Your Next Ticklish Babysitting Experience (Patreon)

You stand at the door that you remember all too well.

The same decorative ornaments hang over the porch.

The same flowers followed you up the walkway.

The same name plate reading 'Peterson' remains beneath the address number by the front door.

Nothing had seemed to change.

This is comforting, in a way, for you often thought back to that night you spent babysitting for the Petersons.

The night played over and over in your head ever since.

The way the three kids tricked you into playing a game.

The way they had you all tied up.

The way they took advantage by tickling you for what seemed to be the entire evening.

The way the parents joined in at the end.

The memories never left.

They replayed in your mind, during the day when you would be trying to focus at school and at night while you would be trying to sleep.

You never could seem to shake the images.

The feelings.

The rush of the sensations.

And for reasons you never really understood, you thought fondly of it all.

Like it didn't bother you nearly as much as you would have expected of it.

Or as much as you imagined that it should.

It left you shook, you certainly remember that.

The kids definitely enjoyed your company and the parents paid you nearly double what they were originally going to for the trouble.

But looking back, it wasn't much trouble.

At least, that's how you felt about it.

You often thought about going back.

About babysitting again.

About subjecting yourself to that again.

For whatever reason, you didn't mind it.

You may have even wanted to do it again.

It was strange and nothing you wanted to admit to yourself, especially not to anyone else.

But that's what pushed you to give them a call.

What pushed you to offer to babysit again

What pushed you up to their door.

You swallow looking at it and take a deep breath.

You give the door three quick knocks.

The door opens soon after.

You see Mr. Peterson standing in front of you beyond the threshold.

He looks exactly the same as you remember him, tall and handsome for his age.

He smiles warmly down at you.

"Hey there," he says cheerfully. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," you say, your sheepish tone giving away your nerves.

He steps to the side.

"Come in," he says. "I know the kids are all really excited to see you again."

You step inside and look around.

Everything looks just as your memories recall.

The furniture is still in the same places.

The same art and framed pictures of the family hangs on the walls.

The same warm, welcoming scent fills the air.

It had only been a few months since your last visit, enough time to reflect on the events of the evening and develop a strange contentment for them, but somehow you expected things to be different.

Mr. Peterson closes the door behind him.

"Oh, if you don't mind, please leave your shoes at the door," he says.

You turn.

Your mind starts to race, but you convince yourself to think nothing of it.

"Sure, sorry," you say.

His welcoming expression remains kind and gentle as you slip off your sneakers, revealing your feet clad in clean white ankle socks.

You leave your shoes by the door.

"Thank you," Mr. Peterson says.

"Of course," you say.

You look Mr. Peterson over.

He's dressed nicely, yet casual.

You can hear the kids playing in a room down the hall.

"So, you and Mrs. Peterson have big plans tonight?" you ask.

Mr. Peterson walks over to the door you know leads to the kitchen.

"Yeah, something like that," he says. "Would you like something to eat or drink?"

You shake your head.

"No, thank you," you say.

He nods.

"Okay, just let me know if you do," he says. "Also feel free to help yourself to whatever you'd like."

His welcoming tone is familiar and disarming.

He walks into the kitchen, leaving you alone in the living room.

You look around, still feeling weirdly foreign in their home.

You had not even noticed their two cats approaching you before you feel them rub against your legs.

You look down and they look up at you.

You imagine that even they remember the night.

They certainly seem to remember you.

“Hello there,” you say to them.

You bend down to give them a little stroke along their backs, which they happily accept, purring and flicking their tails.

Mrs. Peterson walks in from a far hallway.

She looks at you with a smile just as calming as her husband's.

"I thought I heard someone come in," she says.

Mrs. Peterson looks soothingly familiar as well; an attractive, motherly figure.

She too appearss as if she's put work into her look, but is dressed just as comfortably as Mr. Peterson.

You smile back at her and stand up straight.

"Haha, yeah, I'm back," you say awkwardly.

Mrs. Peterson walks up to you and pulls you in for a hug.

You had not expected to be so close to the family already, but hugging the woman comes off as comforting and natural.

"So glad that you could come back," she says. "We were worried we had scared you off last time."

You chuckle, wanting to play off the events as casually as possible.

"Oh, of course not," you say, with a little laugh. "It was… surprising, but… um… actually kind of fun."

Mrs. Peterson pulls back and smiles.

"Honey, I'm so glad to hear that," she says.

You tilt your head.

"Sorry if I had seemed weird or anything," you say.

"Sweetie, it's fine," she says. "Sorry if we put you through too much. We tend to get taken away when it comes to tickling."

You swallow a little.

You feel slightly flustered at just hearing the word.

Ever since the evening you had spent there, the subject of tickling had seemed to change for you from something mundane to something more exciting and alluring.

You scratch the side of your nose nervously.

You feel a hint of heat rush to your cheeks.

"Well, it did… come as a surprise…" you say.

"But I'm glad that you had a good time," Mrs. Peterson says.

She rubs your arm a little bit.

You don't mind.

It's oddly comforting.

"I know the kids are super excited that you're back," she says. "I don't think they know yet."

"You guys going out tonight or…?" you ask.

Mrs. Peterson snickers.

"We have plans," she says.

"Oh?"

Just then, you feel a small yet substantial force slam against your side.

You stumble a little to the middle child, one of the daughters, wrapping her arms around you.

She squeals and giggles and repeats your name over and over again excitedly.

"Yay, you're back!" she chants. "You're back! You're back! You're back!"

You laugh it off and give her a small hug with one arm.

"Haha, yes, I'm back," you say.

You're glad that they can recall you so favorably, that they've remembered your name and seem so eager to have you back.

This is further supported by the other two rushing into the room, their feet slapping against the carpet.

The room grows many times louder when they enter, cheering for your return.

The eldest, the other daughter, and the youngest, their son, also plow right into you with merry hugs.

All at once they seem to cheer and chant with excitement over your return.

"Oh my gosh, we've missed you so much!" says the eldest, a girl just under thirteen years old.

"Let’s play! Let's play! Let's play!" the boy, around ten, repeats with childlike enthusiasm

The welcome certainly puts you in a good, easy mood, yet also comes off as slightly overwhelming.

You chalk this up to the kids being their familiar energetic selves.

They’re each immediately familiar to you, looking no different than they did on that evening.

The youngest is their only son, around ten years old with a rosy cherubesque complexion, wearing shorts and a tank top with the words ‘Cool Guy’ written out in an obnoxiously noticeable font.

The middle child, a girl about eleven years old, has as many curls in her hair as freckles lining the bridge of her nose, wearing pink overalls with a white shirt underneath.

