MENACING MRS. MITCHELL

A Tickling Tale By Jack Hays Section #2.

Continued from last message . . .

Despite Mrs. Mitchell's kicks and struggles, I encircled her waste with the rope and secured it to the tree. Then, with the free end, I started wrapping around her legs and the tree trunk, pulling it tighter with each turn. She continued to struggle and try to avoid being restrained, jumping up and down as much as she was able.

"Bob. Bob! Stop tying me up! Now that is -mmmmmm enough. Let me ughhhh go. NOW!"

I just continued wrapping her legs as her jumps grew more restricted. In fact the only effect her jumping had was to cause her skirt to hike up to her thighs, revealing an ample portion of stocking top, and just the barest glimpse of her white girdle.

Finally satisfied, I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

"Not bad for just a kid, huh, Mrs. Mitchell."

"All right, Bob, the game's over. I'm not playing any more," she said with a rising touch of irritation.

It was then that something possessed me to give her a little poke in the ribs, right where the tightness of the rope made them protrude in a most vulnerable way.

"EEE!" cried Mrs. Mitchell. "Don't do that!"

"What's the matter? Ticklish?" I giggled with a devilish grin.

"Now don't you start that. This isn't fair at all. I'm not playing any more, so just OOOO! I said don't do that!"

"You are ticklish, aren't you? Oh, this is gonna be REAL fun."

"Bob, now listen to me, you are not allowed to tickle. Do you hear me? No AAH! tickling! And Bob, pull my skirt down!"

"But why? It's okay like it is. I mean it's not like anybody can see you way out here or anything. Now where are all your ticklish spots?"

"Bob, please, please don't tickle me. Look, I really hate it. I can't stand to be tickled. Please let me go now."

She began to wiggle around as much as possible in a desperate attempt to get free, as I advanced on her wiggling my fingers in a most threatening way.

I reached out with a single forefinger and traced the line described by the rope across her stomach. I could feel her try to contract her muscles as much as possible.

"Oooo - ah - nnnnh heeeeeee Bob ooo stop pleeeease Iiii don't don't don't."

"Aw, what's the matter?" I said with a fiendish cackle. "Are you really, really ticklish?" I traced another rope line just below her breasts with one finger and then brought the other one up on her side as her face contorted into helpless giggles. Then with both fingers pointed, I started digging into her sides just below her ribs.

"Ohmigod, haaa stooop he-heeeee hooooo ha ha ah no no no no don't ooo eh ah ti-tickle meeeee! Pleeeease!"

Her laughter was sounding truly desperate. She really was extremely ticklish. I let my fingers wander up to the base of her ribs and decided on a new tactic. One my Aunt Wanda had tried on me the summer before last.

"Okay, I'll stop for a minute, but first you have to tell me something," I said.

"Ohhh. Oh - Oh-kay. Just stop. Let me - ahh - catch my breath."

"What I want to know is: How many ribs do you have?" I said and gave the both bottom ribs a little goose.

"Eeeek! How many - Aw, no, Bob! You're not going to count my ribs! No! I told you, I can't stand to be tickled."

"How many? Tell me or I start counting."

"I don't know . . . WAIT . . . 24 . . . that's it . . . 24. Now move your fingers."

"Okay, I'll move 'em." I started moving my fingers all along her sides.

"Nooooooo! Aiiiiiiigh! Ah! Heeeeee! I mean take 'em away! Oooooooo!"