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The Inker Part 3 :icononeortheother:oneortheother 17 7
Harry Potter TK: Rirebatons 1
Harry Potter TK: Rirebatons 1
“So this is the fabled tickling academy.”  Lavender Brown eyed the crumbling structures that once been the respected magical school, Rirebatons, shaking her head at the fallen towers, broken stone bridge, and statues overgrown with ivy. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Well, neither do you,” Daphne Greengrass muttered. Daphne had thought that she, Pansy Parkinson and their best friend Millicent Bulstrode had been the first pioneers of the method of tickle torture for interrogation, but when they discovered a whole school had been dedicated to this system, she felt a strange kinship towards her ideological comrades and had to protect them; if she didn’t stick up for them, who would? The ruined fortress filled her with a strange melancholy. It must have been a beautiful place once, even if it were just ruins now.
“What was that?” Lavender sneered.
“You heard me. Can’t you feel the m
:icononeortheother:oneortheother 28 27
Mature content
The Inker, Part 2 :icononeortheother:oneortheother 14 8
Mature content
Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part X :icononeortheother:oneortheother 31 15
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part IX :icononeortheother:oneortheother 31 16
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part VIII :icononeortheother:oneortheother 25 17
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part VII :icononeortheother:oneortheother 32 19
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part VI :icononeortheother:oneortheother 30 6
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part V :icononeortheother:oneortheother 34 12
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part IV :icononeortheother:oneortheother 32 23
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part III :icononeortheother:oneortheother 29 19
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part II :icononeortheother:oneortheother 34 23
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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part I :icononeortheother:oneortheother 33 29
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Persona 3 TK: Fuuka :icononeortheother:oneortheother 19 23
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Pokemon: Gold, The Tickler, Part XIX :icononeortheother:oneortheother 23 42
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Pokemon: Gold, The Tickler, Part XVIII :icononeortheother:oneortheother 23 29

Opening Commissions Officially.

Journal Entry: Thu Jul 17, 2014, 6:47 PM

I've been doing commissions for a while now, but I've never made a proper journal about it, so I thought it was high time I got around to making a journal to let potential commissioners know about how I operate.

Usually, how it works is we first agree on a price - my going rate is $30 for 4000-5000 words, though that is liable to change if I don't know the character and need to do research. If you want to commission me for multiple stories, then maybe we can talk about a package deal. In terms of payment, you pay half up front, and half when it is finished. Unfortunately, I don't accept points. 

Then you tell me what features you would like to see in the story - lee(s)/ler(s), tools, the situation/context, techniques, that sort of thing. I'm open to writing both /f or /m. I've done a variety of sadistic stories and light-hearted casual stories (check my gallery) with upper-body/feet focuses, so I'm alright with writing pretty much everything - You just need to be specific and state what you would like to see.

I don't charge more if you want multiple lees/lers or multiple tickle scenes, though I remind you there is only so much you can cram into 4000 words, so too many lees/tickle scenes will invariably lead to brief and watered-down content.

In terms of characters/'verses: 
While it is obviously easier to write characters I know about, I like to think given time to research I can write adequately about characters I am not so familiar with. My latest stories about Percy Jackson and Kingdom Hearts were two stories I was fairly unfamiliar with both (I only read the first Percy Jackson and I've never played Kingdom Hearts). Perhaps you will say it shows, but both commissioners were happy with the result.

So there's no limit when it comes to characters, as long as you give me the basic plotline/context and give me a bit of time to do some online research.

Let me know about the details and features you'd like to see in the story. A sample commission info page might look like this.

Sample Commission Firstly, the general points. All characters will wear nylons since that is my preference. Tickling should focus primarily on the stockinged feet but other area are perfectly acceptable for variety. My favourite tickling implement is the feather, but again other implements are fine, as are fingers or even the tickler using their own feet as a weapon (nyloned of course). The nylons should not be torn off at any point.
Even though some of the scenes will feature interrogation type scenarios, I prefer the tickling to be reasonably playful. I enjoy dialogue and teasing.
Feel free to use as much Star Wars lore, locations, creatures as you see fit. You know far better than I that such things have a huge impact on bringing a story to life. Feathers from Star Wars creatures would make sense. Tickle bots, creatures, plants etc can be used as long as there is still a 'direct' tickling element. For example, the Endor scene could involve a tickling plant but Leia should still be feathered directly

After we've decided on most of the details, I start writing. 

I will send regular snippets (weekly of at least 500 words) to let you know about my progress. And eventually, I'll send you a final draft, you'll send me the second half of the payment, and then I brush it up one last time and upload it. 

Oh, another thing about the payment. I usually ask the commissioner to purchase clips/comics/giftcards for me that add up to the agreed price. 

Send me a note if you're interested or if you have any questions. 

And I don't do requests. Be unfair to my commissioners. Art Trades maybe, though we'd have to discuss. 


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The Inker Part 3


Alex had never thought a video could scare her. She had been dragged to so many horror movies on dates, though she knew this was probably because they thought it might give them a good excuse for body contact and to feel her up. Her relatives had sent her ‘scary’ video clips, and she had always rolled her eyes when the over the top jump-scares took place. After firsthand witnessing gruesome crime scenes, violent shoot-outs, and dens of vice, the tidy, overdramatized world of horror failed to have much effect on her.

But this video was scaring her. It was black and white, with a tied-up, blindfolded, and gagged girl as the starlet. Samantha, the goth girl who had so nobly stepped forward to tell Alex about what had happened to her. Alex slammed her fist into her couch as she forced herself to watch the shady figure torture her. She had to watch it, in case the mask he was wearing came off. She had to listen in case he said anything incriminating. It was her job, she told herself, as goosebumps crept up her arms. She clenched her hands into fists as she watched and watched as muffled wails of agony echoed across the room. She had to watch Samantha’s pale feet being feathered up and down, up and down, the tied back toes writhing in unspoken anguish.

The video was over three hours long. The monster. The fucking monster. And she had to watch all of it because she was the detective who was going to put this fiend down and stop him from ever doing this to some poor, lost woman again.

Samantha had spoken to Alex at length about her suffering at the hands of this cruel, heartless man, but seeing it was another thing. Reading a book and watching the movie were always a completely different assault on the senses because of how the same message could be shown in such different ways.

Thirty minutes into the clip, Alex’s indignant snorts had reduced as she got used to the fact the Inker did not stop even when Samantha was on the brink of hyperventilation, and she should no longer expect anything different from such callousness. He did not give her breaks. When he discovered his madly effectives feathers were between Samantha’s toes, he did not stop using them, weaving them from each toe, one at a time, always stopping in between the second and middle toe to give them an especially thorough feathering because of how high Samantha’s muffled squeals would get.

The Tickler always found ways to impress Alex by the sheer ingenuity of his depravity, it seemed. Samantha’s gag had been removed, all the mouthy defiance having been tickled out of her during the last hour, especially when he had introduced the hairbrush to her oiled up, toes-tied back, pale white soles.

But now, a different kind of sound was coming out of Samantha’s lipstick-smeared mouth, and Alex could not honestly say which sound disturbed her more. The muffled squeaks had fuelled Alex’s righteous fury, the screams had stoked her anger, the laughs made her want to do the opposite, but this? Moans? It was beyond demoralising to here such cooing noises, such shuddering gasps, such giggly breaths as the Inker plied the next cruel tool in his arsenal.

It was his tongue. Alex shook her head, wanting to spit as she sat there and watched the tongue and the pale mouth work over Samantha’s small feet, covering it in glistening saliva. The ooohs and aahs could be brushed aside, but the way Samantha arched her back and gasped, murmuring, “oh, my toes… right there, yeah, yeah, yes, oh, there, there, thahahat tihihickles, ohohohoho, stahahap nibbling!” and a dozen variations of such exchanges chilled Alex like a snowstorm, as she wondered what horrible, traumatised thought process must have gone through the abused woman’s mind to recognise such an invasive tongue as anything resembling pleasure. She supposed that after such intense tickling, anything else would have been a relief, but such reasoning did little to ease the hand that choked Alex’s throat at the sight of this victim begging for more, begging for more licks up her arches, begging for more suckling of her big toes, only to turn to ticklish shrieks as he cruelly subverted her desires with devastating implementation of his hairbrush to sensitive soles.