The eldest child is more of a young teen, twelve likely closer to thirteen, a slender frame, straight hair, shorts, and a t-shirt for a currently popular boy band.

You remember their faces and voices well, what little that may have been forgotten coming back in an instant.

The mother catches on and tries to wrangle them back.

"Okay, kids, kids, kids, settle down," Mrs. Peterson says with a mirthful chuckle at their antics.

They all back off a little, still smiling up at you.

"Are you gonna play with us?" the youngest asks.

He tugs on your shirt and looks up at you.

"Sure," you say. "I'm here to hang out with you guys while your parents go out."

They bounce and giggle and can barely contain their excitement.

"We're gonna have so much fun!" the middle daughter exclaims.

"Just like last time!" the son adds.

You chuckle nervously.

"Well, I don't know about that…" you say.

Mr. Peterson walks back into the room.

"Dad! Dad! Look who's back!" shouts the eldest child.

"I know," he says. "You're all going to have a good time tonight."

The children cheer.

The mother keeps trying to manage her kids.

"Alright, alright, don't be too loud now," she says, still laughing as she feebly tries to maintain control.

"Go play in the other room for now," Mr. Peterson says.

The kids all scatter, their many footsteps stampeding through the hall back to their room.

You chuckle.

"Sorry about them, they're very excited that you're back," Mrs. Peterson says.

"Oh, don't worry about it," you say. "I'm just glad they like me so much."

"Oh, they love you," Mr. Peterson says. "Haven't been able to stop talking about you since your last visit."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah," Mrs. Peterson. "After what happened, they really wanted you to come back."

You smile, feeling pride in the love and appreciation.

"Wow, I never would have expected," you say.

"They really had a good time tickling you," Mr. Peterson says.

You freeze a little.

"I think we all did," Mrs. Peterson adds with a laugh.

You give a few more nervous chuckles.

"Y-yeah, I… I'm really ticklish…" you admit openly.

"We could tell, dear," Mrs. Peterson says. "Nothing wrong with that at all."

"In fact, that's actually why we wanted you to come back," Mr. Peterson says.

You look back at him and swallow.

He steps forward and meets your eye.

"We tickle a lot in this house," he says. "It's how we bond."

Mrs. Peterson comes around you.

She walks up close and strokes your arm.

"The kids had so much fun tickling you, dear, and they really wanted to do it again," she says.

"O-oh?" you stutter.

"And you had to have known that that would likely happen again, right?" Mr. Peterson asks.

You blush and look down, spotting your nervous toes curling shyly in your socks.

"I… I guess…"

"So you had a good time too, did you not?" Mrs. Peterson asks.

You stroke your hair and scratch the side of your nose.

"Well… I didn't hate it…"

"That's good," Mr. Peterson says. "So you would be fine letting them do it again, right?"

You pause.

Your breath goes still.

Mrs. Peterson smiles and sighs, sensing your hesitation.

"You certainly don't have to, sweetie," she says. "But we would greatly appreciate it if you'd be open to being tickled again."

You feel a warm rush of blood come to your cheeks.

You try to steady your breath, your words, your body, but all seem to shiver at once just thinking about it.

Your mind goes back to all those times the images and memories flashed before you.

How you'd do everything differently.

How you'd possibly be more open to it in the moment.

How you'd go back to the Petersons secretly hoping it would happen again.

You try to speak, feeling their eyes weighing down on you.

"I… I… uh… would be… okay with it…"

"Wonderful," Mr. Peterson says. "And the same situation, I suppose? A little bit tied up to make it more fun?"

The taboo of the situation is not lost on you.

You're sure that in any other circumstance you'd be confident in your ability to see the red flags.

But despite this, you're inclined to trust the Petersons.

Or at the very least allow your curiosity and the rapid beating of your heart fuel any skewed decision-making.

You nod softly, your heart starting to beat faster.

"That would… I'd be okay with that…" you say softly.

Mrs. Peterson puts her hand on your shoulder.

"Don't worry, dear," she says, "it's just a bit of fun. We'll all have a good time."

You nervously stroke your hair.

"Go ahead and get comfortable on the couch, there," Mr. Peterson says. "Lay longways if you don't mind."

You look at the couch and follow the orders, not sure what this has to do with babysitting their kids for the evening.

You lay long ways on the couch.

For some reason, being off of your feet and having them all the way on the other side of the couch makes you feel very vulnerable right away.

As if they were so far away out of range to protect them.

Mr. Peterson comes up to your head.

"Arms up," he says.

Still, strangely, you feel inclined to obey.

You raise your arms up over your head.

Mr. Peterson ties up your wrists in some soft, velvety rope that he pulls from under the couch.

The bind is tight and secure, but not uncomfortable.

You squirm and try to pull your arms apart, feeling how little you can move them.

Mrs. Peterson goes down to your bottom half.

She kneels down by your feet, propping your ankles up atop the other armrest.

You become frightfully aware of how close she is to them, how every little touch she makes around your calves and ankles makes you more and more nervous, given the knowledge of her intentions.

You learned all too well how ticklish your feet were on that night and you can only imagine that they remained just as sensitive.

As intimidating as it becomes, being positioned this way specifically to be tickled, you can't say that you totally hate it.

Neither love, nor hate, but certainly invested.

All you know is that the way the couple ties you up makes your heart race.

Mrs. Peterson takes out her own strand of rope and starts tying up your ankles in a similar way.

Firm.

Painless, yet effective.

And all the while, you catch glances at how she looks at your feet with interest.

When she's done, you realize how little you can pull your feet apart as well.

And by 'little', actually not at all.

She chuckles a little bit.

"On or off?" Mrs. Peterson asks.

You look down.

"H-huh?" you ask.

"On," Mr. Peterson answers. "We'll let the kids do it."

Mrs. Peterson nods.

Both take the other ends of the ropes and tie them securely beneath the couch.

They have you stretch out as far as you'll go.

When they've secured your binds, you are fully stretched out.

You can barely bend your knees or elbows.

You can only twist and rock side to side.

You are left vulnerable against the couch as the couple looks down at you.

"Comfortable?" Mr. Peterson asks.

You swallow again, your heart pounding more.

You don't know how to answer.

You don't want to give away all your enthusiasm.

But you don't want any trepidation you feel to cut the night short.

You force something, anything, out to give an answer.

"I… it's… okay," you say.

You laugh nervously.

The couple joins you a little as Mrs. Peterson kneels down by your head.

"Don't worry," she says. "You'll be perfectly fine. We're all going to have a good time here."

You nod, wanting to believe her.

She strokes your hair a little with her long, slender nails.

"You're excited, right?" Mr. Peterson asks.

Again, you don't know how to answer.

You simply look away, blush, and nod a little.

