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YPA: Your Privacy Assured
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YPA.ISO
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castle.txt
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1995-01-06
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4KB
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157 lines
My imagination's been at work again... (this should
give you an idea of the things I daydream about!). I'm on a
tour of a medieval castle. As the tour group enters the
dungeon, my eyes immediately light on the stocks. As the
tour guide is going on about the horrible tortures that used
to take place, I'm trying to imagine what it would be like
to be in the stocks. As the group files out of the room, I
linger behind, just to try them on for size...
Well, no sooner are my ankles in them then a form
moves out of the corner of the dungeon, snapping a padlock
on the stocks! I try to struggle, but I am trapped! I look
at him; he was also in the tour group. "I noticed you
staring at the stocks," he says, "and I was hoping you'd
stay behind." He begins to unlace my sneakers, and I know
what he is going to do. I start to beg him not to, but he
ignores me, just smiling. I know yelling won't do any good;
the walls are many feet of solid stone.
I'm not wearing any socks, so I'm now helpless before
him. He takes a large plume from a suit of armor and begins
to run it up and down my trapped soles without mercy! I am
laughing out of control and begging him to stop, but he goes
on. Then he starts to tickle my toes, and I go completely
wild! After a while he stops, but doesn't let me go. He just
looks over at the rack and smiles...
The man unlocks the stocks, but there is no escape for
me yet. Effortlessly, he drags me to the rack. I'm still a
little weak from the insideous foot-tickling I've just
received, so there is nothing I can do to stop him from
closing the manicles around my wrists. My ankles are locked
into the stocks at the end of the rack, my bare feet
sticking out. Now I'm even more helpless than before!
He begins to turn the wheel of the rack. Not enough to
actually hurt me; just enough to stretch me out and totally
immobilize me. "You don't know how long I've waited to get a
lovely woman like you in such a position," he says. I'm too
scared to reply. Then, he begins to unbutton my shirt,
slowly. One button at a time, as if he were savoring every
second of dreaded anticipation he was forcing me to endure.
He finally unbuttons the whole thing, exposing my breasts
and stomach to whatever he chooses to do to me. He taunts
me, saying, "You _have_ gotten yourself into a ticklish
situation, haven't you?"
"Say, `I love to be tickled' for me," he says. I
refuse, even though it is true. He repeats the command,
holding the large feather in front of my eyes as a silent
threat. Still I refuse. I don't know why. Perhaps I really
want him to tickle me. "Very well," he says, and starts to
run the plume over my sensitive abdomen.
The torture is unbearable. I can feel the feather
gliding against my tummy, ribs, and belly button, and it is
agony! "Hahahahahahaha!!!!! Please stop!" I beg, but to no
avail. He keeps on the devilish tickling, until tears are
rolling down my cheeks. "Say it," he insists, as he plays
the feather across my breasts, adding new tickling agony.
I have to relent. "I love to be tickled! I love to be
tickled!" I confess. "Now please stop! Hehehe!!!"
He finally relents, giving me time to gulp precious
air. "Excellent," he says. "Now, since you _do_ admit to
loving this, perhaps we should pay some more attention to
these lovely feet of yours..."
I can only sob in frustration, wondering when the next
tour group is due. Then I remember; ours was the last tour
of the day!
It's a night I'll never forget.