It seemed to be a sick game he was playing with her, and he was very good at it. A stray thought nested in her mind which Alex didn’t even want to consider this: he had gotten a lot of practice from all the women he had tormented over the years. His tongue would tease and tease, drawing out sensual moans from Samantha’s giggles, as he accentuated his wet, slithery attack with light strokes from his fingers. Yet once the moans got too pronounced for his twisted taste, the hairbrushes would return, driving Samantha back into horrendous howling hysterics. After a bit more of this, the tongues would return to the reddened soles again, coaxing breathy gasps and moans back out before long.  Alex thought back to her dream, the tongue that had felt so real attacking her foot, and felt an icy tingling down her spine. 

The most demoralising thing was that Alex had been hoping for a glimpse of the Inker’s face, a reward for sitting through this unwatchable torture, but aside from the back of his head, she saw nothing. There were no slip ups, no turns to the camera. Every time he stood up to get another tool, he replaced his mask. He was wearing a black balaclava with a hole for the mouth, enough for that villainous tongue to creep out. 

Alex could only watch with dismay as the tickler grew more and more familiar with Samantha’s soles, eliciting ticklish agony from his victim with more and more nonchalant ease. He mapped the expanses of her pale, slender feet, and like a master cartographer, hedid not miss any detail. The side of her right foot was one such spot that was thoroughly examined, as was the spot along her Achilles tendon on the left foot, which needed the foot to be pulled taut to be properly plumbed. Alex had to spend fifteen minutes watching this fact be demonstrated as Samantha frantically tried to curl her foot up to create the usual ridges of skin to defend that heinously ticklish spot which only revealed itself when the foot was unwrinkled.

The nudity of Samantha’s bare soles had been bad enough, but the Inker soon decided he would make her truly naked, pulling and cutting away her clothes. Alex tasted bile rising up in her mouth as she saw the tickler stroke his fingers across Samantha’s quivering, moist body. He traced along the tattoos on her body, chuckling to himself.

Then, he equipped himself with two devices with he used to bring Samantha to a new height of absolute agony. In one hand, he held an electric toothbrush, the devilish little thing tunnelling into armpits, worming into the bellybutton, to sneaking its way through toes. It looked like a savage sort of tickling device, but it was being used for more than just tickling. It was circling the nipples, too, teasing and tantalising those engorged, stiff buds with circular motions. For several minutes, he would torment the breasts and Samantha’s toned tummy in turn, turning moans to laughter and laughter to moans.

That alone would have been a cause for concern, but in his other hand was a vibrator. Alex didn’t know what to think, didn’t want to think, when the HD camera picked up all the moisture leaking from Samantha’s womanhood. She couldn’t really be enjoying it, could she? That was beyond any kind of mental conception Alex could formulate. Who could be getting off on this? Yet there was no denying the mixed cries as the sicko vibed and tickled, and tickled and vibed. Alex had dated her fair share of worthless, premature guys, and she knew how much it sucked to be left wanting. But the game of cat and mouse he was playing with Samantha went beyond this. It was being taken to the edge and then back down again. Every time Samantha would glimpse Nirvana, it would be within touching distance, and then she would be yanked back with the toothbrush pillaging into another spot, accompanied by marauding fingers.

When the Inker finally gave Samantha an orgasm, with five minutes left in the video, Alex felt just as exhausted watching this ordeal as Samantha must have felt experiencing it. And the poor goth girl was fatigued, based on the distraught wail of pleasure that burst from her lips as she was finally granted release.Alex was glad that the video was over, and she assumed the last few minutes would be nothing of importance. Then again, maybe it would be something like the tattooing? Taking note of his tattooing tools could be a pivotal lead. She sat down in front of her TV and leaned forward, preparing to turn it off in case her hunch was off the mark. But it seemed the Inker had one last surprise left.

At the very end of the video, a picture appeared on the screen. The picture was grainy, low-quality, like a rushed shot taken by a camera phone, but there was no mistaking the people in it. It was Vanessa and Alex sitting in the coffee shop. Alex remembered the cream-coloured top her step-sister had been wearing yesterday. How did he know about her? What was the meaning of this picture? What was the point of showing her this? All the questions spun about in her mind, twisting and thrashing around like a tornado. She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes as her heart hammered in her chest.

“I’ll be paying your sweet sister a visit,” drawled a voice from the TV. Alex looked up, her breathing suddenly ragged and out of control. “In fact, she’s with me, right now. I left you another present at her home if you don’t believe me…”

Alex leapt to her feet, ignoring the pins and needles in her legs from sitting for the better part of three hours. She knew she had leads to follow. The Inker must have been in the café, so he might be on CCTV, especially if her intuition was correct about him using a camera phone. She had a voice sample. The video tape might have DNA. These were all valid and logical paths to take.

But what good was cold reasoning when your family was at stake? Alex hopped into her car and turned the ignition. Music came blaring from the speakers, but Alex punched the stereo off. She didn’t even care if she might have broken it. She drove. She would call her sister at the first red light.

Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay… Or I swear to God… Alex’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. She could feel her service revolver pressing against her hip. She took a deep breath and sped away, five miles over the speed limit. Alex wanted to believe she would arrest him if she saw him there, but if he did anything to Vanessa, ANYTHING, then… well, she honestly couldn’t be sure.

Alex stopped and pulled out her phone, scowling at the long line of traffic on the motorway. Typical. Fucking typical. She dialled Vanessa’s cellphone number. It went straight to voicemail: Hello, you’ve reached Vanessa, leave me a message at the beep… Desperate rationalisations flooded through her mind. Maybe she’s in the library and doesn’t want to be disturbed, maybe her phone is out of batteries, maybe she dropped her phone in the toilet. Or maybe she was taken, whispered an urgent voice in her head. Alex jumped at the loud honk from the car behind her. The line had moved.

“Fuck you!” Alex screamed, looking out the driver’s window and giving the finger to the person behind her. It wasn’t a very professional thing to do, but Alex wasn’t feeling very professional, right now.

As she spun into the parking lot near Vanessa’s home, Alex let out a wail of despairing frustration. Typical. Fucking typical. There wasn’t a space to be had, with several other drivers conducting slow circuits around the car park in the hopes of snatching up a space as soon as it became available. Alex had half a mind to whip out her badge and commandeer a parking spot, but after a brief moment of frantic contemplation, she came to her senses. She parked her car right on the curb. It would be much easier to talk her way out of a ticket than force someone into giving her a parking space. She barged her way past the concierge and other people, ignoring their grumbles as she pushed past them. She tapped her foot and crossed her arms, gnawing on her lower lip while the elevator made its slow, tedious descent to the ground floor. Her eyes tracked the decreasing number on the elevator: 24, 23, 22, 21… it stopped. Why was the damn thing taking so long? She paced from one length of the room to the other. Her eyes roved over the mailboxes, the flowers, the mirror in the room, the elaborate light fixtures, and the management’s announcement posters, all without really taking them in. She considered taking the stairs when she saw the elevator hadn’t moved after her frenetic lap around the room.

She grunted back a “fucking finally!” when she heard the soft ding of the elevator’s arrival and its inhabitants slowly filed out. Alex fixed them all with a fierce stare as they walked past her.

Three people wandered into the elevator with her, and naturally, because the universe was conspiring to make things as maddeningly slow as possible, they all get off before Alex, with the police detective shooting daggers at them the whole time. At least they had the sense to shut up inside the lift.

Alex sprinted through the elevator doors before it had even fully opened. Her heart was in her throat when she reached Vanessa’s door and heard the sound of laughter coming from within. She raised a white-knuckled fist and considering pounding on the door, but thought better as she wouldn’t want to give that freak, who had the audacity to send her a letter mocking her of his intentions, any hint of her arrival. She drew her service revolver in one hand while pulling out Vanessa’s spare key with the other. Yet they key wouldn’t fit into the lock, despite the fact Alex had done this a hundred times. Her hands were shaking too much. Gnashing her teeth, Alex dropped her shoulder and smashed through the door.

“Freeze, police!” she shouted, waving her gun around. She huffed and huffed, filled up on fear of what she might have found inside, but what she found was… nothing. The television was on. It blared the latest show from Comedy Central, which explained the lusty laughing Alex had heard. Her heart still thudding in her chest, Alex checked all the rooms. There was no one here. Had this been some kind of false alarm? Shame and embarrassment began to sepe through her bones as she imagined explaining to her sister about the damages, explaining to her boss about the parking ticket, explaining… Wait. Vanessa’s phone lay on the tabletop. She would never have gone anywhere without it, Alex knew. With quivering hands, she unlocked it, and what she saw almost made her throw up. It was unmistakably a picture of Vanessa. It was a close-up of her face with a blindfold and gag. The picture had a caption: “Come find me, detective ;)”  

The phone slipped from Alex’s numb fingers to clatter on the wooden floorboards as the audience from the TV show roared with laughter.