"We won't hurt you, we promise," Mrs. Peterson says. "But it will tickle, of course."

"The kids are going to have so much fun with you tonight," Mr. Peterson adds.

"And if you need it to stop for real, all you have to do is say 'bunny'," Mrs. Peterson says.

"B-bunny," you say back to confirm. "A-and they'll know to stop, right?"

"Of course," Mr. Peterson says. "We'll make sure of it."

You look back at him curiously.

"You will?" you ask.

Both parents smile at you.

"You bet," Mr. Peterson says. "You see, we didn't have anywhere to go tonight. We just told you that we had plans and this was them."

Your chest pounds more.

Mrs. Peterson keeps stroking your hair to calm your nerves.

"Sweetie, the kids missed you so much and we just wanted to give them the chance to play with you again," she says with a smile. "But, you know, my husband and I also missed you. So we're not going anywhere. You know, just to make sure everyone is having a good time tonight."

You feel the hollow in your gut tighten as the realization comes out that you were never called over to babysit for the evening again.

That they just wanted the chance to have you over and to tickle you again.

Another hot rush of blood comes to your cheeks.

The pair keeps smiling down at you.

"I trust that's not a problem, right?" Mr. Peterson says. "We'll still pay you for the time, with a little extra for your troubles."

You think for a moment, the ethical logistics behind the con making you feel uneasy.

But only at first.

And only for a little.

The curiosity comes back however.

The thoughts.

The ideas.

The dreams.

All of being in that exact same position again.

They all come back.

And they come back in the form of a slight grin.

You still laugh nervously, nodding after some time.

"Y-yes," you say. "I-I mean, n-no, it's… not a problem…"

"That's good," Mr. Peterson says. "But I know that Mrs. Peterson and I would greatly appreciate you addressing us as both 'ma'am' and 'sir'. Just to be polite. Understand?"

You nod again.

"Y-yes, sir," you say.

He smiles warmly down at you.

"Wonderful," he says.

They both stand up straight.

"Ready to call them in?" Mrs. Peterson asks the father.

You find it odd that you're not the one the question is meant for.

Mr. Peterson nods.

"I think we are," he says.

He turns to the hallway.

"Kids!" he calls out.

"We have a present for you!" Mrs. Peterson shouts in return.

Your nerves heighten as you hear the rushing pattering of the kids storming out of their rooms and down the hallway.

They come into the living room and their faces lighten up.

They laugh loudly at your predicament.

"Haha! You're all tied up again!" The middle daughter says.

"So funny!" says the youngest.

"Surprise!" Mrs. Peterson says.

"We're going to play with your babysitter here again for as long as you want," Mr. Peterson says.

He shoots you a little wink to reassure you of the deal.

"Awww, thank you!" says the eldest, the young teen.

She comes up to your head and kneels down beside the couch.

She giggles as she eyes you over like a new toy or a wrapped Christmas present.

"I was so worried we had scared you off," she says, clearly the more maturely behaved of the children, yet still young and energetic.

"N-no, no… I…" you start to say. You look up to the parents and smile weakly. "I… had fun…"

"Yay!" she says. "We're gonna tickle you so much then!"

You force a chuckle.

"O-okay, but just… not so badly this time… please," you say somewhat reserved and hesitant.

You can barely get out all the words before a squeal escapes your lips.

You feel a slight poke in your side, causing you to jerk and clench up as much as you can.

You try to lower your arms, but you're stuck laid out and defenseless.

"Aahhheheheeeheehe!!" you squeal.

You look down to see the middle daughter smirking by your belly.

She giggles at your sudden reactions.

"Heehee you're still ticklish!" she says.

She pokes around your belly some more, her fingers scribbling and jabbing quickly.

Your expression seizes.

A laugh escapes your lips, followed by another and another.

You squirm side to side, twisting feebilishly.

"Neeeheheheheheeeheee!!" you squeal, the jabbing tickles shooting through your body.

The little boy laughs at you while the eldest daughter enjoys your squealing reactions up by your head.

"Tickle tickle tickle," she teases playfully.

Your giggles get louder the more quickly the middle daughter tickles around your sides and belly.

She gets faster and faster, carelessly scribbling her fingers into your midsection as her laughter at your ticklish plight rings out.

The eldest, shortly after, jumps in to add her fingers to your outstretched armpits.

Their childish enthusiasm leads them to eagerly tickle you as much as they're able to all at once.

The eldest daughter scribbles her fingertips against the mounds of your pits, giggling gleefully in your face.

Your face turns a deeper shade of red.

You continue to rock back and forth against the couch as you squeal with louder laughter.

"Nnneeehhhheheheheeeheeheehahaha!!" you laugh to their ticklish attack.

The girls laugh along with you, both finding great amusement in your squeals.

The parents stand back and watch, each smiling pridefully.

"Awwww, look how much fun they're having," says Mrs. Peterson.

"I know," Mr. Peterson. "We could really use a babysitter more often if it means keeping them this entertained."

They laugh and watch the kids play with you as if you were any of their other toys.

Mrs. Peterson pushes the youngest forward.

"Go on, it's okay," she says to her son.

The little boy shyly steps forward.

The middle daughter sees his hesitation and slides to the side.

"Here," she says, kneeling next to the other sister. "You can take the belly."

Her fingers shift up to your ribs.

The double rickling against them and your armpits creates an intensely concentrated area for tickles that seems to explode through your entire body.

It's an endurance challenge, but it's nothing too unbearable yet.

The youngest smiles and goes down to his knees next to the couch.

He lifts your shirt a little, exposing your belly trembling and quaking with your fits of giggles.

"Careful now," Mr. Peterson says. "Not too much."

The boy stops, revealing only your belly up to the bottom of your ribs across where the middle daughter pinches and dances her fingers.

He bites his lip and drives his small, yet excited fingers into your tummy.

You let out another squeal as the tickles get worse and your laughter increases in volume.

"Aaaaaaahhhhheheeheeheeheeheehahahahaha!!! Nahahahahat thereeeheheheehee!!" you laugh, shaking your head side to side.

Enduring all three kids tickling your upper body at once is far more challenging than you would have expected.

A testament to their experience with tickling.

Or your overwhelming ticklishness.

Or, most likely, both.

You give off deep, hearty laughs as you squirm uselessly against the couch.

You pull at the ropes holding you apart, yet can gain no inch with which to protect yourself.

The kids laugh and taunt with childish mirth.

"Heehee! Coochie coochie coo!" teases the eldest by your head.

"So ticklish! Heehee!" says the middle daughter.

The youngest says nothing, but continues to laugh and work his fingers against your bare tummy with no indication of slowing down.

The parents commenting on your situation only seems to make it all the more humiliating.

