MENACING MRS. MITCHELL

A Tickling Tale - By Jack Hays - Section #7.

Continued from last message . . .

"Dump some in here, Bob, this'll be great!"

I shook a generous portion of the itching powder into her girdle. I looked down and could see the top of her pussy hairs coated in white like trees in a snowstorm. Mrs. Mitchell was really having a fit now.

"Nooooooooooooo! Aiiiiigh . . . arrrrr . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . can't eee stand it! Pleee . . . ease. Ah . . . ah . . . please make it stop! It itches! It itches! I can't stand it!"

"Come on, Kenny, let's give her a break. Let's scratch her where it itches!" I walked forward, once again wiggling all ten fingers menacingly. Kenny did the same.

"Awwk . . . errrr . . . no . . . not that . . . don't tickle . . . not that, too . . . get away! Get away!" Mrs. Mitchell was starting to cry now.

"Scratchy, scratchy, scratchy," I said, wiggling my fingers in her armpits. Kenny started on her stomach and ribs, running his fingers all over her midsection.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! HAHAHAHAAaaaaaaaah! NONONONONO! PleasePleasePlease! Stop! Stop! Stah - ha! - ahp! I'm going to wet myself! Stop!"

"Hey, Kenny, think she'll really wet her pants?" I asked, attacking her exposed armpits.

"Only one way to find out, huh?" Kenny kept at it, too.

"No . . . no . . . no . . . I can't . . . hold . . . it . . . can't . . . stop . . . can't . . . I CAN'T HOLD IT!! Aiiiiiiiiighhh!"

A large wet spot appeared on the front of Mrs. Mitchell's girdle, and soon turned into a golden torrent down both legs. She was shaking, gasping and sobbing from the unbearable tickling and itching, and now was mortified by peeing all over herself like a little kid.

We stopped tickling for a moment to see how long the flood would last.

"Okay, Mom," said Kenny. "I guess we'll give you a little break now, if you behave."

"I'll behave! I'll do anything! Just don't tickle anymore! Please make the itching stop. Please!" Mrs. Mitchell was truly ready to do anything.

"Hey, Mrs. Mitchell, how about if we get to see you naked?" I asked.

"Oh, Bob . . . "

"Scratchy, scratchy, scratchy . . . " I said, repeating my previous threat.

"Please, NO! Yes, you can see me naked, anything!"

"Bob, let's get her out of her underwear and give her a wash off.. Get the scissors from the lasso box and I'll get the hose."

I found the scissors and proceeded to snip Mrs. Mitchell's bra right down the middle. Her huge breasts fell out into full view. I then cut straight down the middle of her wet girdle. There was the first pussy I had ever seen in person, undulating as our prisoner tried to relieve her itches. She was beyond all embarrassment now and only wanted relief.

Kenny came back with the garden hose. It had a pistol grip nozzle. Kenny trained a stream of water at his helpless mother.

"OHH! Goddammit, that's COOOLD!" she screamed.

"Do you want more powder then?" Kenny gave her a choice.

"NO! Wash me off! Hurry!" It was really no choice at all.

Kenny sprayed every bit of his Mom's body, especially concentrating on her breasts and pussy. Mrs. Mitchell struggled and coughed as water got in her face. Finally, he let the pistol grip go and put the hose down.

"All right, Mom," said Kenny. "I think me and Bob need some new pictures, so I'm gonna go get my polaroid. Don't go away, now! And Bob, I think we need Mom to help you get to know your new homeroom teacher!"

To be continued . . .