“Police, open up!” said the voice, punctuated with frantic knocking at her door. Vanessa looked up from her book, slipped a bookmark in, and jogged to the door. The police? Her first thoughts were to her sister and if something had happened.

She peeked through the door’s peephole. It was plainly-dressed man with a badge in his hand. “Official police business, ma’am,” he was saying to one of Vanessa’s neighbours, who had opened her apartment door out of curiosity. “Please return to your home.”

Vanessa opened the door. She eyed the man and quirked a suspicious brow. “Who are you?”

The man gave her a polite smile. “You must be Vanessa Jones. Your sister sent me.” He flashed his badge at her quickly, then tucked it into the pocket of his sports jacket,

“Did she?” Vanessa paused. “You don’t look like an officer.” 

He scratched his neck, where Vanessa saw hints of a colourful tattoo creeping out of the hem of his collared shirt. “I’m not exactly a beat-cop. I do undercover work.”

“I see… and how do you know Alex?”

“We went through the academy together. You might’ve heard of me: I’m Captain Stevens.”

“Oh!” That name set Vanessa at ease, at least a little. Alex had definitely mentioned that name before, though she hadn’t been entirely positive about Stevens. She said he was a glory-seeker and a bit of a ladies’ man, but he wasn’t a bad guy.

“May I come in? Alex was concerned you might need police protection.”

“Police protection?” Vanessa repeated as she moved aside to let him walk in. “From whom?”

“Well,” he said, turning to her and waving a hand, “all kinds of people.” He looked around the apartment, stroking his chin. “Do you keep any weapons here?”

“No, Alex says it’s sometimes safer to just call the cops instead of trying to play hero.”

“Sometimes, it’s better to act yourself as opposed to waiting for someone else to save you.” He smiled. In a blink, he had a hand at her throat, choking away her words. With his other hand, he held a revolver and put it to her head. “People like me.”

Vanessa swipped at the rough hand gripping her throat and tried to find the air to scream, but even breathing was proving difficult.

“Don’t you even try,” he said, jabbing the gun in her face. It poked her in the cheek, the cold metal chilling her to the bone. She was shaking so much that she was afraid this imposter officer might even shoot her by accident.

Steering her with the hand at her neck, he forced her into the bedroom. Thoughts of rape and murder filled her head and were accompanied by tears as he threw her back onto her mattress. The plush surface had never felt so uncomfortable as she began imagining the horrible fate that would befall her. “If you try to scream, this’ll only get worse for you. Nod if you understand.” What else could Vanessa do but nod? He let go off her throat as he turned to shut the bedroom door.

She coughed and spluttered for breath. “What… what do you want with me?” She hugged her knees as she sat down, unable to stop the pathetic whimpers from slipping out.

He quirked an eyebrow at her body language. “Not that,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve got bigger and better things in store for you. If all I wanted was someone to fuck, I wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble.”

She didn’t know what to say. What was there to say was someone said something like that? Thanks?

He reached into the pocket of his grey sports jacket and took out a syringe. “This will knock you out. Now, I am going to inject you with this, whether or not you cooperate.” He patted his gun. “The only difference is if you come out of this in a world of pain or that. I’m not above slapping bitches when they get dumb.” He turned the pistol around so he brandished it like a club and raised both hands. In one hand was the syringe and in the other was the weapon. “What’s it gonna be, sweetie?”


He whistled tunelessly as he jogged out of the building. The first part of his plan had gone off without a hitch, but that didn’t mean anything: the tricky part would be transporting the detective’s little sister out of that apartment complex without anyone raising the hue and cry. It really was a lot easier when he dealt with inebriated girls in seedy establishments, but he hoped the quality of his latest toy would more than make up for it. She looked sweeter than sin and more innocent than an angel, this detective’s little sister. He felt his heart race and his throat go dry as he imagined the taste of her soles. Would her feet have a sweet taste to them? Would she be ticklish? Oh, he hoped so. Maximising sensitivity was something he prided himself on, but he still liked it more when he had someone substantially ticklish to ‘work with’.

But he couldn’t let that distract him, even as his body tried his best to draw his attention to his lust. There would be no good counting his ticklish chicks before they hatched.

He got to his truck and pulled out one of those foldable lightweight wheelchairs and his backpack. He fixed an unconcerned, carefree smile on his face while he waited in the lobby, fortunately ignored by all the other people there who continued their own conversations or stood silently and stared at their smartphones.

Back in Vanessa’s apartment, his sleeping beauty was still lumbering. He lifted her to her room and took a look at her wardrobe. It was tempting to take a few socks and other garb as souvenirs, but time was of the essence, here. He found the frumpiest, ugliest cardigan he could find and dressed Vanessa in it, resisting with all his might to tear her clothes off and see what the lovely little lady was hiding under them. Patience, he told himself, that would come later, and he would savour every second of it…

After fixing her in the hideous cardigan (which had undoubtedly been some Christmas present from some unfashionable relative), he opened his backpack and took out the grey wig he had prepared earlier. He added a pair of big dark sunglasses and took a step back; at a glance, the young girl had transformed into a grandmother, though her lack of wrinkles meant it wouldn’t stand up to closer examination. He had brought a make-up kit, but he wasn’t sure how much time he really had, so he decided to abandon that portion of his scheme. He took a little duvet from Vanessa’s couch to hide her dainty hands under and stepped back to admire the effect. Now, instead of a psychopath with his latest victim, he looked like a man taking his elderly mother out for a walk.   

He continuously reassured himself of this fact, though that didn’t stop his heart hammering at his chest in the elevator on the way down. He was lucky no one else came in the lift with him. At the door, when he saw the security guard give him a look, there was a fleeting moment when he feared it might all be over, but the powerfully-built man just gave him a nod and even opened the door for him. Trusting fools, he thought, laughing internally as he rolled her to the chair. Too easy, truly. They really made it too easy, almost.
He pulled into his garage where he could transport the lovely Vanessa to his playroom without risk of prying eyes. Once he pulled off the wig and the clothes he had dressed her up in, he saw how enchantingly beautiful she was, in the light of his favourite room in the world.

Once he had seen the two sisters together in that cafeteria, a lifetime or three ago, he had known he wanted them. Together would be the dream—the two lovelies side by side, teasing one’s responses then the others. He knew the pair of beauties would be capable of bringing such melodious music to his humble quarters. His comfy chambers weren’t quite big enough to accommodate too, but in the event the detective fell into his lap… well, he was perfectly willing to spring some dosh for an upgrade, just for her.

But he had a feeling life would rarely be quite so accommodating—life tended to give with one hand whilst taking with the other, but he found he was okay with that. He would enjoy his time with the innocent younger sister and show her things she had never dreamed of, and once that had run its course, he would taste the darker, more fiery flavours of the detective herself.

Yet he was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? He should savour this moment, this girl. No use getting ahead of himself. He eyed his sleeping beauty, remembering how ravishing she had looked in the café. She had worn open-toed brown sandals that accentuated her slender, smallish feet excellently, and had worn a little yellow and pink leather anklet on her right foot that he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of. She was still wearing it now, he had been delighted to observe. Her toenails had borne the sunny gleam of a fresh pedicure, with each toe as yellow as summer love.

She was wearing socks right now, tacky striped orange and white ones. Tempting as it was to rip them off immediately and examine the treasures within, he decided he wanted to save them for last. You saved the best for last, didn’t you? That was always how he had been—when eating, you ate the vegetables first and saved the meat for your reward. But was this lithe, slim girl waiting to be strapped down his vegetables and the detective coming to save her his main course?  

The answer was yes, but he couldn’t let that spoil his appetite. He brought her wrists to the padded cuffs, adjusting the length for her short stature. She was several inches shorter than the last guest he had entertained. Afterwards was the strap around her midsection to keep her from see-sawing from place to place, which he was pleased to see went tightly across a trim stomach. He wasn’t a fun of girls with chubby stomachs. He considered undressing her here and now to see what goodies lay beneath, but he decided that cutting her clothes away later would be much more fun. Oh, he wondered what her reactions to that would be… 


She must still be dreaming. What else could this be but a nightmare? Vanessa thought as she woke up in some nefarious bondage lair. She yawned and tried to rub her eyes, only to find they were stretched out and tied above her head. She was on some kind of table , some flat soft service with fuzzy cuffs and straps binding her to it. She clearly had been reading too much 50 Shades lately… it was even invading her dreams. Christian would come strolling in any moment now to take her and tell her what a naughty girl she was.

Then he appeared. Christian. Or was it?