"They're having so much fun," Mrs. Peterson says.

"All four of them, I'd say," Mr. Peterson says with a chuckle.

The two younger kids tickle recklessly with only wild abandon to their fingers.

Even so, the tickles are surprisingly effective against your sensitive midsection.

The oldest, only a few years younger than you, is far more methodical with how she scribbles her nails against your pits.

She watches your face with a devious smile to better analyze which spots and styles of tickling are more effective against you.

"Heehee! I was so hoping you'd come back," she says. "Coochie coochie coo!"

"Nnnnaaahahahahahahahaahaa!! Stahahahahahaahaaaaa!!" you squeal with wild giggles and fluttering laughs.

It's certainly nothing truly unbearable, but all three at once definitely has you twisting and writhing in a ticklish laughing fit.

It's embarrassing, being so vulnerable in your bound position, having your ticklish weaknesses played with as such.

But the embarrassment is just part of the rush, part of the appeal, part of the experience that you had wanted to have happen by coming back.

After letting the kids indulge themselves for several long minutes, the parents step in to reel them back.

"Okay, okay, let's take a short break," Mr. Peterson.

“Awww,” the three voice their disappointment.

The kids reluctantly pull back, sitting back on their knees watching you.

The parents continued to stand around, having been enjoying the display themselves.

You struggle to catch your breath.

Your face has pinkened, your body warmed.

You've started sweating just a little.

You're still smiling as you breathe heavily, your body lying weak against the couch still bound along the length of it.

Mrs. Peterson brushes your hair.

“You doing okay, sweetie?” she asks.

You nod.

“Y-yeah… mmm y-yes ma’am,” you say, breathing heavily.

Mr. Peterson walks out and comes back shortly after with a glass of water and a damp rag.

Mrs. Peterson helps you drink the water, cool and refreshing against your lips, while Mr. Peterson wipes the sweat from your forehead with a caring touch.

“But I wanna tickle more,” the middle daughter whines.

“Don’t worry, you will,” said Mr. Peterson. “We’re just taking a short break.”

You’re grateful for it.

How it’s been hasn’t been too rough on you, but your breath had faded a little through the constant stream of giggles.

You drink as much as you’d like and Mr. Peterson finishes cooling your face with the cloth.

You don’t know how long they are prepared to let you have the break, but as the parents smirk down at you, you can’t imagine it’ll last much longer.

“Alright, kids, you know how you all played last time?” Mr. Peterson asks.

The three start to giggle mischievously.

“Yeah!” says the oldest with an eager grin.

Your eyes widen.

Your heart, having slowed with the brief relief, starts up quicker again.

You swallow nervously.

“Well, I think it’s time you all play like that again,” says Mrs. Peterson.

The three gasp and leap up.

“Heehee yay!” the middle daughter says.

You watch as all three rush to the other end of the couch.

You see them eying your feet, the focus of their ticklish antics from last time.

They seem eager to return to the spot and appear to remember just how ticklish you are there.

You remember as well, all too clearly, and don’t imagine that you had gotten any less sensitive from last time.

“Uh… um… uhhh…” you stutter and even chuckle nervously.

You feel their eyes on your socked feet, tied up and bound against the other armrest.

You want to tell them to be easy, to play up the part of the ticklish victim like last time.

You try to play along for everyone’s amusement.

“Uhh… please… um… not there… not my feet…” you play beg.

You’re in the position you wanted to be again and didn’t not want them to tickle your feet.

You remember how much fun you had, despite the intensity coming as a surprise to you.

You had hoped that they would return to your most ticklish spot eventually.

But playing up the theatrics of the situation is just part of the experience.

You blush and laugh nervously, speaking up.

“Please… not my feet… anywhere but my feet…” you beg insincerely.

The kids and the parents seem to respond well to it.

“Oh, sweetie, you didn’t think we’d have you all tied up for tickles and miss out on those sensitive tootsies, did you?” Mrs. Peterson teases.

You look down to see the kids eagerly snickering and smiling.

It doesn’t take long before you feel the first set of scribbling fingers against your sole.

You pull at your ropes, letting out a little squeal of ticklish laughter.

“Eeeeekkkheheheehehahahahahaahaahaa!! Nnnahahahahahaaa!!” you laugh, your face contorting back into a forced smile.

You hear the teasing giggles of the kids, so happy at your sudden reaction.

More of their fingers quickly join in, brushing and scribbling against your soles.

Even through your socks, their small tickling fingers manage to leave you twisting and laughing into a ticklish, giggling mess.

“Heehee tickle tickle tickle…” the little boy teases, his fingers digging into the dips beneath your toes.

“Such ticklish feet,” the middle daughter comments, her focus switching between your arches and toes.

“We’re going to keep you right here and tickle you all night long,” says the oldest, her nails gliding between your arches and heels.

With all thirty fingers on your feet at once, it takes almost no time at all for you to reach the level of hysteria that you had just been in.

“NAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! OKAAHAHAYYY STAAAHHAHAHAPP!!!” you shout.

The parents eye one another and smirk.

“Oh, you’re fine,” Mr. Peterson says.

Mrs. Peterson gives your head a little pat before she walks out of the room.

Your feet wiggle and flop and try to protect one another, but the kids stay locked onto your soles and toes no matter how you move them.

Their childish laughter resembles kids at play, as if you are their toy or game.

It communicates well just how much fun they’re having and subsequently how reluctant they would be to stop.

They keep teasing you with phrases and giggles, the oldest more fond of the former and the younger two the latter.

Before long, the inevitable next phase happens in a feeling of dreadful excitement.

“Let’s take these socks off,” the oldest suggests.

The other two cheer and laugh, quickly pulling at your ankle socks until your incredibly ticklish soles lay bare before your devious ticklers.

You try to catch your breath in the brief break you had been given, but the kids have no intention of keeping their fingers off of your bare soles.

Thirty eager fingers start scribbling all at once, covering your soles and toes.

“NOOOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAA!!! NAHAHAHAHAT MY FEEHEHEHEHEHET!!! PLEEHEHEHEAASSEE!!” you scream much louder than before.

The tickles that pour through you are all extremely reminiscent of that night.

You’re reminded just how unbearable ticklish your feet actually are.

You twist against the couch, squealing and shrinking with wild laughter.

Your back arches.

Your face darkens with blush.

You shake your head back and forth as tears start to form in the corners of your eyes.

All the while, the kids giggle and tease, loving your display of paramount sensitivity.

“Awww, is our babysitter just a big ticklish baby?” the eldest asks in a patronizing, baby voice.

The other two, along with the father, give a laugh.

“Get the toes!” the middle daughter shouts.

You feel most of their thin, impish fingers aim for your toes, scribbling against the pads and spaces underneath.

