The Terrible Tied Tickling Torment

The Terrible Tied Tickling Torment

“No! Stop! Please… argh!”

Natasha convulsed helplessly, grasping for his wrists, wriggling to avoid his probing fingers. It didn’t help her, his greater strength pinning her down and he remorselessly tickled her just above her hips. Flailing uncontrollably Natasha felt pain as her forearm made contact, realised she’d caught him, heard a horrible wet grinding sound.

He screamed, a terrible sound, and fell back, freeing her. His hands went to his face, and already she could see blood passing through his fingers.

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”

Ice and cloths to mop up the blood brought his bleeding under control. He looked at her, obviously in pain, his proud nose now pointing sideways, and Natasha’s heart sank.

“Come on,” she said, “Lets get you to the hospital.”

The triage nurse rapidly assessed him. “We’ll be with you soon,” she assured, “please wait here.”

Natasha went to find them both drinks, brought back coffee, found him sat there wincing, blinking up at her and shaking his head as she arrived. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, “but you’ll be ok.”

“You’re sorry?” asked a voice, “You didn’t…?”

Natasha turned, found a smartly dressed woman stood there, a name tag identifying her as a doctor. “I didn’t mean to,” explained Natasha, “He was tickling me and…”

“Well, lets get him sorted,” said the doctor. “Could you wait here and we’ll be back soon.”

That was the last Natasha saw of him until the trial.

“He was just tickling you?” asked the prosecutor.

“Yes,” replied Natasha, not offering further detail.

“And you’ve been together how long?”

“A few months.” Natasha knew it was five months, two weeks and three days but her legal defence team had told her to provide only short terse answers.

The prosecutor seemed satisfied anyway, but continued with his questioning “Are intimacy and displays of affection part of your relationship?”

“Oh, yes,” said Natasha in surprise, “he’s really very sweet.”

“So why,” demanded the prosecutor, “did you assault him?”

The judge hadn’t been sympathetic. “Domestic violence has no excuses,” he stated, “and so I have choice but to impose a custodial sentence.”

The judicial system demanded punishments appropriate to the crime. Natasha pleaded with the judge, “Please, don’t break my nose. I’ll behave, agree to your sentence, but please, show mercy.”

The judge knew she would make this plea; he’d discussed it with the prosecutor and her defence team. The prosecutor had suggested an alternative but still suitable option.

“For the next four weeks,” he told her, “You will be taken from your cell twice a day and subjected to half an hour of tickling.”

Natasha gasped, but said nothing. Better than a broken nose, awful but tolerable. Just four weeks and she’d be free again, able to resume her life. At least she’d get respite on Sundays.

“She what?” asked the Governor in astonishment, “She actually struck you?”

“Yes,” replied the guard, “It was her first tickling session. We followed standard procedure, let her lie on the padded workbench, and then I went to work.”

“So Natasha,” asked the Governor directly looking at her, “Why did you assault my member of staff?”

“I didn’t mean to,” sniffled Natasha, sank low in her seat, a submissive posture even without the shackles restricting her movement. “It’s… when I’m tickled… I can’t help it.”

“You’re saying that you have no control?” asked the Governor, “That does not excuse assault, and you should have asked us for help with this.”

His verdict made Natasha’s heart sink. Another four weeks, and he assured her that the punishment regime would be continued. But that wasn’t the worse part.

“You must promise not to attack my staff,” he demanded.

“I promise. Oh, I don’t want this to continue,” sobbed Natasha, “But… when I’m tickled. I can’t help it.”

“Are you saying you can’t control yourself?” asked the Governor.

“Umm. Yes. Help?” begged Natasha.

“We can’t forego the tickling,” said the Governor. “We can however restrain you for your own protection, if that’s what you want?”

Natasha blushed as she realised the Governor expected her to ask to be restrained. “I, erm. Oh.” She paused, looked around the room, desperate to escape the situation.

The Governor waited patiently, impassive. He knew he couldn’t force her into restraints, his options limited to punishment should she further misbehave.

Natasha knew she would have to do it. “Umm. Can you please restrain me when I’m tickled?” she asked, and immediately burst into tears.

The cuffs were strangely comfortable. The ones around Natasha’s ankles were tethered to the bench with long ropes, allowing her to wriggle and move her legs; just not kick out at someone stood by her waist. Her wrists were fastened above her head, again on tethers that let her bring her hands to her own face, rub away the tears that had formed as they fastened her down.

The cuffs and tethers were strong too. She tested them fully when the tickling started, her fight or flight instincts demanding action, refusing to let her just lie there, accept the torment.

Her struggles were futile. The tickling continued, gentle but relentless, the guard trying to avoid hurting her but make her laugh. The laughing hurt.

Halfway through the session the guard jumped back. “Oh, you dirty,” she shouted, before regaining control and stopping. She glared at Natasha and gestured to a damp patch on her uniform. “You pissed on me! Oh, that’s not good.”

The Governor agreed. “You promised not to assault my staff,” he said, “and attacking them with urine is a revolting assault.”

“I didn’t meant to! I couldn’t help it! I must have lost control.” Natasha wept as she admitted wetting herself, horrified as much by that as the inevitable consequences it had for her.

“I’ve heard this before,” observed the Governor, “and you know the response.”

Another four weeks. She’d been there less than a day and already Natasha had managed to triple her term.

“But I can’t help it,” she whined, “you have to understand.”

“Oh, I understand,” said the Governor, “But fitting the punishment to the crime here would be unsanitary. I can’t ask the guards to urinate on you.”

Natasha was shocked into silence. She’d imagined more tickling, and suddenly realised she might be facing something much worse.

“I can however impose a punishment that’s suitable to the offence,” said the Governor, “You claim you can’t help wet on people? Well you can wet yourself.”

Natasha pulled futilely at her bonds. Three weeks in and she still couldn’t stand the tickling, couldn’t stop struggling, still needed those soft restraints that kept her safe, stopped her extending her sentence.

“Oh dear, did someone just wet herself?” taunted the guard, pausing the tickling to pat the padding over Natasha’s pubic mound.

Natasha moaned, realising that she’d lost control another way, again. She knew she’d have wet herself eventually, the 24 hour regime of wearing diapers excused only for bowel movements, and even those occasionally catching her unawares.

The tickling resumed and Natasha started laughing, forced to exhibit amusement at her suffering.

Even that wasn’t what concerned her. After hearing about the outcome of the first session the judge had added an additional rider to her sentence: Natasha would have to endure her final tickling with no restraints, and demonstrate that she had the control needed to be safe for release. If she failed, the sentence would be renewed.

Natasha knew she was in trouble. In nine weeks and every four weeks after that, she faced being sentenced to another four weeks of tickling, knowing she would be diapered, forced to beg for restraints to hold her in place as she was subject to the humiliation of wetting herself, again and again.

1 Like

A very nice piece of satire- I enjoyed reading it.

ETA: I read it as satire- as a “the emperor is naked” kind of thing based off of IRC conversation.