“Good morning, Vanessa,” he said in a tone that lacked all the sensuality Vanessa had been hoping for. It was a slow, gravelly voice, unsexy, unremarkable, and unassuming. “Do you know who I am?”

“Christian?” Vanessa said, though the man who appeared looked nothing like Christian Grey. She’d had dreams similar to this before, and this tended to be the script. This man wore a Halloween mask of the grim reaper.

He laughed. “No.”

It was as Vanessa blinked in confusion that she glimpses the tray of items at his waist. It wasn’t till she saw the feathers that everything clicked into place. The officer that had come to her door. The struggle that had taken place in her apartment. “You… you’re… you’re…”

“Your sister has taken to calling me The Inker,” the man said, his voice muffled under the mask. “I think it’s because she’s a little embarrassed to call me The Tickler, which is what I am. The inking thing is just a nice little touch at the end.” He waved to a tattooing needle in the corner of the room. “Has your sister mentioned me?”

“Uh, not really.”

He laughed. “How irresponsible of her. She didn’t even tell you what to expect. I hope you understand that I bear you no ill will, Vanessa.” He picked up a feather, twirling it through his long fingers. “It’s your sister’s fault you’re here. She’s the one who, like a mad dog, had to keep chasing me, I mean, I wasn’t hurting even those girls, so why?” He spread his arms wide.

“Because you’re a criminal,” Vanessa said in a quiet but firm voice.

“That was a rhetorical question. I’m not going to waste words debating the morality of my work—no one died, end of story. Don’t even know why your sister wanted to waste so much time on a small-fry like me.”

“Because you’re a monster,” Vanessa hissed as she strained against her bonds. “We are not things you can just play with, touch, brand!”

He shrugged. “You know this really isn’t about me, so how about we change the topic.” He kept talking before Vanessa had a chance to say anything. “Let’s talk about you, Vanessa. Would you like to leave?”

Even though she sensed a trap, she nodded.

“Wonderful!” He clapped his hands together, the ringing sound echoing around the room. “Then perhaps we can help each other. I hope you don’t take offence to this, honey, but I’m not really that interested in tickling you.”


“I want to know about your sister. If you’re willing to tell me what I want to do, you’ll be back before you know it.” He put down the feather and admired a fine-toothed comb. “All this is only here if you want to be uncooperative. I’ll try to make the most of it, enjoy it as best I can, but you understand, it’s a means to an end.”

Vanessa bit her lip. “What do you want to know about her?” Perhaps if it was nothing too incriminating she could answer a few questions…

“Shoe size, if she had been tickled before, where she is ticklish.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “And some boring stuff about her passcodes, where she keeps the spare key to her apartment, her schedule this week, that sort of thing.”

“I can’t tell you that!” All those things ensured Alex would be where she was now, and she had to keep her sister away from this freak by any means possible.

“Well, I hope I can change your mind.” She could hear the smile in his voice as he picked up his first tool and began his work.


He would save her feet for last, he decided, if only to break the monotony. The first thing he did before beginning was tying a thick blindfold around her scared eyes. As enjoyable as it would be to see the fear in them, he was well aware of the effect that being cut off from sight had on one’s sensibility.

He hummed to himself as he scraped his stool across the floor of his basement and noisily transported his tray of tools over. From his own extensive experiences, the more he delayed, the more he put it off, the more he made her wait, the greater the effect would be. There was just something fundamentally impatient about the human mind—with no ‘stimulation’ besides the harsh squeak of the stool or the rattle of the tray, the brain would begin to imagine, to formulate its own situation. She would imagine, dread, tense anticipation seeping into her bones like a miasma. 

He watched her for a moment, smiled at the trembling of her lower lip and the way her body shivered before he had even laid a finger on her. He had scissors and could have started cutting around the t-shirt and yoga pants she had on, but he decided he would work around them, first. He would let her revel in her sense of protection and then yank it away from her. He reached out and flick one fingertip against her bicep—not even properly a scratch. But the slight contact was enough to make her mouth twitch and a little gasp slip from her lips.

“You seem sensitive, Vanessa. I do hope such ticklishness is genetic.”

She began to beg, sweet murmurings that only let him know he was on the right track. He began trailing his fingers along the backs of her arms as she shuddered and twisted to try to pull away. Then, he snuck his fingers under the thin fabric of her shirt, sneaking them into the warm hollows of her armpits. The two index fingers lay there, motionless, as Vanessa squirmed from side to side, almost tickling herself with her fidgeting.

“Are you going to try to hold it in? Brave, stupid girl…” His fingers began to wiggle ever so slightly—they weren’t scratching, just moving and prodding around her underarms gently, but that was enough to get her huffing and giggling.

“Sure you don’t want to tell me about your dear sister?” He waited a few moments for a response, continusing his gentle pawing, but when she made no attempt to talk, he decided he would stop being so nice. His fingers curled into talons, tunnelling and spiralling deep into the soft flesh of her armpits. She let loose a high-pitched squeal which transitioned adorably into a stream of bubbly laughter as his fingers wiggled and wiggled away. She was trying to desperately to rock her body from side to side, but every time she moved more to the right, she was just letting him go deeper with the finger in her left armpit, and vice versa.

“You’re laughing this much from two fingers,” he said, speaking a little louder than before to ensure she could hear him over the sound of her wild splutters of laughter, “how do you think you’re going to handle all of my fingers? Or my tools? And trust me, darlin’, I’ve got a bonafide arsenal over here.”

He pulled his fingers away to let her catch her breath—and linger in the ticklish sensations emanating from those exposed armpits of hers.

“I’ll never betray her,” she said finally, after several deep breaths.

“You’d be surprised how quickly the word never can change in this room.” He took out a pair of scissors. “Hold still. I wouldn’t want to cut you. That’s not what I’m into.” He heard her whimper in understanding, and he cut away at the sleeves of her shirt till her smooth, creamy armpits were fully exposed. Then, he picked out a feather and a toothbrush. “Tell me which one tickles more, Vanessa, dear. I’m doing a survey.”

With that, he put his tools to work in those bare underarms. The light, dancing, fluttering touches of the feather were in the right armpit, while the insistent, scratchy, bristly toothbrush took care of the left. Her reaction was pure ecstasy to him—a fresh splutter of laughter, more pleas to stop, and her body twisting and yanking in every direction to try to escape. There would be no escape, though. None of his playthings had ever been able to get out of his straps, and none of them ever would. He was the not the kind of person to make mistakes at such a critical junction.

“I’m waiting for an answer, sweetheart,” he said over her wild giggles of laughter. He slowed down his strokes to one at a time. A flick of the feather, a swipe of the brush, a flick of the feather, a swipe of the brush. Squeak, turn to the right, snort, turn to the left, squeak, snort, squeak, snort. Oh, he could have done it for days. He did it till he were certain it was the feather that drew a greater reaction from her, which was surprising, as it tended to be the other way round in terms of weapon efficiency.

“Let’s give this a try, then,” he said, picking up a second feather and putting down the toothbrush for now. She gurgled some incoherent objection as he put the two feathers to work. He dusted up and down the taut, stretched out armpits like some maid with a feather duster, working over every inch of armpit and tricep with a meticulous touch. Then, he spun the feathers around and applied the shafts to her delicate flesh there, scratching deep into her pliant, hairless flesh. He wielded them like pens, etching symbols, numbers, letters, words. It felt reckless to write his name, social security, and phone number into her ticklish underarms as he did, but it felt satisfying to indulge in something so heedless every now and then. “I’m not going to stop if you don’t talk to me,” he said, feathering even more furiously. “Come, come, no need to be so coy, my dear Vanessa.” He gave a low chuckle, barely audible compared to her spluttering howls of mirth. “Feathers or the toothbrush? Which one do you despise more? If you can’t decide, I’m not against spending twenty minutes refreshing your memory.”

“I hahahate the feteheheaters sohohoho muhuhuch!” she wailed, which was his cue to step up his feathery assault even more. 

He introduced a new weapon to his attacks, which proved to be disgustingly effective. While Vanessa’s mind was in tatters from her armpits being hit with feathers and brush, she felt her captor’s warm breath suddenly lean closely. His tongue slithered like some foul serpent into her armpit. It wiggled and slid across the warm, quivering flesh of her soft underarms, the novelty of the sensation making her gasp. It felt hot and alive, compared to the cold, ruthless efficiency of the toothbrush and feathers, and it was a… oh, Vanessa didn’t even want to think about it. It was a welcome change of pace. For a few tantalising moments, it almost felt like a revitalising massage before the ticklishness hit.

