the things to her I was forced to witness that evening.

As this was not a consideration I wanted in my head. I closed my eyes. I tried to sleep. I hoped I'd feel differently about it all in the morning...

THE END.