The Jogger



One thing I've never posted before are my various tricks for meeting ticklish guys. These are, unfortunately, trade secrets of mine, duly registered with the US Patent Office. But one of my more successful methods, and a true story, I am willing to share for the first time ever. It involves purchasing personal ads in the local newspapers.

Over the years I have refined this method to the point where it just about always works. I first got a private PO Box when I was a freshman in college and I still have it today. I consider it one of my most cherished possessions and the smartest investment I ever made. I started out posting tickling ads, seeking guys interested in being tickled. I changed the wording over several tries, trying to install a sense of trustworthiness, phrasing it as a challenge, or appealing to some deep curiosity never before satisfied. But I just never seemed to have any luck with this approach. However when I experimented with a generic bondage ad, nothing about tickling mentioned at all, I hit paydirt! Now the same tricks with wording I had tried earlier, trying to project a sympathetic and trustworthy personality, appeals to curiosity, all combined to reel in a bigger and bigger catch each time. I found I had still better luck when I didn't limit my ads to the local gay newspapers, but included our area's various free rags, especially those favored by the local fraternities. Adding a mention of my particular fondness for married men (yes, I'm a terrible person), yielded one of my more interesting experiences.

His name was Mark and the little note he sent me was shy and a bit hesitant. He stressed that discretion was vital and he couldn't give me his address or phone number but he too had acquired a PO Box. I sent him my box address and before long we had arranged our first chat on the telephone. He called me from his office. I could hear the distant murmur of voices in the background and when he spoke to me, it was in a low, conspiratorial tone. He assured me he had never done this sort of thing before and something about my ad intrigued him. He was willing to experiment.

I then described to him, in my low, sexy tone of voice, a fantasy someone had once described to me. I don't remember where I had heard it, but the idea wasn't mine. He had evidently never heard anything like this before and as I described it to him I could hear his breathing become deeper. I could practically hear the pounding of his heart. The fantasy went something like this: He would arrange to go jogging some evening on a lonely road in the hills around our city. I would drive by and offer to give an exhausted jogger a ride down the hill. Once in my car, I would overpower him, tie him up, and proceed to do dark and terrible things to him. I wasn't specific about what "dark and terrible" might mean.

The evening arrived at last. The very first thing I did was lock the back seat driver's side door and unscrew that little doohickey. Then I drove into the hills searching for my prey. As I drove to the deserted stretch of road at the agreed-upon hour I saw a form take shape in my headlights, jogging along the right side of the road. Even from the back he was cute. He was dark haired, somewhat lean and wearing black lycra bicycle shorts. Who doesn't love bicycle shorts?? Best of all (I thought) he had the most stunning pair of dark hairy legs I had ever seen. One of my MAJOR fetish obsessions is dark hairy legs. They drive me absolutely wild. Given the chance to worship a pair, it is one of the few times I am willing to become the slave. Just give me the chance to rub my hands up and down, through the black hair, bury my face in that delightful furry forest, and I will do anything!!

As I drove slowly past him, he turned to me and our eyes locked for a moment, my face dimly illuminated by the dashboard lights. He was a little younger than I had pictured, maybe late twenties or early thirties. With very dark brown hair, not quite black, and a heavy five o'clock shadow on his chin and cheeks. A very handsome man! He turned and continued his jogging and I drove slowly on. About a mile ahead I stopped, turned around and slowly began to drive back the way I had come. He evidently had liked what he had seen as I passed the first time since he was still jogging in the same direction. To put him at ease during our whispered phone conversation I had insisted on adopting a signal: If he changed his mind at the last minute, for whatever reason, he was to turn around and begin jogging in the opposite direction, and that would be that, no questions asked, no hurt feelings. Once again I drove by, even more slowly this time, and once more our eyes locked for just a moment. Driving down the road one last time, I turned around and pulled my car up next to him and rolled down the window.

"Hi! You look really tired," I called to him. "Need a lift?"

He smiled. "Really? Thanks, that'd be great."

"No problem. You'll have to get in the back though," I said, indicating the empty boxes I had piled onto the passenger-side front seat. I stopped the car and he climbed into the back seat. In the rearview mirror I saw his eyes dart briefly to the other back door, with the locking mechanism quite visibly missing.

As I drove down the dark road I made idle conversation. "Do you jog here a lot?" "What do you do for a living?" "Where do you work out? I can see that you obviously do."