Like everything this diabolical mastermind seemed to do, it had more than one malevolent function. One was obvious—it tickled, and the contrasting sensastions of that probing tongue frazzled Vanessa’s fragile focus. It was just so different, so strange. Tongues reminded her of a lover’s kiss, not… whatever this was. The tongue left a wet trail as it went, which he would use as a natural lubricant, allowing the cruel touch of toothbrush and feather (he would use the shafts of the feather primarily henceforth, to avoid the feathery end getting damp and deforming) to skate across her ticklish flesh with ease. Whenever the tongue made a surprise appearance, it always made her gasp, switching all her nerves in a different direction—this would cause her next reaction to the feather or toothbrush’s reappearance to be even more destructively effective. He once spent a mini-eternity alternating licks and flicks of the feather to her left armpit, each swipe and lick making her nerves stand on-end.

After that, he granted her the briefest of breaks, but he knew it was not out of the kindness of his heart. She heard the scrape of his stool and felt him refocus his efforts on her midsection. It was not a comforting realisation. For all the supreme ticklishness of her armpits, she knew her stomach was far worse. In her high school days, she had liked wearing crop tops, and no shortage of mischievous friends had taken a great delight in poking her sides or teasing her belly with passing prods and scratches. She had a disconcerting feeling that her sensitivity had no abated, not one bit.

She felt her shirt being rolled up several inches, till it was just short of exposing her bra. The fact he would probably get to that later was one of those frantic thoughts that made her struggle all the more. Oh, Alex… hurry up, hurry up! She didn’t know how long she could stand this, how long she could hold out, especially when he kept whispering in that low, comforting voice of his that all she needed to do to save herself, save her ticklish armpits, tummy, and feet was tell him what he wanted to know. 

Until she did that, all she could sit there was wait as she felt goosebumps begin to appear on her exposed skin. He gave her quivering bare stomach a few long, slow licks, tracing wide spirals around her navel with his disgustingly slimy tongue.

She gnawed on her lower lip as a few giggles begin to slip silently beneath her breath, then spluttered again with laughter when his sharp fingers flew over all her tummy with rapid fire skitters. He could feel his saliva cooling her skin and aiding his fingers as they glided effortlessly across her tummy.

“Do you like my technique? I'm trying something new. Saw this method in a video the other day.” He sounded so earnest, so casual, as if she were his tennis partner and they were discussing groundstrokes. It made her want to laugh, till she remembered where she was, and that laughing was perhaps the last thing she wanted to do in this cold, cold confines of this chair. 

But choice was something being ripped from her again and again, here. He made her laugh, made her stomach spasm and twitch as if she were some exotic belly dancer. The feathers made their reappearance. They danced up and down her sides, fluttered along her ribcage, and twirled inside her navel, dusting and dusting every spot on her body.

He didn’t spend as much time with her stomach as he had with her armpits. Perhaps he was eager to move down to her feet? He didn’t strike with the same patient, methodical touch, and after the initial licking, his pawing seemed less effective, though she wondered if it was maybe just being she was getting all tickled out. Or had the heat of the moment just had worn off. This might be her chance to try to talk her way out of this.

“Why… why don’t you just lehehet me go? Let’s forget about all thihihis?”

He grunted and drew his fingers away from her torso, and for a brief, divine moment, Vanessa thought that her words had reached him.

“I hear you, I hear you… I think we both need a break.” There was a creak from the stool as he stood up. He whistled. “Wow, would you look at the time? It’s already been an hour! Don’t the minutes just fly away?”

It hadn’t for Vanessa, not one bit. She thought it had been at least three hours since her ordeal had begun.

“Anyway, you sit tight for a bit. I’m gonna have a quick pit stop. I’ll bring you back some nibbles on the way. Don’t go anywhere.” He laughed at his own joke and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Alone with her thoughts, Vannesa’s first plot was that of escape. She struggled with a fresh vigour, straining and wiggling against the ropes, but she only succeeded in rubbing her skin raw.

There was naught that could be done but wait, alone with her thoughts, her memories of ticklishness, and the lingering guilt that all she needed to do to win her freedom was betray the person she loved most in the world.


Whistling, he relieved himself, ate some nibbles, checked his social media and came back to check on his guest. When he returned to sweet Vanessa, he decided it was time to stop fucking around and actually get to the meat of things. He needed all that delicious information on the lovely detective, and he was going to pull out all the stops to get it.

“I’m back, sweetie. Have you missed me?”

She made no reply but only struggled further, which made him chortle.

“Your fruitless attempts at escape are only wearing you out, my pretty little fool.” She huffed at these words, but there was no denying the layer of sheen on her brow or the perspiration that had formed under the armpits, along the collarbones, and her stomach. Being tickled was vigorous work, even if it didn’t first appear to be the kind of intensive cardiac exercise a doctor might recommend. He had never been tickled, not the way he was tickling his lovely guests anyway, but he never failed to note the dishevelled state of so many of his ladies during their sessions with him. Maybe one day tickling would have its moment in the sun where it would be reincarnated as an exercise fad. All that laughter probably was really good for the abs!

He pushed that amusing direction of thought aside as he reached for the scissors and begun cutting away Vanessa’s clothing. She yelped when she thoughtlessly moved and got herself pricked in the process. He sighed, finished cutting, and reached for the first aid kit he kept lying around to apply a plaster. He had no doubt what kind of person  he was—he would tickle the shit out of these girls, break them down into tears, and expose every inch of their bodies, but he was not out to hurt them, per se. That was one of the things he prided himself on, that these girls always went back to the streets when he was done, even though he knew it would perhaps be tidier and safer if he just disposed of them in a more permanent fashion. It helped soothe the guilt he felt sometimes when he reflected what kind of person he had become. But that wasn’t the right kind of thing to focus on when he had such a spirited specimen in front of him to experiment on.

He finished snipping away her shirt to reveal of pair of apple-sized breasts, with small dark nipples. He had seen better, but the shocked gasp as he pulled away her clothing to reveal them and the shy, scandalised expression on her face more than made up for it.

He circled the little nipples with a light touch, alternating before spidering along the areoles with a slow, gentle, lover-like touch, and itching more insistently on the undersides of those small breasts. Every touch made her squeak and wiggle, making them jiggle. She seemed shocked at her own sensitivity there, which was not surprising, as it was hardly a commonly tickled spot. Most people might know if their feet or navels were ticklish, but the nipples were less of a target. Their stiffening buds showed she was not immune to the sensuality of being teased there, either.

 Few people ever were. He always imagined that most of his targets thought of themselves too strong-willed, too self-disciplined, too mighty to have their minds broken down by something as trivial as tickling, but so often their own bodies betrayed them, not only with their sensitivity, but with their own mechanical reaction to stimulation. It was all carefully constructed to ensure this—the ropes, the blindfold, the tools, his technique, everything.

When he took his tongue to those mounds, she gasped and huffed, interspersed with ragged denials and pleas for mercy. He didn’t reply, for his mouth was far too busy to waste his energies with reminding her that she had the power to free herself any time she wished. When his fingers spidered over those ripe areas, she howled and squeal with an explosive burst of fresh laughter, once again proving his hypothesis that when it came to tickle torture, life, and everything, variety was the spice that gave life its tangy taste.

He took a pair of stiff, starched feathers from his tray of tools and began applying them to those, dark, longingly stiff buds. The touch of those soft bristles made her arch her back and moan, half-giggling as the feathers worked their magic on that sensitive spot. He felt much like a conductor, micromanaging his retinue of musicians with a meticulous ear. When her frantic laughter began to abate, and she began to sound a bit too happy for her current situation, he would direct one of the havoc-inducing feathers elsewhere—to dust about in her stomach, to dance into an armpit, or to flutter up and down a quivering bare side. When her laughter devolved into wails and he wished to hear the sound of her mixed moans, the delicious sounds of a trapped body in conflict with itself about what was being felt, he would refocus his attack on those breasts once more.

After his latest stroke left her damp chest heaving as ever more oohs and aahs were stripped from her lush lips, he put down the feathers. He pulled his stool over to her socked feet, and he again felt her whole body tense up, positively blooming with fear. Oh, what a precious sight, he thought, caressing the socked feet ever so lightly with just the very edges of his fingers.

“I’m going to gag you,” he declared, “because once I get started on your feet, I don’t care what you have to say. I’m tickling you till I’ve had my fill, and it’ll make the rest of this seem like a walk in the park, I promise ya.” He chuckled. “So, last chance, darling. You want to tell me all about your sweet sister?”

She began to sob, a pitiful sound, but he let her. He recognised that defeatist tone in her voice. She would talk. Then, he would tickle her anyway.



