(m/f, non-con, demeaning, forced age regression, tickle/baby talk)
My next-door neighbor Eddie gave me the creeps. He was probably 20 years older than me, and I think he generally tried for an uncle vibe whenever he saw me, but it definitely came across as inappropriate uncle who tells off-color jokes and never fails to mention how well I fill out my t-shirt and jeans. Ugh, who even says stuff like “fill out” anymore?
Maybe some people out there find him charming in a boomer way, or at least as the kind of cuddly jokester who’s always the life of the party. Full of confidence despite his cringe comments and poor personal hygiene. I always tried to make my conversations with him as short as possible, but I found him mostly harmless.
Whenever Eddie invited his buddies over, a few hours into the festivities he’d amble over to my house on his creaky old legs, offer me a beer – or rather, thrust it at my chest – and invite me to join them. Slurring his words, he’d say, “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t spend the night alone. C’mon over to my place where there’s plenty of warm bodies.” I’d politely say no thanks, and to my relief he’d shrug and go back to his party.
Tonight I spotted the extra cars in Eddie’s driveway as I got home from work, and I braced myself for a long summer night of overhearing loud laughter, louder belches, and blaring dad rock. I changed into a cropped t-shirt and shorts, ate dinner, and was getting ready to watch a movie when I remembered that Eddie had collected my mail for a few days while I’d been out of town this week, and I hadn’t picked it up yet. I was expecting an important letter, so I really should go and see if it came. I groaned, hating that I’d have to go over there when Eddie was in full entertaining mode, but I put on my flip flops and walked over to his front door. I could hear Springsteen playing inside and hoped my knocking would be audible over the music.
Eddie came to the door wearing sweatpants and a grease-stained t-shirt. When he saw it was me, he looked me up and down and his eyes lit up.
“Well, look who’s finally come to join the party. Come on in!” he said, ushering me inside and closing the door behind me.
Before I could ask about the mail, Eddie was leading me into his living room and announcing to his four pals, “This is my neighbor. Ain’t she the cutest?” As he said this, he reached out a beefy finger and poked me in the ribs. I squeaked in surprise and flinched away. His buddies laughed, and one of them even whistled appreciatively. I started to say, “Eddie, don’t do that!” but he just chuckled and replied, “Nice of you to tease us with a little skin tonight. Can I grab you a beer?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “I can’t stay. I’ve just come to pick up my mail. Could I have it please?” I wrapped my arms around myself protectively. Ugh, he was such a jerk. He’d never gone so far as to touch me before – this was a new low, one that I couldn’t just shrug off. I’d have to make different arrangements for my mail next time I went on vacation.
Eddie grinned. “Oh, no problem,” he said. “But you’ll have to get it yourself. I put it on top of the shelf here, and the old knee injury is bothering me today, so I need to sit back down.” And with that, he lowered himself into a big squishy armchair next to a tall bookshelf.
I glanced up, saw a stack of envelopes at the top corner of the bookshelf closest to where Eddie was sitting, and glared at my neighbor. I’d have to stand on tiptoe to reach my mail, stretching my body right in front of where Eddie was sitting, and in front of all his gross friends. They were openly leering at me by now, but what could I do? I needed my mail.
I took a deep breath, walked over to the bookshelf, and reached up, placing one arm on a shelf just above my head to steady myself and the other hand grasping further up for the letters on the top shelf. I had almost reached them when I felt another poke in my ribs, quickly followed by five of Eddie’s fingers lightly tickling my exposed side.
“Hey, stop it!” I cried. What the hell was Eddie doing? He was seriously crossing a line now. It tickled maddeningly, but damned if I was going to lower my arms and leave this place without my mail.
Eddie just replied, “Not when your ticklish body is right there and you’re teasing us all with your short shorts and that silly little top.”
I was silently cursing myself for not changing into less-revealing clothes before going over there. But as I heard the chorus of “That’s right” and “She’s asking for it” from Eddie’s idiot friends, I came to my senses and reminded myself that Eddie was a creep, and that he clearly hadn’t needed an excuse – just an opportunity – to start groping me.
“Don’t touch me, you pervert,” I said, struggling not to laugh as I reached frantically for my mail. “Get your fucking hands off me right now.”
“Tsk tsk, that’s not a very nice thing to say to your sweet old neighbor who collected your mail for you,” Eddie said, while his friends sniggered. “I think you need an attitude adjustment, young lady.”
I desperately didn’t want to give these losers the satisfaction of hearing me laugh or seeing me squirm, but Eddie wasn’t stopping, and my composure was slipping. I wouldn’t have thought Eddie had any skill whatsoever when it comes to touching other human beings, but he seemed to know just where to wiggle his fingers and just how much pressure to apply as he slowly traced along my hips.
“Coochie coochie coo,” he said, tickling right in the middle of my tummy.
Oh no.
Not that spot, not that teasing.
I couldn’t help the high-pitched, girlish giggles and the “No, stop, please!” that tumbled out of me. And I couldn’t help but try to twist away from my neighbor’s tickling fingers, just as my hand finally closed around the envelopes.
Eddie was laughing along with me in triumph. “I knew it,” he said. “All I have to do is tickle your belly and treat you like the silly little girl that you are, and I can make you beg.”