He was very good in his role, describing how this was the first time he had run this particular road. He had misjudged the distance, felt he could have managed it, but was very grateful for the ride nonetheless. No he didn't work out, he thought I was being kind. He didn't talk about his job, but I would have believed him if he said he was a professional actor.

About two miles down the road I turned onto an old unpaved trail I had discovered the previous day. The car bounced gently from one pothole to the next, tree branches scraping against the roof of the car. Mark was silent a moment, then asked me where I was going.

"It's a shortcut I found. You'll see. I'll have you down the road before you know it."

"I'm sorry, I don't want to offend you but I'd prefer it if you turned around.

You understand," he said, just exactly the right amount of fear in his voice.

He was good.

"We're almost there," I said, struggling to keep the spreading grin on my face from seeping into my voice. He could be good, so could I.

As I pulled into the lonely clearing and pulled to a stop, he told me he was getting out and made a move to open the driver side door. As he struggled frantically with the door handle I hurried out of the car and met him just as he opened the other door to escape. We were about equally matched in size and weight but I had the advantage of height just at that moment. I pushed him back into the car with me and closed and locked the door behind us. He turned and clawed desperately at the window handle. As it came off in his hand (Surprise!!) I began to laugh. Now I'm told that my laugh even frightens those who know me well. He was terrified. He turned toward me, saw the HUGE smile on my face, saw the teeth, and began to scream for help. He began to scramble over the drivers seat as I reached under and found my handcuffs. His act was now entirely TOO good. I had to be quite forceful as I wrenched first one wrist, and then the other behind his back and snapped the cuffs snugly home. He turned onto his back and began to kick wildly. Still laughing I caught one foot, pulled off a sneaker, and repeated it for the other. Now he kicked at me with his ankle-length stocking feet and renewed his cries for help. This was almost getting out of hand, I thought. One kick caught me squarely on the side of the face and had it been just a little bit harder, the whole act would have ended right there, me with a broken jaw. As it was I didn't feel any pain, but I did come to a sudden, dead stop.

The horrifying thought occurred to me just then, that perhaps I had picked up the wrong jogger.

He had stopped kicking too, after the blow to my face. He looked suddenly concerned and asked, "Ooooh, sorry. Are you alright?"

I shot him a long, piercing stare. "Oh my," I breathed. "Oh. You don't know the mistake you just made." He could assume I was referring to the kick if he wanted to. I slipped my body between his legs and began to tickle.

Nothing on Earth is more delicious than that electric feeling of sides and ribs responding to tickling. Almost as if there were springs, buried just below the surface of the skin, the sensation of that reaction is impossible to describe, cannot be put into words, but the reader certainly is well familiar with what I am talking about. I began poking into his ribs and tickling his sides. He screamed and began shouting. "Oh shit! SHIT! No! Don't tickle! SHIT!


An incredible wave of pleasure coursed through me. Ah yes. Aaah. He's TICKLISH! I couldn't know whether that was the case until this moment. Had been prepared to enjoy myself even if he turned out not to be. But he was. And this was all of my fantasies come suddenly true. Too incredible to believe. He's here in my car, handcuffed in the back seat. And he's ticklish. I began laughing again as I darted my fingers over his rib cage, then suddenly squeezing the shit out of his sides. He squirmed like a wildcat, turning suddenly on his stomach in an attempt to elude my fingers. And there I had him. I moved up on his back, sat squarely between his shoulder blades and tied his hairy ankles together with my piece of rope.

"Nooo. Not that. Pleeease. Don't tickle. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kicked you," he pleaded underneath me. I sat holding his ankles by the length of rope. So many decisions at this point. So many possibilities. I considered all of the things I intended to do to him, and started by slowly moving my hand down his hairy legs. I felt along the backs of his calves, feeling the thick dark hair under my hand. Then moved slowly down to his thighs, the hair getting thicker and thicker as I made my way to the edge of his bicycle shorts. There was plenty of time to get to more serious matters, for now I was content to worship his legs, drink in all that his hairy flesh could offer.

