Real glad to hear you're still interested in a visit to the Casa. You can bet I'm all worked up over the thought of meetin' a genuine, furry, cocky, cowboy-type; 'n I'll be rarin' to give ya a serious workin' over when the time comes.
> I'd love to hear...about how yer fixin' on handlin' my...hide.
Well, to start, I'll need to strap you down REAL secure. Don't want you thrashin' around so hard you hurt yourself. Don't want one li'l iota of pain distractin' you from the REAL torture at hand.
I've got an old weightlifter's bench that I'm in the process of modifyin' for my sadistic ways. Its shape will give me access to almost all parts of a cowboy's body when he's restrained on his back.
Ankles, of course, will be securely tied to the leg-lift portion, tied individually to the ankle rest, and then together. Lower legs will be tied together, then tied to the bench. Knees will be tied together (a safety precaution), then tied down. Another rope circles your hips and the bench.
Wrists will be tied together with a wide Ace bandage or some other method that does not cut off circulation. Maybe I'll buy a set of restraints just for the occasion. When secure, your arms will slowly be pulled over your head. When stretched out snug (but not too much, don't want you to get a dislocated shoulder), a rope will be tied from wrists to a doorknob, to keep those arms well outta the way.
Then the fun begins. I'll pull your shirt over you head, and off your body. I'll grab my softest, most insignificant feather, and lightly stroke it along the sides of your belly. Movin' up a rib at a time. Watchin' the squirmin' start, you tryin' to hold back the laughs. You failing, and that firin' me up for even more tickle-torture.
Another feather. One on each side, up 'n down your sides and belly. Gettin' higher and higher, 'til I reach your pits. Twirlin' those babies in the deepest hollows. Watchin' you sweat, then bellow with laughter. More strokin'. Then I use my fingers on your ribs and pits, strokin', lightly proddin' 'n pokin', dancin' all around on yer torso, 'til I find that exact square millimeter of maximum ticklishness. Spendin' what'll seem an eternity on your most sensitive spot(s). Listenin' to ya beg for mercy. Laughin', 'cuz ya ain't gonna get any.
Just when you think you can't laugh any more, I stop, get up, and sit myself down at your feet. Drinkin' in the look of horror on your face, 'cuz you know I know the bottoms of yer feet are ten times as ticklish as yer upper body, 'n I got a serious thing fer ticklin' a pair of cowboy feet.
Slowly, but firmly pullin' on those bootheels. You fightin' to keep 'em on, but it's a losin' battle...I got all the leverage. Finally, you can't hang on anymore, and one boot slips off. I hold it up, like a trophy, get a whiff of cowboy boot scent. It triggers a reaction deep inside me, those cowboy pheromones, and I break out in an evil smile. The Outlaw's unleashed. Yer history.
I grab that other boot and pull like a man possessed. It slides off, and I now have a helpless pair of socked feet starin' me in the face. The look of panic on your face is priceless. The only thing standin' between you and total insanity are those socks.
Which I slowly pull off. You feel 'em slip, and are helpless to do anything about it. When they come off, I hold 'em up in a gesture of victory, then sit down and admire the view.
My, oh my, oh my. Ain't seen a pair of dogs that tender lookin' in YEARS. You're gonna SUFFER, cowboy.
Then the REAL fun begins. One by one, I play my instruments of tickle torture across your soles, your toes, your arches and heels. Watchin' VERY carefully to see which methods and toys provoke the maximum laughter and sufferin'. Mentally weighin' what'll be most effective to use and when to use it.
I stop, just long enough to let ya catch one final breath. I ask ya if ya got any next o' kin. You gonna talk, or do I have to subject ya to the cruelest torture of all? You refuse, still feigning the toughness that's all but melted away.
The torture begins. Ticklin' unmercifully, up and down each sole. Never stoppin', no matter how much you beg, plead, and scream. No one will hear you...my neighbors aren't home today. You shriekin' in laughter, unable to utter an intelligible word. As I pause to pick up an even crueler toy, you scream, "No more! You were right!! I can't STAND IT ANYMORE!!! Please STOP!!!!"
But it falls on deaf ears. After all, you had the audacity to tell me you couldn't be broken. Time for a lesson you'll NEVER forget, as I continue the merciless ticklin' of your soles, until you scream bloody murder, laugh yourself hoarse, piss your pants, cry like a little boy, then, at that most delicious moment, totally lose your mind.
You're broken. You still laugh, even though I've long stopped the cruel torture of your tenderfeet. I let you compose your wits just long enough to realize where you are and what's happened.
Then I start all over again. And continue until I get bored, or so tired I can't keep my eyes open. With all the adrenaline pumpin' thru my system, that oughtta take a couple of days, at least. You are literally tickled half to death.
When I stop, should you retain the smallest shred of sanity, you remember NEVER to brag again about how tough you are. All you tough dudes have a major weakness, and yours is your extreme ticklishness. I let you rest, then untie you. I warn you the next time you brag, I will kidnap you, tie you down, pull your boots off, and put you through utter TICKLE HELL.
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