At this point in my life, I naively thought that tickling was a thing of the distant past. I was seventeen, a woman in my own right; I couldn't be tickled like an errant six year old. The thought never even crossed my mind until Karl sat down next to me, effortlessly seizing my feet in preparation for the evening's festivities.

Then my eyes bulged in sudden comprehension.

"Wh – what? No! Karl, don't!" The last word disintegrated into an hysterical giggle, a long quavering note of a hopeless laughter. I drew my legs back in rising panic, but it was already too late: the decision had been made and my destiny was sealed. As previously mentioned, Karl was a virtuoso who could play my body like a violin. Once he had me in his grasp, no amount of squirming or struggling would avert my fate.

I'm going to be tickled!

The thought raced through my head like a clarion, flashing on and off in huge neon letters while Karl made himself comfortable on the bed. He moved with an insulting lack of haste, clasping my ankles together in one hand and grazing the soles of my feet with the barest touch of his fingertips.

And then it began.

Karl's touch was light, teasing, almost non-existent, but the effect was instantaneous. A bolt of electric fire seemed to shoot through my legs and thighs and belly, galvanizing my entire nervous system. I screamed in helpless outrage, whipping my head from side to side in a frenzy. There were few things I hated more than having my feet tickled against my will; it made me feel like a small, defenseless child.

No! Karl, stop it! Don't!

I started writhing in his adamantine grip, my tangled blonde hair flailing wildly about my face. I tried curling myself into a tight, impregnable ball, dragging myself to the top of the bed, anything to avoid this forthcoming humiliation. It was all a pointless charade, Karl was light years ahead of me. He'd had years to perfect his technique and was well-acquainted with my delaying tactics.

He started out tracing tiny little circles on my stockinged insteps, prompting ripples of laughter from my tightly strung diaphragm. There was a subtle art to tickling, a set of protocols to be followed without flaw or deviation. Karl had been looking forward to this moment for months – possibly years – and nothing could be left to chance. This would be an epic for the ages, an ordeal beyond human endurance, a marathon of Olympian standards.

Karl began dialing up the tension by slow degrees, allowing his fingers to play over my curling arches like a classical soloist. He was tuning me up like a Stradivarius, straining my pitch to the breaking point. Time appeared to dilate in ways unknown to modern physics: seconds passed like minutes, minutes like hours, trickling away to the infinite as the afternoon wore on. I lay trapped on the bed while Karl ravished my unprotected soles...

and there was literally nothing I could do to stop him.

Don't! Don't! I cried, Noooooo!! My face was red with reluctant pleasure, I could barely draw a breath between each keening wail. How long had I been lying here, weaving and sobbing and pleading for mercy? It seemed like forever, though I knew we'd only just begun.

Stop it! Please Karl, I've had enough, please, no more –

"Another five minutes," Karl replied magnanimously, a feudal lord exercising his Noblesse Oblige. Holding my feet in one firm hand, he slipped his fingers down the exact center of both soles. I howled in delicious agony, knowing it was going to last far longer than five minutes. He'd never let me off so lightly in the past, and he had no reason to begin now.

The torment spiraled on through the late afternoon, minute after torturous minute, as the shadows stretched across the floorboards and the sun dipped towards the horizon. The late autumn calm was shattered by my ear-splitting yells; I could well imagine pedestrians in the street outside craning their necks towards our upstairs window.

Stop it, oh please, stop, it tickles, it tickllleeees –

My cheeks were glistening with tears. I screamed at the top of my voice, shrieking in protest at this abject degradation. Karl must have been tickling me for nearly half an hour by now, stroking my feet with the ease of long practice. I pitched and yawed in that relentless grip, giggling and pleading for mercy as the endless torment continued.

No, No, Karl, please, stop!! Don't! I can't stand it –

"Yes you can," Karl replied amiably enough, running his fingertips along my slender insteps. I kicked and bucked on the bedspread, twisting from the hips in my frenzy to escape. All to no avail; Karl was utterly intractable, as he'd proven on numerous occasions in the past. I lapsed into another spasm of hopeless laughter.

Why was he doing this? I hadn't teased him, hadn't provoked him, hadn't misbehaved in any way! I didn't deserve this! I wasn't a little girl any more, I shouldn't be treated like one. This was worse, a thousand times worse than when I'd been a child.

Yet at the same time… it was also a thousand times better.

Tickling has always been a bit of a paradox for me. There's just something about that overwhelming sense of helplessness – of vulnerability – that sets my heart racing whenever I think about it. I suspect most young women feel the same way, even tranzies like myself. I'd fight and struggle and kick with all my strength, but no matter what I did, I simply couldn't escape. And eventually I'd just surrender myself to the inevitable and let his fingers have their way with me. Because that's what I wanted all along. I loved being helpless, loved being held down and tickled into complete submission.

And most of all, I loved him.

Karl abruptly transferred his zone of interest, applying his fingers to my underarms. Gaping with shock, I squirmed and bucked from stem to stern, desperate to evade those torturing digits. Karl nodded in open satisfaction, enjoying the texture of my soft, ivory flesh. Having concluded with the entrée, it was time to move on to the plat principal. This would be the equivalent of a three course banquet in which my tender young body would be served up as the main dish.

No, please, no more Karl, it's too much –

Tacitly ignoring my pleas, Karl shifted me carefully into place, spreading me out on the bedspread with my hands by my sides. Before I realized what was happening, he had mounted my supine form like a rodeo rider, straddling my waist and pinning both my arms between his thighs. I started shrieking at the top of my lungs, knowing I was utterly helpless and that he was sure to tickle me for a good fifteen minutes at the very least.

Almost inevitably, my dress rode up over my waist, showing off a smooth expanse of sleek, white belly. Never one to miss an opportunity, Karl seized the advantage by tickling my ribs and tummy and belly-button.

Noooo!! I shrieked as those long, probing fingers slipped over my smooth, virgin flesh: Karl no don't STOP IT I don't want to be tickled! All completely futile of course; Karl had me locked down tight, his fingers were primed and my fate was sealed.

It was all so unjust! Karl was a man: a big man in his mid-twenties, tall and athletic (and drop-dead gorgeous, let's not forget that). I was barely seventeen years old, little more than a girl; slim, petite and temptingly fragile. He was so much stronger than me; he could do as he pleased with complete impunity.

An expert in his chosen field, Karl was exceptionally thorough, visiting each of my most sensitive areas over and over until I couldn't stand another second – at which point, he subjected me to another twenty minutes of ruthless, irresistible tickling.

I'll never understand how I managed to survive that treadmill of horrors!