Harry Potter TK: Rirebatons 1


“So this is the fabled tickling academy.”  Lavender Brown eyed the crumbling structures that once been the respected magical school, Rirebatons, shaking her head at the fallen towers, broken stone bridge, and statues overgrown with ivy. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“Well, neither do you,” Daphne Greengrass muttered. Daphne had thought that she, Pansy Parkinson and their best friend Millicent Bulstrode had been the first pioneers of the method of tickle torture for interrogation, but when they discovered a whole school had been dedicated to this system, she felt a strange kinship towards her ideological comrades and had to protect them; if she didn’t stick up for them, who would? The ruined fortress filled her with a strange melancholy. It must have been a beautiful place once, even if it were just ruins now.

“What was that?” Lavender sneered.

“You heard me. Can’t you feel the magic in the air?” As the sun shone and the wind wafted gently through Daphne’s long blonde hair, she could definitely feel a tingle on her bare skin, as if tiny feathers were brushing it over so slightly.

“Feel this?” Lavender’s arms struck out and made contact with Daphne’s ribs. The Gryffindor girl grabbed and scrabbled at them with no concern if she poking too hard. Daphne tried to slip free or even tickle back, but Lavender’s ferocity quickly overwhelmed her — her own extreme sensitivity was one of the reasons she made such a good tickler. She understood what it felt like to be tickled.

“That’s enough, Lavender,” came the dreamy voice of Luna Lovegood, Daphne’s unlikely saviour. “Be nice.”

“Why?” Lavender snarled. “She’s our hostage. She deserves to be tickled for all the friends of ours she’s tormented in her stocks back in Hogwarts.” Her hands were digging painfully in Daphne’s armpits, so the Slytherin girl’s face was a mixed mask of discomfort and giggly mirth.

“This here world has a habit of rightin’ scores,” said Nymphadora Tonks with the air of a veteran member of the Order of the Phoenix.  “What comes around comes around. Also, she laughs loudly. Best we not draw to more attention, eh?”

Lavender gave her fingers one last twist and stomped off. She stood with her arms crossed, glaring into the horizon.

“Are you okay?” Luna asked Daphne. She put a pale hand on Daphne’s shoulder. Somehow, Daphne couldn’t quite work out if the ditzy Ravenclaw girl were doing some ‘Good Auror, Bad Auror’ routine or if she genuinely cared. In either case, Daphne shrugged off the hand. She couldn’t forget why she was here. They were using her for her knowledge in the tickling arts, and that was it.  She had to escape as soon as she could. “We aren’t all bad people, you know,” Luna said, and for a moment Daphne feared she might be a Legilimens, but surely not. She couldn’t imagine a carefree klutz like Luna Lovegood being capable of such power… could she?

Daphne discarded those thoughts while they made their way through a thoroughly rusted gate that loudly creaked upon their arrival. The spells that kept the muggles away were still intact, but nothing could keep the rain away, nor the other eroding forces of nature.

C’est fantastique,” Fleur Delacour said as she stepped through the gate, with her wand out. “Looks like ze school still recognises magic, even after all zese years.”

The rest of them followed her, pointing at the shadows with their wands, except Daphne, of course, who had been disarmed during her capture. Daphne’s ears picked up a low murmuring in French as they walked past the gates into an overgrown courtyard full of weeds, brambles, and gigantic blooming flowers.

“What’s that mean, Fleur?” Tonks asked as she looked around for the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, an insistent whisper that grew louder and louder with each step.

“Please report to reception, students and…” Fleur frowned in confusion and brushed a lock of silvery-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Guardian?”

Tonks gave a throaty laugh. “Well, I’m certainly too old to pass myself as a seventh-year, eh? Even one who’s been held back a few years.” She shook her head, flapping her mane of wild auburn hair from side to side. “I think it’s best I stay back and guard the exit.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Luna said, “there might be Nargles or goodness know what else here. Not to mention Daphne’s friends.”

“I’m not sure about ze Nargles, but I agree,” Fleur said. “Stay with ‘er, Lavender.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the least important,” Daphne said, smiling smugly. The decision made perfect sense to Daphne; Fleur was essential because she knew French, Luna was more experienced, and Daphne herself, well, wasn’t reliable. It was a perfectly reasonable decision, but that spoilt brat took it like some personal affront, based on the way she was pouting.

Lavender shot Daphne a scathing look and for a moment, Daphne thought the other girl might lunge at her again, but Luna swiftly interposed between the pair. “Tonks needs someone to watch her back. We appreciate you doing this, Lavender.”

“Fine…” Lavender grumbled and followed Tonks as they stood by the gate, wands out and ready.

“Do you need to be like that?” Luna asked Daphne in a low voice as they trudged through the grass towards a pair of mossy great doors that must have been the entrance to the castle.

“She started it.”

“Actually, you did. When you put her in your stocks back in Hogwarts. I was there, too, remember?”

“Well… that was different! I was just doing my job! It wasn’t malicious!”

“Lavender probably feels that way, too, you know,” Luna said quietly, her gentle tone somehow making Daphne feel absurdly guilty.

They then wandered into a dusty reception room where an indestructible magic barrier prevented access to ‘foreigners’. Fleur had the tedious task of filling several forms to allow them to ‘apply’ as exchange students from Hogwarts to Rirebatons. Daphne hadn’t known Hogwarts had been around that long, but History had never been her strong suit. After Fleur pushed the forms through a slot, there was the sound of a lock opening, and the doors of the real Rirebatons Academy opened.  “Now it is time for ze sorting.”

Daphne had a tingly, tickly sort of feeling down the back of her neck that the sorting here would be a bit different that the Sorting Hat in Hogwarts…


“This sorting is bollocks. Absolute bollocks.”

Pansy Parkinson couldn’t blame Amanda Voss for the profanity. They had pushed past the initial wave of strange tickle defences this creaking, crumbling school had, yet it turned out all that had simply been a teaser, a warm-up, a preliminary to the real event.

“’The genuine challenge starts now’?” Voss was reading the words that floated above the door to their ‘sorting’, which had re-arranged from French to English once Rirebatons’s innate language conversion spell to assist exchange students had kicked in after entering the school ‘officially’. “What the ‘ell was the rest o’ that, then?”

Pansy could understand Voss’s discomfort. Being a Snatcher who had dropped out of school, she wasn’t exactly in her element at a school designed to train girls in the womanly arts of being demure, speaking properly, and apparently, tickling.

“While I don’t like myself agreeing with that one,” Victoria Lestrange said, with an indignant sniff, shaking her long, midnight-black hair. “I’m inclined to say she may be right. And needing us to dress in these rags? Talk about adding insults to injury.” The school had also required them to change into the school uniform, and several robes (only slightly moth-eaten) had Apparated in front of them.

The uniforms were blue short-sleeved robes that cut off at the knee and the elbow and brown gladiator sandals that went up to the knee. Pansy couldn’t say she found them especially fashionable, but considering how much Madam Malkin had charged for school uniform, Pansy thought rather highly of an education system that was kind enough to provide uniforms free to all students.

“You should really take those stockings off,” Milly Bulstrode suggested, after Victoria tried to walk through the door only to find the sign flashing its warning that all students must be correctly garbed during the sorting and reluctantly began to change.

Victoria glanced down at her luxurious silk stockings, which Pansy recognised as being from an expensive brand she had seen advertised in Knockturn Alley—she had always wanted a pair of them, but it had been far out of her price range.

“Why?” Victoria demanded.

“They make you more ticklish,” Milly said, with the air of an expert’s judgment. Indeed, Milly and Pansy had been the first ones to determine how useful a tool tickling could be. But Victoria Lestrange wasn’t the kind of person to take good advice.

“I can handle it,” Victoria said stubbornly, lacing up the school-regulation sandals under her dark stockings. 

A few minutes later, the girls took turns to step through the door to be sorted, but when Pansy walked through the door way, a brief light engulfed her, and she felt herself be tugged into another room, feeling the telltale lurching feeling of Apparition in play.

Pansy shakily got to her feet in a new room and found herself greeted by a ghostly feminine voice. “Welcome to the trial of elocution, new student. One is judged not only by the words one says, but how one says them. Thus, a true lady must keep her composure at all times, and strive to always speak in a way that reflects her good upbringing and education. This trial will test those skills.”

In the room was a desk, which Pansy sat on. When she placed her feet flat on the floor, she felt the curious sensation of stepping into water, or perhaps quicksand. When she glanced under the table to take a look, she saw that the sandal-clad feet had been seemingly submerged into the stone floor, all the way up to the ankles. To indicate the tickling was about to begin, the bottoms of her sandals had also apparently disappeared, as Pansy couldn’t feel them at all. She couldn’t feel much of her slender pale feet, in fact, as if they had fallen asleep. They weren’t exactly numb, but she found she couldn’t move them, either.