You shout with laughter, enduring a whole new level of ticklishness.

“NAHAHAHAHAHAT MY TOOOOEEHEHESSS!! PLEEHEHEASEE!! NAHAHAHAT MY TOEEEESSS!!!” you manage to get out through your uncontrollable laughter.

You don’t fully know which one is tickling where, all you feel are thirty fingers ravishing your hyper ticklish bare feet at once.

You get out short begs and pleads through your laughter, but it all just encourages them to keep going.

The father stands back, a smile on his face, as he witnesses the show.

“We’re having so much fun now, aren’t we?”

The kids cheer and shout their ‘yeahs!’.

You shake your head despite the fact that, deep down, though you may not want to admit it, you’re still having fun.

Mr. Peterson walks up to the end of the couch hoisting your feet for the children’s tickling amusement.

“They sure are wiggly, huh?” he asks.

Before waiting for a response, you feel his strong hands wrap around the sides of your feet, holding them steady.

“There, now tickle,” he says.

The tickling never stopped, but with the help of Mr. Peterson, no longer can you wiggle your feet, wave them away, or hide one behind the other.

He keeps a firm grip on you to keep both of your ticklish soles perfectly framed and still for his devilish children to tickle.

“NOOOOHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!” you beg and manage to laugh harder even still.

The children delight in your reactions and continue to scrap and wiggle and spider their fingers all over your soft, delicate soles and toes.

“Heehee thank you, daddy,” the middle daughter says.

With your feet further immobilized, you can only lay there and take the flurry of tickles waged against them.

You buck and squirm and arch against the couch, but nothing you do helps shield out the tickles that course through you.

“Heehee yay! This is so much fun!” the youngest exclaims.

Shallow nails rake down your arches.

Small, spidery fingers tease your sensitive heels.

An assault of scribbles manages to exploit your highly ticklish toes, underneath, in between, and outside against the bubbly pink pads.

Their father laughs along with them, encouraging their efforts.

“Keep it up,” he says, as if cheering them on.

The three giggle childishly, dancing their tickling fingers up and down your complete immobile and extremely ticklish feet.

After a while, Mrs. Peterson enters back into the room.

She carries in a small box, watching the display.

“My, my, you’re all having a good time,” she says. “I could hear you all the way down the hall.”

She laughs and Mr. Peterson pulls back, letting go of your feet.

“Yep, we’re having a grand ol’ time,” he says.

He turns to the kids, all looking excitedly at the box.

“Alright, I think it’s time for another break,” Mr. Peterson says.

The kids pull back from your bound, blushing soles.

You’re left panting against the couch, sweat glossing your burning cheeks as you fight to catch your breath.

Mrs. Peterson puts down the box and returns to the kitchen for another glass of water and damp cloth.

The kids rush to the box and start looking through its contents.

Mr. Peterson turns to you with a smile.

“Still doing good?” he asks.

You look at the kids, clearly having a wonderful time.

You had wanted to relive some of your ticklish experience from last time, but in the moment you doubt how much more you could, or would like to, take.

Still struggling for air, you manage to speak.

“Y-yeah… s-sir…” you say.

He smiles and nods.

“Good,” he says. “Just making sure.”

Sweat trickles down the side of your face.

Mrs. Peterson comes back into the room, dabbing your face with the cloth.

“Hope they’re not giving you too much trouble,” she says.

She helps you drink more before taking both away again.

“N-no, th-they’re… great… ma’am,” you say with a small chuckle.

The parents smile down at you.

“Good,” she says. “Because the night’s not over.”

You overhear the children rummaging through the box, pulling it over closer to the end of the couch where your feet lay waiting for more ticklish treatment.

Mr. and Mrs. Peterson pull back to stand and watch.

Your heart continues to race as you look down to see what all the kids have pulled out of the box.

The youngest waves a fluffy white feather up for you to see.

The middle daughter holds up a small, purple hairbrush with hearts on the back.

The oldest bites her lip and shoots you a grin, turning on an electric toothbrush.

The dread creeps back in.

You’re still catching your breath when you see them moving closer.

“Remember to play nice now,” Mr. Peterson says.

“We will, daddy,” replies the oldest, inching closer with the toothbrush.

Your eyes widen, your breath goes still.

“Please… please… not that…” you say with legitimate concern in your voice.

The kids snicker excitedly before your tied, ticklish feet.

You shake your head, but before long, you let out another giggling squeal, falling back against the couch.

You feel a rush of tickles burst from your sole as the feather starts brushing up and down.

The boy gleefully fluffs the plume against your foot.

Each of many fibers stroke up from your arch to your toes and back again as if he were painting your foot with tickles.

A flurry of giggles pours from your mouth, your sole and toes far too ticklish for the soft strokes of the feather.

Up and down and side to side, the feather brushes against your incredibly sensitive sole, going from foot to foot to keep you guessing.

“AAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAA!!! PLEEEeeeehehehehehahahahaaaa!!" you laugh, succumbing to the fluffy light tickles.

The boy giggles gleefully at your expressive laughs, only encouraging him to fluff the feather longer and faster.

Soon, the feather seems to only focus on one foot, dusting wildly up and down.

The plume leaves you giggling and twisting, but a much louder shriek surges from you when you feel the hairbrush scrubbing against your other sole.

The middle daughter teases and taunts with her own persistent giggles as she brushes many stiff plastic bristles all across your arch.

You explode with a burst of wild laughter.

You scream out loud, your extremely ticklish foot unable to handle such vicious scrubbing.

“AAAAAHHHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAA!!!! STAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!! PPLLLEEEHEHEHEHEAAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!” your laughter rings out, filling the entire house.

It seems the louder you laugh and more explosively you react, the more encouraged the children become to tickle you more.

All three laugh out loud at your ticklish hysteria.

They continue to tease and taunt, no matter how much it seems you’re enduring.

“Heehee tickle tickle tickle!” the middle daughter exclaims as she scrubs your sole up and down the arch.

“Coochie coochie coo!” adds the son, gleefully brushing the feather against the ball of your other foot.

No matter how you move your feet, you can’t shake or escape the tickles the tools send gushing through you.

You shake your head, tears starting to fall down the sides of your burning face.

Your chest heaves.

Your arms tire from pulling at the rope above your head.

Your back arches and bucks all through the ticklish torment.

Your screaming laughter fills the house.

The parents still only stand back and watch, keeping a close eye on your expressions.

They make remarks to one another about how much the kids are enjoying themselves and how much they would love to keep you around for more.

As the two younger kids continue to use their tools against your soles, the oldest climbs up onto the couch.

She straddles your ankles, her back turned to you keeping you from being able to see they’re all doing to your feet.