He had calmed down considerably, now that the threat of tickling seemed to disappear, and I could hear his deep excited breathing. This he seemed to enjoy. I let go of his ankles and began to run both hands up and down the length of his hairy legs. But when I paused, and started to untuck his T-shirt from his shorts, and slowly began to raise it just over his sides, he started to struggle again. "Shit!" he shouted again. "No! No! Don't tickle! Really! I can't stand it! Please! Oh SHIT!" He cackled laughter once more as I drilled into his soft, white sides with my index fingers. He was wedged tightly beneath me and could not squirm an inch but his bound legs kicked up and down, trying somehow to make contact. I drilled into his sides deeper, poked into the delicate muscles beneath and began to wiggle my fingers. I stopped for a moment to tie his feet with a rope to the hand hold above the window over his head, then began to poke, wiggle and drill once more into his ticklish bare sides. He cackled. He let out long, hoarse screams, then lost himself once more to tortured, helpless laughter, punctuated by an occasional, high-pitched "shit!" He couldn't kick up and down anymore, but was able to wave his tied hairy legs from side to side.

Curiosity concerning what lay beneath his ankle socks finally stopped me, giving him a chance to gasp for air. I climbed up onto my knees and stared at his stockinged feet. At the thick ankle hair that sprouted from the edge. I took hold of the edge of one of the socks and began to pull it slowly off his foot. The certainty of what was about to happen to him hit suddenly home. He started to laugh again, unable to stop himself, and begged me "Not that! Don't Please stop! Shit don't do it! No seriously, I really can't stand that." I laughed again myself and slowly began removing the other sock.

His feet were small, the tops well tanned like his legs. I liked the way the bones in the tops of his feet ended in long, delicate toes, each of which sprouted a tiny tuft of dark hair. My face was about an inch from his bare soles, which weren't tan at all, soft and pale. I grabbed both big toes in one hand and began to delicately brush his soles with my mustache. He jumped, and giggled momentarily, probably expecting much worse, but this he seemed to be able to endure. I could feel his rigid tenseness beneath me as I moved my mustache over each sole, was rewarded by another giggle when I playfully brushed him under his toes with it.

I tightened my grip on his big toes and pulled them back still more, tightening his arches like a coiled spring. He started panting more loudly underneath me, preparing himself to laugh. He knew, oh yes, he knew.

"I do believe this is the foot that delivered that most uncalled for blow to the side of my face," I said casually. "Now how should we make it pay? What do you suppose a fitting punishment would be for such a callous deed?" I slowly ran the tip of my index finger down his sole from toe to heel. Underneath me he yelped and giggled. "Hmm, kind of gives you ideas doesn't it?"

"I'm SOOOORRY. Please don't. Not that!" he wailed. I toyed with him like this for a couple minutes. Describing the bruise I would no doubt have the next day (delivering another slow stroke down the other sole), the headache I could feel coming on (a quick tickle to the center of each arch), the possibility of a concussion (several simultaneous strokes down both arches with index and middle finger), and worst of all telling him what a sexy laugh I thought he had. I'd really love to hear more of it. A lot more!

"I wonder what would happen if I just started to tickle your feet and decided not to stop?" I mused, stroking his soles continuously now. He was laughing pretty continuously now too, as I abandoned my calm stroking and began to really tickle. I am given more to tickling a man's arches, than, say, toes or heels, although I know these can be utilized to great effect. So this is where I concentrated my torture, lightly and continuously tickling his arches as he began screaming underneath me. The only words he could screech out between his shrieks of laughter: "Shit! Shit!" At some point, without ceasing my tickling of his arches, I got up off of him and allowed him to squirm and twist wildly about the back seat of my car, his feet still tied to the handhold above the window, arms locked behind him in my handcuffs. I even thought it great fun to let him rest for about ten seconds while I rolled down the window, stepped out of the car and continued tickling his arches through the open window while he thrashed madly about inside. Finally he ended up wedged between the two front seats. I stepped back into the back seat of the car, leaned down and spent the next ten minutes tickling the shit out of his ribs.

I am running out of room so let me close by saying that, surprisingly, I got another little note from him in the mail a few days later. He thought the experience interesting and might like to try something like that with me again, if I was game. However he warned me I was NOT to tickle him, he HATED it (he underlined the word three times). Then he proceeded to describe for me some of things he might like to try when we got together again. Since none of these were things I was particularly interested in doing, I declined politely and graciously. I saw him, his wife and their cute-as-a-button three year old daughter about a year later at the movies. He pretended not to see me.


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