Extreme Bondage and Foot Tickling
I attended the men's TickleFest that was held in Chicago in September. Some of the most intense tickling that I experienced there was with John, who mentioned that he had a straitjacket with him. I’d never been in one of those, so I asked if I could try it. He took me to his room, got out his bondage equipment—some very handy elastic straps that were easy to slip around the mattress and tighten; D-rings were spaced conveniently across the strap.
He had me slip on the straitjacket. The jacket fastened up the back, and the sleeves, once my arms were in, crossed through a leather strap on the front and were then pulled around and fastened in the back. Once he had the crotch-straps also fastened I was secure and snug—quite comfortable and totally helpless from my waist to my neck.
Once I was lying down, I was so helpless that he had to grab my ankles and pull me into the proper position on the bed. Then he proceeded to bind my ankles. He did this with a leather device that also had adjustable straps that fit around my big toes. They held the toes together and pulled them slightly back so my soles were held in a taut position. Couldn’t move my feet at all, and with my upper body bound in the straitjacket I was totally helpless.
He pulled over a chair so he could sit and face my exposed soles. The first “tools” that he used were two small round brushes. They had many fine plastic teeth, and were intended for shampooing pets. He used one on each foot, scubbing my soles thoroughly, and soon I was hysterical. Too bad for me, the worst was yet to come! He had a pair of pipefitter’s gloves—work gloves with “bumps” on them that allowed for a sturdy grip and proved to be devastating on my feet. As John so ably demonstrated, the gloves were supple enough to allow his hands to reach any place on my feet—even between the toes—and their deadly abrasiveness could conform perfectly to my arches, balls of the feet, etc. They had me screaming and begging for him to stop.
Next I found out that John had, not one, but two of the wide “widowmaker” brushes—with the handles cut off so he could get the best grip on the head of the brush. After lotioning my soles he applied the brushes without mercy. My lungs pumped out howls and screams of laughter as if my life depended on it. That was what I had been reduced to, a helpless laughing machine totally at the mercy of my torturer. With my upper body encased in the straitjacket there was no use in struggling, and soon I had no strength to. I lay there helpless, unable to move my hands, arms or torso, unable to move my feet away from the mind-blowing sensations of those brushes.
Then he took up the pipefitter’s gloves again and started to put them on! As soon as I saw them I started whimpering, because now I knew how their abrasiveness, combined with the strength and flexibility of his fingers, could kill me. Begging him not to use them on my feet again did no good. With my soles even more sensitized now by the merciless brushing, the gloves were deadlier than before, especially when he worked them between my arches, squeezing and rubbing them a way that turned me into a solid core of screaming agony.
The session ended before I totally lost my mind, mainly because he didn’t really want to turn me into a bonafide straitjacketed lunatic! But he also didn’t want to keep me in the jacket for too long because he said it can leave a person feeling “very flushed.” He also knew that it was best to remove the jacket gradually, so that my heated body wasn’t exposed to the air all at once. It was a strenuous procedure, because I had no leverage to get myself upright; he had to manually hoist me up so he could undo the jacket.
The helplessness of being in a straitjacket was very effective. Of course it ruled out any upper body tickling, but having all of the activity focused on my thoroughly bound feet was its own kind of thrill. Now I’m hoping that I’ll see that straitjacket again some day.