A feeling of dread crept down my spine. Little girl? Beg? What kind of sick game was he playing? I hated being so ticklish and vulnerable, and I hated him. I also hated his equally douchey friends, who cheered him on, shouting, “That’s it, Eddie!” “Make her bounce!” and “I think she likes it!”
As if strengthened by his buddies’ jeering, Eddie full-on attacked my sides with both hands. I shrieked, crumpled, and fell sideways onto the worst possible place: Eddie’s lap. My letters fluttered to the floor all round us, but I couldn’t reach them. I felt Eddie’s boner under me, and my dread increased. This tickling power-trip thing was clearly sexual for him, and who knew how far he’d try to take it. Weak, flustered, and off-balance as I was from his tickles, I didn’t have the strength to stop him from trapping my legs in between his.
“Joe,” Eddie called to one of his friends, “grab her arms!”
Joe, a burly giant with a greying red mullet, took hold of my wrists and tied them behind my back with an old long-sleeved shirt that was lying around. With my legs sandwiched between Eddie’s big thighs, my arms pinned between my back and the arm of the chair, and my chest and stomach thrust up toward Eddie’s waiting hands, I was in for a long night.
I don’t know how long I was in that chair, with Eddie poking, prodding, goosing, spidering, and teasing me. His disgusting beer breath in my face, on my neck, whispering in my ear. And his useless friends, they never seemed to get bored of watching me suffer. They just kept egging him on – not that he needed it.
It certainly wasn’t long before I started begging again, but it wasn’t doing any good. Any time I could manage to say, “Please stop,” Eddie would coo, “Give Uncle Eddie a giggle,” and he’d tickle me under my chin to make me gurgle with forced laughter. “That’s a good girl.”
Eddie would encourage me when I “behaved” and gave in to the laughter, as if tickle-torturing me was a perfectly normal way to establish good neighborly relations. “There you go,” he said gently, as he traced maddening lines up and down my sides. “Isn’t it better to be a friendly, giggly, well-mannered girl than a rude little sourpuss?” I could only nod miserably in reply as I laughed helplessly.
Eddie would ask the most degrading questions and make me respond to them in equally degrading ways. I resisted at first, of course, but my yelling, protesting, swearing, and writhing only amused his friends and made him tickle me harder. As I lost all track of time, it became clear that compliance was the only way I’d ever make it off Eddie’s lap and back home. I was getting so desperate for him to let me go that I was ready to say just about anything.
“You clearly haven’t learned to dress yourself properly yet,” he said, tickling my exposed lower back with his left hand. “I’ll have to teach you how to pick out clothes that fit you properly.”
His right hand snaked under my shorts, squeezing the top of my leg just under my butt, and making me snicker and squirm frantically. “And these tiny shorts are no better,” he added. “Do you need me to pick out your clothes for you, huh?”
I flopped around on his lap, unable to escape his big hands or his belittling words. I was getting out of breath, but his tickling was relentless. He asked again, “Do you need me to pick out your clothes, little girl?” and blushing with shame I managed to whisper, “Y-yes.”
Running a finger up and down my trapped feet: “Who’s my ticklish little girl?”
“Ugh, you asshole.”
Scrabbling all ten fingers along the balls of my feet while his buddies held me down: “Try that again, and this time without the attitude.”
“Ohmigod! Stop, stop! Ok, ok, please! I’m your ticklish little girl.”
Goosing my ribs: “What happens to silly girls who wear cropped tops?”
“Silly girls in cropped tops get tickled.”
Tickling my tummy, again and again: “Who’s got giggles in her belly?”
“I’ve got giggles in my belly.”
“We have to get all the giggles out, don’t we, silly girl?”
“Yes, we have to get all the giggles out of my belly.”
“Say please, silly girl.”
“No, c’mon Eddie, don’t make me.”
“Say it, or I’ll go for your feet again.”
With tears in my eyes, I was forced to surrender each time.
“Please,” I whimpered, “please tickle all the giggles out of my belly.”
“That’s my good girl. Coochie coo.”
And I’d giggle and giggle.
He’d only give me breaks for water or to use the bathroom when I called him Uncle Eddie. Saying it felt absolutely disgusting – especially in front of his friends – but I had no choice. While his skilled hands roamed all over my body, he continued his obedience training.
“Does that tickle, little girl?”
“It tickles, Uncle Eddie, it tickles!”
“Who makes you giggle?”
“Uncle Eddie makes me giggle.”
And worst of all, “Does the silly girl love Uncle Eddie’s coochie coos?”
“I love your coochie coos, Uncle Eddie.”
Then he’d reply, “Uncle Eddie loves to coochie coochie coo,” and he’d squeeze my knees until I screamed before finally pausing to let me catch my breath.
At some point that night I started laughing whenever he wiggled his fingers in front of me, before he even touched me. I could feel his merciless hands pulling laughter from me even during the too-short breaks, and I could feel how powerless I was to stop him from tickling me. Uncle Eddie controlled my body, and in his lap I really was nothing but a silly little girl with a ticklish body and a too-short top. And silly little girls needed to be tickled.