She holds up the electric toothbrush, waving it in the air for you.

“You’re gonna really love this,” she says.

With the brush still whirring, she lowers the instrument down toward your feet.

You can’t see around her, but a new surging intensity of tickles overcomes you as the spinning bristles touch down against your toes.

A new, louder, breaking scream escapes your mouth, followed by wave after wave of unrestrained laughter.

“AAAAAHHHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAAHAAHAAAHAAA!!! NNNAAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! I CAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHNT!!!” you shriek.

The girl presses the bristles against the pads of your toes, one at a time, just letting the rapid spinning do all of the work.

One by one, she tortures your toes with the brush for the amusement of them all while holding your foot steady with her other hand.

“Heehee, this little piggy went to market,” she sings deviously as the bristles explore the delicate, bubbly pads of your toes. “This little piggy stayed home…”

While you continue to endure the tickles still being ravished against your feet by the hairbrush and the feather, the small, spinning brush against your toes raises the intensity exponentially.

You feel not a single inch of your feet free from a maddening onslaught of tickles.

“Got to clean these little piggies,” the oldest teases.

When she finishes with the pad of your pinky toe, she allows the head of the brush to explore the spaces underneath, the particularly delicate stems of your toes.

She goes from one to the next, brushing underneath and in between each toe, leaving no spot without tickles.

“PLLLEEEAAAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHASSSEEE!!! STAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAA!!!” you scream.

For a while, the existence of the security word escapes your mind.

The trial at hand is to simply endure the unbearable tickles against your feet, pushing your own limits beyond comprehension.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle little feet,” the middle daughter sings while they all laugh and giggle.

When the oldest has run the toothbrush head all over the toes on one foot, she quickly goes to the other, keeping you in a constant state of ticklish turmoil.

She repeats the entire process.

First letting the brush taste the delicate pads.

Then cleaning underneath and getting the feverishly ticklish spaces in between.

Slowly and thoroughly.

All while the feather and hairbrush never seem to break their eager rhythms against your soles.

The parents let her finish cleaning your toes before pulling them back again.

”Okay, okay, break it up,” Mr. Peterson says.

The kids are quick to stop, leaving your bare feet blushing brightly and tingling all on their own.

You gasp for air.

The oldest climbs down and looks back at you.

Your eyes are closed from the exhaustion, the sweat now having beaded quite efficiently against your forehead.

You breathe heavily, your chest rising and falling rapidly, then deeply.

Mrs. Peterson comes to you with another wipe from the cool, damp cloth.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she says lovingly. “Just breathe. Breathe in. And out.”

You slowly and steadily catch your breath.

“You still okay?” Mr. Peterson asks.

You don’t know how to answer.

Nor can you with Mrs. Peterson helping you drink more water.

“Such a trooper,” Mrs. Peterson says. “Thanks again for doing this.”

Mr. Peterson turns to his children.

“Kids, what do you say?” he asks.

“Thank you!” they all say at once, their voices far more innocent than the ticklish torture they had just put you through.

You manage a smile, a tired grin.

“It’s… it’s… n-no pro-blem…'' you say, even chuckling a little.

Mrs. Peterson stands.

“Think we should call it a night?” she asks.

“I think so,” Mr. Peterson says.

“But mommy and daddy didn’t get a turn,” says the oldest daughter.

The pair look at each other and laugh.

“I don’t think anyone has the energy for that tonight,” Mrs. Peterson says.

“Aww, please, mommy!” the son says. “You’re so good! It would be so funny!”

The parents pause before turning to you.

“That… that would be up to you,” Mr. Peterson says. “Do you want to end this here… or…?”

You look back and forth between the parents and the pleading expressions on the kids.

Despite all that they had been putting you through, they did look like they were having fun.

And as you steady your breaths and your heart keeps racing, a new energy leaves you believing that you could still take more.

You grin, your face still bright red and burning.

“I…. uh… I could… keep going,” you say softly.

The kids all cheer.

“Yay!” they say all at once.

The parents chuckle.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Peterson asks.

You think for a moment and nod.

“Y-yes… sir,” you say. “I… don’t mind…”

Both of the parents grin at each other, then at you.

“Well, that is very generous of you,” Mrs. Peterson says.

“Mommy and daddy are so good at tickling!” the middle daughter says.

You stare wide-eyed up at the parents coming closer to you.

“You know, a thought just occurred to me,” Mrs. Peterson says. “It’s possible that our plans this evening have been extended and we may be ‘out’ all night… in which case we would need someone to stay the night to babysit, which of course we would pay them for.”

Mr. Peterson chuckles at Mrs. Peterson’s cheeky idea.

“But only if you’d be okay with that,” she continues. “You are having fun, right?”

You swallow at the idea of being there for much longer than you expected, but the rushing of your heart leaves you almost thrilled.

A smile comes to your face.

“Yes ma’am,” you say.

“Goodie,” she says. “So, should I call your house and inform your parents that we’ll need you to stay through the night?”

You start to breathe heavier.

She smiles warmly, yet almost devilishly down at you as she reaches down to stroke your hair.

You give it a brief thought, but the answer is right on the tip of your lips.

“Um.. uh… y-es please… ma’am,” you say, still battling your own shyness.

She smiles wider down at you, a pretty grin for a pretty face.

“Okay then, be right back,” she says.

Mrs. Peterson stands and walks out of the room.

Mr. Peterson walks up to check on you.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

You nod.

“It… it’s fun,” you say.

The kids cheer and chatter excitedly while the father nods.

“Glad you think so,” he says. “Don’t worry, I won’t be too mean. Can’t say the same for her though.”

Mrs. Peterson walks back in the room, already on her phone.

“Hi, yes, I’m so sorry to do this, but we’re going to be stuck out for a few hours, maybe even the whole night, we don’t know,” she says to who you assume is one of your parents. “Oh yes, yes, we’re fine. But we’re going to need the kids to be looked after for the night, most likely…. I’ve already called and they said it’s okay, I just wanted to let you know so you don’t worry…. Okay, thank you, this helps us out so much. We’ll stay in touch. Okay, bye.”

Mrs. Peterson hangs up the call with a smirk.

“Now then,” she says. “I believe it was mommy and daddy’s turn.”

The kids all laugh and stand by excitedly.

You shudder a little, your body still tingling with tickles.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Peterson walk down to the far end of the couch.

The kids giggle and watch, urging them on and teasing your disposition.

“Oh, it’s gonna tickle so much!” the boy says.

“Mommy and daddy are so good,” the middle daughter adds.

“They had me screaming pretty much all through the other night,” the oldest adds with a blushing chuckle.

You gulp and watch them approach your feet with a warm interest.

“Now, now, we won’t be too mean,” Mr. Peterson reassures.

