I started moving my fingers in big circles overher pits and this started her laughing harder. She couldn't stop. I hadn't even touched her, yet she couldn't stop laughing. By the time I started worming in the hollows under her arms with my fingers, she was fully hysterical. No longer in control she let out a big,long scream before laughter took her over completely. A deeper, constant laughter, one quick gasp for air, then another prolonged fit of laughter. I hit a switch on the motorized tickle table which stretched her arms even more tightly over her head. The soft, white underarm flesh, freshly shaved and stretched taut as a drum became my canvas as I slowly stroked my softest, silkiest feathers up and down, again and again over her armpit flesh. I chose to use her open armpits for a long, drawn-out, merciless game of cootchy coo. With index fingers pointed and ready, a big grin on my face, I called out "Cootchy cootchy coo!!" and poked my fingers into her soft armpit flesh, wiggled three times, withdrew my fingers, shouted"Cootchy cootchy coo!" again, and bored my fingers into her pits, over and over and over, for nearly an hour. Each time I did this, she'd scream.Sometimes I'd shout cootchy coo! and lunge at her pits without actually touching her, and she'd still scream and begin laughing helplessly. To bring my game to a close I cried cootchy coo one more time, drilled my fingers into her armpits and began wiggling and wiggling them, non-stop.
"AAAAH HA HA HA HA HAAAAA ..." she screamed, her eyes squeezed shut as she realized the game had taken a horrible turn.
Up and down her armpits my poking, drilling fingers roamed. Up to just below her straining arm muscles, then wiggling on down to the smooth, tender hollow just above her ribcage, I poked and wormed, finally bringing all of my torturous fingers into play. Her laughter increased in intensity, changed it's timber from a lower, throatier sound to a high-pitched, insane shriek. I had to stop,finally, when my instruments indicated it was too dangerous to continue. She was drenched in sweat. It formed a glossy sheen on her bare skin. Little rivlets leaked from her armpits. "Enough... " She still could not catch her breath. Not surprising. An hour of non-stop hysterical screaming laughter left her blood oxygen level low and would be several minutes returning to normal. "Please... no more.Oh God, I'm BEGGING you... please..." It was barely a whisper.
"I can't stop now," I said, rolling up my shirt sleeves. "You take a few minutes to rest. Here's some water." I offered her the straw to a water bottle.
She refused. "No... let me up NOW... I'm through." Anger crept into her voice now that she had regained some strength. I sat down in my chair.
"That was only superficial stimulation. We still have to conduct tests in deep-muscle stimulation." I reached down andbegan turning a lever set into the base of the tickle-table. This caused it tobend up in the middle, the ends dropping slightly. This in turn forced Michelle's chest cavity to extend upward, causing every rib to protrude in exquisite detail. I stood up, hitched up a leg and sat on the table, straddling Michelle about her waist. I layed my hands on her hyper-extended rib cage,palms flat, fingers extended. She took short, panicky breaths and her eyes widened once again as she understood just what I meant to do to her. "Now I'm going to tickle your ribs for the rest of the session. I'm afraid I'm going to have to dig in quite a bit, it might be a bit more uncomfortable, but just hang in there. It'll all be over in another hour."
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" she screamed again and shook her head,then began laughing, shaking her head and begging me not to all at the same time. I hadn't even started.
"Cootchy cootchy coo," my smile swelled into a wicked grin as I dug into her ribs and her screaming laughter began again.
I was called onto the carpet and given the boot for that one. The poor kid had to drop out of school and was being treated for nervous exhaustion. Her stutter, which years of speech therapy had cured long before, had returned with a vengeance, making her almost unintelligible.Okay, so maybe I went a little overboard. But the experience provided me with the last data I needed to confirm my hypothesis and allowed me to get where I am today. Yes, at the Pentagon.
At this very moment, in the room next door, are twenty state of the art tickle tables, and strapped into those tables are twenty, blouseless,barefoot WACS fresh out of the corps. Tickling is the new interrogation technique of the nineties. Our country must be ready to employ it, develop it and defend against it. The group of young women next door were culled as the twenty LEAST ticklish WACS in the nation's armed forces. And this group... Ah, this group of beautiful female soldiers has been wired with my new tickle-inducer. When those fingernails begin raking across their bared soles, and fingertips begin to pinch like claws into the flesh of their tender sides they are in for a new, terrifying, horrible experience and I can't wait to see their twenty horrified, laughing young faces. Now if you will excuse me ... duty calls.