Sentences began floating in front of her eyes—mundane sentences, recipes, descriptions of plants, historical events, and even some poetry. Pansy recognised some of it, but couldn’t help but miss Daphne. Her friend had always been much more interested in this sort of thing than her, and she had even been able to stay awake in Professor Binns’s lessons some of the time, which was no small feat.

Even with her thoughts distracted, Pansy had been able to handle the initial wave of teasing tickles to her feet. She was no stranger to such business, after all. Pansy, Milly, and Daphne had drawn straws when it came to ‘experimentations’, and although Daphne was the most sensitive of the three, Pansy knew where her spots were, and so far, it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

Presently, she felt what was likely a pair of scratchy quills working on her soles—one for each foot.

They would start low at the heel, wander up Pansy’s high arches, circle the pink balls of the foot, dart across the ridge of the toes and then go back down. It was a very slow and methodical way of going about it, very meticulous, though Pansy personally held a different philosophy of tickle torture. Surprises were the name of the game, and some rigid and inflexible just led to predictability. Pansy’s voice trembled at times, rather wishing she could curl down her emerald green-painted toes when the feathers approach the little ridge near them, but there was nothing that could be done about it but focus on the words in front of her.

Then, it turned out Trial of Elocution did have a surprise for her, as one of the quills Transfigured into something Pansy had never felt before. Something warm, wet, and long slid down Pansy’s arch, making her gasp. It was a different kind of tease, something that battered at her composure because it felt, well, almost nice. As the tongue treated her right foot to tender licks, Pansy felt her concentration wavering, the sentences blurring from the new sensations emanating from her licked foot. Pansy would have curled her toes if she could and not just in ticklishness. The gentle kisses and nips felt almost like that of a lover, and Pansy had never known tickling like this before.

Pansy jiggled her legs, her body twisting and turning though her foot continued to be immovable and unresponsive. They still felt everything though, without a doubt. It was unmistakably a mouth, not just a tongue, and Pansy knew because of the sharp little nibbles and bites that were being delivered to her helpless foot.

“A true lady must always speak clearly,” the voice chastised, forcing Pansy to repeat the sentence because of the little titter that had slipped out. It also didn’t help either that the sentences were getting harder, longer, with more tricky words in them. She clenched her fists and stared intensely at the words at they came up in front of her, but steady giggles were starting to creep past her resistance.

The other quill didn’t give Pansy any respite either. It had settled itself around Pansy’s plump toes precisely scratching along those sensitive ridges under them or drawing incomprehensible symbols on the toes themselves. Occasionally, it would even plunge through the gaps between the toes, treating the undersides to a thorough feathering as the fluffy plumage snaked its way through the immobile digits. This always made Pansy jump

“A true lady must speak with the appropriate intonation,” the voice chided when the mouth suddenly took Pansy’s little toe in and suckled it gently, the tongue swirling over the pad of the toe. The novelty of the sensation had forced a mixed moan from Pansy that she hadn’t quite been able to muffle.

When the other quill was replaced by another hungry mouth, all pretence of fulfilling the trial went away. Overwhelmed by the sensation of having both her big toes sucked, Pansy let loose a shuddering groan, only for her cry of ecstasy to turn into a roar of laughter as the teeth nibbled at the pads of her toes. She pounded the wooden desk with her fists and squeaked, squealed, gasped, and moaned. Her lungs found fresh energy for laughter when the tongues migrated to her high arches, leaving the toes for the predatory quills which had returned to weave all around them. All the while, the sentences floated in front of Pansy as if mockery, waiting for her to speak with an elocution that wouldn’t be possible with her feet under such pressure.

Pansy made a few more attempts at the sentences, but she soon found she didn’t mind being in the lower percentile. She might as well enjoy what was happening while it lasted… she would have to ask Draco to try this when she returned to Hogwarts…


Victoria Lestrange had not imagined that something as simplistic as a pronunciation challenge would present much difficulty. She was a Lestrange after all, pure-blooded from the highest Wizarding stock, and a brilliant witch with multiple years in the top school in Europe. Yet two minutes into the Trial of Elocution, she was having second thoughts.

As her trapped nylon-clad feet were subjected to all manner of ghastly utensils, there was nothing she could but sit at the desk where the trial was taking place like a good girl and continue to recite her lines.

She gnashed her teeth and pounded her fists while what felt like a pair of makeup brushes dusting away at her feet. Victoria was no stranger to such brushes, though not in the weird way that Parkinson or Bulstrode might be—Victoria used it properly for its intended purpose! But Victoria would never have imagined that the brushes she used every day for applying blush or powder could have such a devastating effect on the smooth surface of her soles, which were accentuated by the softer, pliant fabric of her expensive stockings. Oh, why hadn't she listened? Why had she kept those blasted things on? The answer was fashion, of course, and Victoria knew she would choose fashion over inconsiderate concerns like practically over it any day of the week. After all, what was good about victory if you didn't look marvelous while doing so?

Her feet responsive yet unresponsive, paralysed in place yet every nerve receptor still working in full capacity (and then time), there was nothing Victoria could do but scream in frustration as makeup brushes (probably chosen intentionally to mess with her, the most fashionable of the group by far, she bet) continued to have their with her helpless, immaculate soles.

Victoria felt some very bad words forming on her tongue and plenty of them came bursting out when the two makeup brushes made their way to her black-painted toes.

“A proper lady must mind her language and never speak obscenities,” the nagging feminine voice echoed in her ears, sounding more insistent than usual. And it become apparent why, as the makeup brushes directed their ‘pampering’ efforts on her big toes and migrating to the little one and back again, taking their time to work from toe to toe, one at a time, spending eons in the gaps in between as well, the impossibly soft, feathery strands of that blinking brush touching the sensitive flesh everywhere with big sweeping motions.

Some more profanity later, Victoria shot up like someone had stabbed a fork in her back, as two more eager brushes took to swirling up and down her high, buttery arches. Her arches might have been even more ticklish than her long toes, something she would have vehemently insisted was impossible several minutes ago, as nothing could possibly tickle more. Howling and squealing, she was shaking her head so much that her carefully sculpted hair was being ruined, with even more cuss words erupting from her.

“A proper lady must reflect her schooling and never speak such base profanities.” The voice sounded smug, Victoria was sure. How much longer would this ghastly trial last?

She tried to focus on the words that came floating up in front of her, but her eyes were bleary, and she hated to admit, but damn, it tickled so much. 


If you told Millicent Bulstrode that her entry into a prestigious school hinged on a physical aptitude test, she would have said her chances were good—much better than they would have been in a normal series of events. She had always been strong and tall for a girl. Some people mocked her for being stout, and some even used the f-word, but they soon changed their tone after Milly put them into a headlock. She had suffered vicious teasing even at him with her older sister, Margaret, but that had soon changed once Milly towered over her, too. She had never shown much prowess in the precise niceties of magic, all that memorising and technical knowledge being quite confusing, but she had gotten tickle magic quite quickly, probably because of the physical component, and once she had, no one dared cross her. Her sister certainly hadn’t, after Milly invited her good pals Daphne and Pansy to a sleepover at the Bulstrode household.

The Trial of Agility was a Quidditch broom race, and although Milly had never tried out for the Slytherin team, it was more because of her lack of interest in such vainglorious activities than because of her lack of aptitude. Oh, and the practises were such a bore, as she remembered Draco once talking about in the Slytherin Common Room with Pansy in his lap.

An interesting bit of flavour to this challenge was her competition—scowling opposite her on a broomstick was none other than that brown-haired slattern, Lavender Brown. If it weren’t for the fact magic didn’t work here, she would have hexed the haughty Gryffindor at first glance, but Milly had tried that, and had been chastised by that annoying French voice moments later, and likely the same thing would happening if she actually physically went over and tried to give Brown the throttling she so deserved. So thrashing the arrogant Gryffindor girl in the contest would have to suffice for now.

She climbed onto the broom, threw some trash-talk Brown’s way, and waited for the race to begin.

As soon as they set off, Milly began to realise there was something rather special about these brooms. She hadn’t made much attention to them when she had gotten onto them. She wasn’t really knowledgeable in the ins and outs of broomsticks beyond the big brand names to make keen judgments. She had just known that the broomstick looked a bit old, had a pair of stirrups to sit your feet in, and the varnished wood was a dark brown. Her first few moments of flying had been unremarkable too, with the only notable thing was that the broomstick didn’t quite accelerate as quickly as her broomstick at home, but that was unsurprising with the new charms and aerodynamic design that must have been put into more recent models.