He grabs your feet from behind them, holding them steady and still like he had for the kids.

Mrs. Peterson kneels down at the end of the couch where the kids had been, facing your blushing soles.

“Of course not,” she says, her tone light and playful. “We’re just going to have our own good time.”

“You all did make it look like a lot of fun,” Mr. Peterson says.

You feel the hollow in your stomach sinking.

Your hands tremble and shake.

Behind Mr. Peterson’s body, his hands holding your feet exposed for his wife’s intentions, you can’t see how or when she would start.

But you can feel the weight of her eyes staring at them like treasures.

The kids rush to stand behind their mother to watch.

You have no idea how long a full night with the Petersons would actually be.

Could they actually spend a whole night’s worth of time tickling you up to the edge of your limits?

Could you endure literal hours being taken back and forth in ticklish hysteria?

You have little time to think uninterrupted before the tickles start up again.

You let out another sharp squeal when you feel several long nails start poking and gliding against your soles.

You pull at the rope above your head, then at the ropes below, but your feet barely budge within Mr. Peterson’s strong grip.

“EEEEKKKKheeheeehahahahaaahaaaha!!! Gahahahahahahahhhahaahhh!!!” you start seeping into a fit of giggles.

Mrs. Peterson merely tests the waters by teasing her nails up and down your arches, made still and exposed by Mr. Peterson’s tight hold.

“My, my, I’m barely touching you,” Mrs. Peterson says, laughter and joy in her voice.

You can feel that she’s just teasing, that what she can do is being well restrained in the moment.

Mrs. Peterson takes her time exploring your soft, ticklish soles with her nails.

You struggle against the couch, wiggling and giggling wildly.

The kids, still amused by what they had already seen, continue to laugh at your predicament.

Mr. Peterson holds your feet steady for his wife.

He keeps your toes from curling too much to provide her full exposure.

Soon after, Mrs. Peterson can no longer fully contain herself.

Her nails start skittering quicker against your feet.

All ten dance and scribble around the base of your toes, slowly working down to your heels, and back up again over and over.

Your laughter picks up as your body starts surging with more intense tickles shooting up from your feet.

“AAHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAAHAHAA!!! OHHH GAAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAAHAA!!! STAHAHAHAHA!!!” you shout, bellowing with squealing laughter.

She laughs softly in response.

“Awww, such ticklish little feet,” she teases.

Her nails glide effortlessly over the soft, pink areas of your soles, riddling your senses and nerves with a storm of tickles.

“Hehe, so cute,” Mr. Peterson comments.

Faster and faster she picks up her pace.

The children laugh and tease and urge her on.

“Go mommy!” the youngest says.

Mrs. Peterson laughs.

“You want it to really tickle?” she asks.

You shake your head and try to plead through your laughter, but your words are easily drowned out.

“Yeah!” the children all shout at once.

Mrs. Peterson snickers.

“Okay then,” she says.

Her nails skitter up to the base of your toes.

Mr. Peterson holds your feet and toes still, keeping you from curling them for protection.

As her spidering fingers start playing with your toes, a new burst of laughter rings from your mouth.

Your body clenches again in response, a new violent surge in immediate reaction.

"NAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAT THE TOESSSHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!! GHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEEHEHEHAAASSSEE!!!" your voice chimes out, flooding the room.

Mrs. Peterson responds to your cries of laughter with more tickles and teasing phrases.

"Such adorable toes deserve to be tickled constantly," she says, her nails skittering quickly, and with experienced efficiency, against the pads of your toes. "Coochie coochie coo!"

The children keep laughing and cheering their mother on.

Mr. Peterson keeps a tight hold on your feet, making sure to pull them back to keep your soles and toes perfectly available for tickles.

Your small, bubbly toes fall completely at the mercy of her scribbling nails, their overwhelming sensitivity leaving you begging through your laughter.

She skitters her nails all over them, making sure to dip between each and underneath.

Expertly, Mrs. Peterson explores every insanely ticklish spot several times over to her obvious delight.

"Don't wait for me, dear," Mrs. Peterson says. "I'm gonna be here a while."

"I'm sure you will be," Mr. Peterson says.

Holding your feet taut and firm with one hand, Mr. Peterson lets go with the other to grab the hairbrush lying on the floor next to his wife.

He chuckles a little, managing to still keep a grip on your feet, keeping them still relatively still for the tickling.

He holds the brush firmly and starts scrubbing up and down one sole.

"STAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAASAPPPP!!! SHAHAHAHHAAAAAHAHAAA!!!" you scream out loud.

The hard, plastic bristles ravish your blushing pink sole.

They glide effortlessly from the slickness of the sweat and warmth that the evening had left over it.

Your new volume rings out, yet you can still hear the taunting laughter of the parents and children.

"Oh wow, that's torture!" the eldest daughter says with giggling glee.

"I could never stand that!" the middle daughter adds.

They all watch their parents scorn your feet with a barrage of relentless tickles.

Mr. Peterson scrubs the brush up and down the entire length of one sole, leaving it blushing a deeper pink and growing in sensitivity.

Mrs. Peterson takes the other, five nails focused on skittering across your arch while the other five dance and scrape against your delicate little toes.

They laugh at your explosive reactions.

Your shrieking laughter quickly becomes tired and softer from pure exhaustion.

Sweat trickles down your cheeks.

Your chest heaves and belly aches from the ceaseless laughter.

Your arms tire of jerking against their rope.

Your body, despite the completely devastating sensory tempest that courses through it, begins to reserve the twisting efforts.

Your mind almost relinquishes to the onslaught of tickles.

And all waged against your incredibly ticklish feet.

When you think it may soon be over, you hear Mrs. Peterson’s voice over your own gasping laughter.

"You don't have to just stand there," she says to her kids. "Play up by their pits and belly again."

The kids gasp and giggle, rushing back up to your upper body.

Your mind barely has time to react to the implications before an even more intense explosion of tickles overcomes you.

Their son and middle daughter rush back to your belly and sides, their small fingers kneading and poking against the sensitive and vulnerable area.

The oldest comes back up to your head, diving her own scribbling fingers into your pits.

All three laugh at your obvious torture.

The parents keep up their play against your feet, each having switched positions.

Mr. Peterson viciously scrubs the other sole with the brush while Mrs. Peterson enjoys teasing your other set of wiggling toes with her nails.

Your body seems to shatter with the tickles from both ends at once, a new wave of laughter erupting from your lips.

Tears pour down your face.

Your hands clench at nothing to save you.

Your body bucks and twists in a new, fleeting phantom of energy.

You can't hold it back anymore.

Your mind breaks.

Your heart pounds.

Through your screaming laughter, you finally give in.

"AAAAHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAAAA!!! BAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHANNY!!! BUNNNHEEHEEHEEYYYY!!!" you shriek.

Mr. Peterson immediately lets go of your feet.

Mrs. Peterson pulls back as well.

“Okay, kids, that’s enough,” Mrs. Peterson says.

“Awwww,” the kids say in slight disappointment, but each follows the implied order to back off.

You suck in groaning, gasping breaths, your face glistening and burning red.

For the moment, you can only lay back and breathe.

Your chest rises and falls, steadily slowing back down to its normal rate.

The parents and kids all stand back and watch you.

Mrs. Peterson goes back to the kitchen and returns with another damp rag, a glass of ice water, and something else just out of your vision.

She wipes your forehead and consoles you sweetly.

“There, there, you’re okay,” she says, dapping your cheeks. “We’re done now. Just breathe.”

Mr. Peterson also comes up to your head and unties your wrists.

You pull your arms down weakly, rubbing the spots where the rope had left marks against your skin.

Mrs. Peterson helps you sit up and drink.

You do so, barely regaining full motor control from your gnawing exhaustion.

After a while, Mrs. Peterson pulls back.

You’ve recovered.

You can still feel the ticklish tingles across your body, especially against your feet.

You can’t help but smile sleepily.

“There,” Mrs. Peterson says. “Did you have fun?”

You think for a moment.

Your heart rate slows back to normal.

Your breathing has steadied.

Your body heat slowly falls.

You look shyly back up to all of them, swallowing nervously.

“Y…yes… ma’am,” you admit.

This makes them happy.

“That’s so good,” Mr. Peterson says. “We’d love to have you around more for playtime, wouldn’t we, kids?”

The kids all cheer.

“Yeah!” the youngest exclaims.

“You’re so much fun!” says the middle.

“Please come around anytime,” says the eldest daughter excitedly.

The voice of reason in your head says that the situation is odd and uncomfortable.

But the Petersons had always been so nice.

So caring.

And so, so much fun.

You sit up and nod.

I think… I could do that,” you say. “I wouldn’t mind that…”

The kids smile wide at this.

Mrs. Peterson strokes your hair.

“We’d love to have you here anytime,” she says.

You feel the warmth of her touch and the motherly care in her voice.

It comforts you.

You smile and yawn a little.

The kids do the same.

“Alright, kids, I think it’s time for bed,” Mr. Peterson says.

The kids groan.

“Do we have to?” the middle daughter whines.

“Yes, it’s really late,” says Mr. Peterson.

She looks back at you and grins.

“But first,” she adds.

She walks down to your feet that they had all left still tied up, despite freeing your arms.

She holds up what else she brought from the kitchen, a small jar of something clear and yellow.

“We might be done and heading for bed,” Mrs. Peterson says.

She kneels down by your feet again.

The kids snicker as they watch her.

You keep a close eye on the woman as she opens the jar and scoops out some of its contents with her finger.

“But I think the rest of the family deserves a turn too,” she says with a smirk.

She smears the cool, sticky substance across your sole, leaving large gobs of it covering your foot.

She works it up your arch to your toes, where it gathers underneath and in between each until the entire surface area of your foot is covered.

Your heart starts to race again, your mind swimming.

You shake your head.

Your face starts to burn again.

You remember well.

“Please…” you start to beg. “Not that… please, I can’t take it…”

The fear in your voice is betrayed by a slight hint of excitement, conveyed clearly by the wideness of your eyes.

Mrs. Peterson snickers and starts working on the other foot.

“Sure you can,” she says.

Mrs. Peterson finishes and stands.

Your soles are glossy with the stuff.

You feel it squishing between your toes.

The eldest daughter pulls an end table over by the edge of the couch where your feet face.

Mrs. Peterson rings a small bell.

“Dinah! Lucky!” she calls out.

You hear the quick patter of the Peterson’s cats rush into the room.

They come up to Mrs. Peterson ringing the bell and hop up onto the table.

You see them eyeing and sniffing around your bound feet, coated with the sticky substance.

"They love this little treat," Mrs. Peterson says. "Won't stop until it's all off."

"Mommy, daddy, can we watch?" the son asks.

Mr. Peterson shakes his head.

"No, no, it's time for bed," he says.

Mr. Peterson pats for his kids to rush off to bed.

"Goodnight!" the middle daughter calls out to you.

"Thanks for coming back," says the preteen.

The kids, still full of energy and glee, scurry back off to their rooms.

Mr. Peterson turns back toward you, witnessing your expression of dread and thrill.

"If they give you too much trouble, just shoo them away," he says. "But they're going to be pretty persistent for about an hour or so."

Mrs. Peterson smiles at you.

"Thanks for watching the kids tonight," she says with a wink.

You shudder.

They leave a small light on for you before turning off the others, leaving you all alone with the cats.

Before they're even out of your sight, you feel the noses of the cats already brushing against your soles.

You sit yourself up and clench with a sudden squeak.

"N-nice kitties…" you say through a soft, shivery voice.

It's then that you feel the first strokes of their raspy tongues lapping at the treat left for them against your soles.

You clench more and squeal louder, clamping a hand over your mouth to keep from being too loud.

But it doesn't take long for you to lose even that amount of control.

Both of the tongues start quickly licking and darting against your burning, hypersensitive feet.

You fall back against the couch and into a new wave of fluttering giggles.

"Nnnneeeehhehehahahahahaaaa!!! Nnnahahahahaha!! Pleheheheheeeaassseee!! Stahahahahahahapp!!!" you squeak through your laughter.

You beg the cats to stop, even if only for jest.

But you know you can't reason with them.

You know they'll only keep slurping until all of their treat has been licked clean.

It's just you and them, your feet tied and positioned perfectly for their insatiable delight.

The lights to the bedrooms go out one at a time.

No one else is around to save you from them.

They'll be licking at your feet for however long they like.

Leaving you twisting and squirming and shrieking in ticklish hysteria the entire time.

Unable to really stop them, no matter how much you beg and try to push them away.

And as much as it tickles, none of it matches when their quick, rough tongues start exploring the incredibly delicate crevasses of your toes.

"NNNAAAAAHHHHAAHAHAHAHAHA!!! NAHAHAHAHT THE TOESSSS!! PLEHEHEHAASSEES!! MAAHAHAHAKE THEM STAHAHAHAAAP!!" you cry out.

But no one comes.

Maybe they're all asleep.

Maybe they're not and just enjoying listening to you fill their house with mad, amusing laughter.

Either way, the seconds tick away.

The minutes of constant tickling add up.

And the hours through the night seem to last forever.

.

.

.

.

.

But you came back willingly.

And you still would again.

~~~

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