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The Burglar
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The Burgler
I got home around 11 PM and noticed immediately that the
back door was ajar. Did I forget to lock it? A strange prickly
fear ran up my spine. Thoughts raced through my head. I'd heard
about burglaries. "Don't go inside. Go to the nearest phone and
call the police." I don't know why I went in anyway.
The utility porch was dark. I didn't dare turn on the
light, and almost tripped over the bedspread I'd left in a heap
by the washing machine. I heard him before I saw him: a muffled
thud, a whorsely whispered "shit". Then I saw his frame outlined
by the porch light coming through the front window. I reacted
before I was afraid. I grabbed the bedspread and rushed him,
threw it over his head and tackled him hard. The phone table
went crashing and there was a clang as the phone hit the floor.
At first, I managed to stay on top of him, he, flat on his
stomach. I'd twisted the bedspread around him keeping his arms
pinned to his sides, but this was not a battle that I thought I
could win for long. In answer to my thought, he broke one arm
free and began yanking at the bedspread. I grabbed his wrist
through the bedspread and held it as firm as I could, but he
erupted - throwing me off him as he got to his knees.
Somehow the phone cord ended up in my hand. As he shucked
the spread, I leaped for him, pulling the jack out of the wall.
I caught him with one foot on the floorjust before standing and
knocked him backwards. He grabbed for me, but I intercepted his
forearm, pushing him back, off balance, until he landed flat on
his back.
He seemed stunned for a moment and I pounced, holding his
arms down with my knees, and wrapping the phone cord twice around
his wrist. I hadn't managed to knot it, but somehow the tangle
of the wire seemed to confuse him long enough for me to grab his
other wrist and do the same - pulling the cord tight - bring both
wrists together with a clap, and securing the loose end to the
base of the dining room table.
He was a much less formidable foe with his powerful arms
out of commission. Even though he still thumped his body, the
weight of my frame kept him flat on his back. In that moment I
got my first look at his face. Was it fear or menace that I saw
there? Or maybe just the shadow. Whatever it was, he seemed
more resigned. I reached behind me and used the squiggly cord to
bind his feet. The cord went around three times and as I tied it
off he spoke, "So, what are you going to do with me now?" It was
a tough voice, brimming with affected arrogance. This was a man
used to taking what he wanted and walking away unscathed. But
now I'd beaten him and he knew it, and the unusual position he
now found himself in left him wary. But he held his jaw so
square and so tight I thought it might break off with very little
trouble. I could call the police right now and they'd cuff him
and lead him away - but no. This man who was in my home to rob
me needed to be taught a lesson.
I sat on his legs and began to untie his sneaker laces.
Glancing back at the confused look on his face, I chuckled to
myself as he curled his toes to thwart me. I yanked off one,
then the other sneaker. He was wearing no socks, and his feet
looked big and bulky in the half-light. He barked, "What the
fuck are you doing to me, man?" He would know soon enough.
When I first started to tickle his feet, I was afraid I had
gambled for nothing. He didn't laugh at first, but seemed
momentarily startled. But then a realization worked it's way
across his face, and "no" was the last thing he managed to say
before he was lost forever in uncontrollable laughter. He
writhed and bellowed, and carried a tune that ran from loud belly
laugh to helpless giggle. I scampered my fingers up and down the
soles of his feet, playing him like some out of tune piano.
I tickled him so long his laughter became punctuated with
gasps for breath. I stopped for a moment and looked hard at his
face. He continued to howl even though I had stopped tickling,
as though I'd turned on a faucet that could not be turned off
again. Catching his breath ever so slightly, he managed a broken
threat, "I'm ...going ...to ...get ...you."
"No," I said, "it is I who am going to get you"
I went for the theighs then causing him to shriek with
laughter - wild helpless laughter. I went to the stomach, and
then the ribs. His whole body was a web of ticklish nerve
endings, and I was the prodder, and the poker, and the digger of
the ticklish truth. By the time I had worked my way up his ribs
to his armpits, I knew he was a goner. A scream came up from
somewhere in the core of his being, and it pleaded and begged and
finally laughed with a steady reconciliation that all was lost.
I reached back to his feet while still tickling his ribs.I
kneeded up along his theighs while stroking his feet. He shook
and he quivered and he jellied, and I noticed through his jeans
that his cock was rock hard. I undid the zipper with one hand
while I tickled his stomach and ribs with the other. I stroked
and tickled, and tickled and stroked, and he laughed through the
volcano of his orgasm and on into the exhausted night.
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