But within a few seconds of flying, she realised there was something amiss when what felt like the stiff end of a quill stroking across the side of her right foot. She glanced down and saw that the stirrups had turned into clamps which held her ankles trapped in place on the broomstick, and the bristles from the back of the broom had morphed a pair of thin bundles which turned forward to tease at her feet, which were only protected by the school regulation sandals. The thin bundles could cluster together to dust over her spots in such a way that reminded her of a basting brush, which Milly had once discovered was an exceptionally devilish tickling tool with Pansy playing the eager volunteer (it worked maddeningly on the tips of her toes). These bundles flittered along the insteps, the tops of the feet which were unprotected due to some seriously shoddy sandal design and the sides of the feet. For the soles, thinner, slender bristles slipped in the gap between shoe and foot to wreak havoc within, sliding and brushing all over the arch and heel.

Milly fidgeted and reached down at her ankles so much that she realised she was veering off in the wrong direction and was miles behind her competition. Gritting her teeth, she forced the tinkling tickles from her mind and corrected her path and jetted off. Lavender Brown wasn’t riding with very good form—she shook and quivered on her broom, based on the spluttering giggles that came from her mouth. Her ruby-red nail polish glinted in the sunlight as Milly caught up with her superior technique. The two of them were almost neck and neck, and they were only inches apart on their rocketing broomsticks  in their respective lanes. Milly would very much have liked to throw out some witty comment or one-liner, but she straining too hard not to laugh, half-muffled chortles clogging up her windpipe like a persistent cough that just wouldn’t go away. From Lavender’s flushed face, she must have been experiencing a similar sensation, but she seemed to concentrate harder as the finish line appeared in the distance.

It was then Milly came up with a cunning idea to ensure her victory. She stretched her hand out like a Seeker making a daring catch, and tunnelled her fingers into Lavender’s armpit. The brown-haired girl squealed and twisted away, the instinctive move decelerating her broom just enough to give Milly the lead.

Milly burst into laughter as she streaked past the finish line. It wasn’t just the reflexive laugh of the sensitive, but the triumphant laugh of roar of victory on her own terms, victory with her own ingenuity!


The Trial of Endurance, well, this was sure to be an interesting experience, Luna Lovegood thought, unlacing her shoes, slipping off her socks, and sliding her bare feet through the holes in the wall. The wall tightened around her ankles, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, fortunately. It felt soft, a bit like having your legs trapped around cushions. It really was a school that put the welfare of its students first, Luna realised.

While she sat upright in a plush and padded chair, the wall directly in front of her had a pair of dials—one over each foot. It was pure conjecture, but Luna’s shrewd Ravenclaw mind extrapolated that the dials would move in response to the tickling. Once they went from one side to the other, it probably meant she had reached her maximum tickling endurance, and her trial had ended. At least that was all she could hypothesise. Luna found herself more thrilled at the concept of her limits being nudged than daunted. After all, what was tickling but chuckles and giggles? She jiggled her legs and wiggled her feet beyond the wall in anticipation. She started to realise her pale petite feet felt rather warm, as if they were placed in close proximity to a flame. Was there some incendiary charm in place nearby? An old-fashioned lit brazier?

In any case, it certainly wasn’t hot enough to burn, but it was more than enough to set Luna’s soft soles to tingling with warmth and start to work up a sweat. Luna realised with a start that this would only accentuated the sensations, with her perspiring, blushing soles provided its own natural lubricant. It was clever, very clever. Oh, this was so exciting! When would it start?

Soon enough, it turned out. After a few minutes longer of the heat getting her feet nice and toasty, Luna heard a rumble from the other side of the wall. It seemed she was about to have company. She waved with her feet at the newcomer, unable to stifle the giggles that were already coming to her mouth.

She snickered as she felt a pair of curious hands stroke and examine her feet, as if doubting their veracity. Luna snorted as the fingers brushed from spot to spot like a cheeky massage.

A distorted voice could be heard from the wall, but she wasn’t able to ascertain what was being said: either a bit of playful trash-talking or compliments on the beauty of her feet, perhaps? Ever since she had discovered her fondness for being on this side of the feather, as it were, she had taken care to keep her tootsies in tip-top shape. She had no doubt that her tiny feet, with their pale, pinky complexion and bubbly toes painted in bold Ravenclaw colours of silver and blue would be quite enticing targets (silver on the right foot and blue on the left, just to be tastefully asymmetrical). And that was just the way she wanted it.

Luna had been hoping for bare fingers skittering across her slick soles, which was why the feeling of soft bristles made her burst out a quick squeak of laughter. The warmth of the flames definitely had a heightening effect on her sensitivity, combined with the fact she couldn’t see what was happening. 

The brush, or whatever it was, continued its merry dance across the left foot, leaving the right foot a tickle virgin for now. A strong hand held the flexing foot firmly in place to enable the brush to leisurely explore everywhere and anywhere. It slowly slid across the top of the sole, along the instep, which was such an unfrequented tickle spot that Luna had almost forgotten how ticklish she was there. Then it went for quick staccato swipes across the arches, where Luna had always been astutely aware of how powerfully sensitive a spot that was. Oh, the person behind this wall was good, very good, Luna thought with glee, as the bristles slowed to crawl across her helpless foot with a maddening slowness, now slithering under her toes.

As the soft brush took to exploring every one of her prettily painted toes, the firm hand ensuring her feet wouldn’t be wiggling free, Luna noticed through bleary eyes that the dial in front of the left foot was almost at the midway mark, while the dial in front of the right foot remained at its lowest level. This piqued Luna’s Ravenclaw curiosity enough to almost block out the toe tickling for a while, at least until the spot under her the pad of her little toe was discovered.

She could hear the girl on the other side of the same wall say something. Probably something along the lines of how she hoped the right foot was as ticklish as the left. It soon became abundantly clear that it was, as the brush made a prompt introduction to that foot too. The skilful brush-wielder used the same strategy of holding Luna’s sensitive foot in place while she worked, and she was thorough to plumb all the spots. She took particular care in returning to the same spots she had teased so thoroughly on the left foot, just to see if the right foot was equally ticklish on those identical locations. (This was the case almost all the time). Whooping and squealing with laughter, Luna’s eyes glimpsed the dial on her right foot slowly rising up to the same spot as the one on her left foot—about halfway. Oh, no, so she was almost half done… but it was hard to feel too disappoint when the girl’s took turns scrubbing one foot thoroughly then the other, constantly mixing things up so Luna could never quite get used to what was happening, squeaking in surprise every time the foot under ticklish duress was changed.

Oh, boy, this was fun.  


Privately, Fleur Delacour had never quite understood what all the hullabaloo was about tickling. Sure, she knew it tickled a little when she got a pedicure, and she had gotten into her fair share of tickle fights with her little sister, Gabrielle, but how viable was it a weapon? I mean, it would hardly work on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, would it? But she supposed that any kind of protection against the dark arts would be useful.

With that in mind, Fleur wasn’t sure what she expected during the Trial of Skill.

She walked through a torch-lit corridor, the faint, muffled sound of laughter in the distance doing little to quiet her nerves. Her school-regulation sandals slapped against the stone floor till she found a stool waiting for her, and a pair of feet sticking out of the wall.

There were a set of what looked a little like light bulbs perched over each foot, and the calm, reassuring French voice explained that the Trial was to extract enough laughter from those trapped feet as possible in twenty minutes, with the lights being a reflection of one’s ability. 

Well, that was simple enough. A tray slid out from the wall, and Fleur got to work. The pair of feet were, in a word: uncouth. Fleur’s own feet were shapely, slender, and soft, with elegant-long toes and the natural pale pink base and bright white tips which many of French descent had. These feet were tanned and slightly callused, with roughly-cut toes. There was a slight sweaty, overripe cheese scene emanating from them too, which suggested this girl was not exactly the type to wash her feet in rosewater. 

The girl was either the sporty type, or more likely, the kind who didn’t care much about her feet. Who was she? Fleur had noticed the other girl’s feet when they were all changing into their sandals, and it certainly wasn’t one of them. Fleur felt a bit better knowing she wouldn’t be tickle torturing one of her friends.

After an experimental scratch down the feet were both fingers barely garnered any kind of reaction, from the feet or from the lights, an idea popped in Fleur’s head. If tough girl’s feet were too tough to feel the tickling, then perhaps a pedicure was in order… Fleur always giggled like crazy during her monthly pedicures, biting her lower lip and giggling like crazy under her breath.

Rummaging around in the tray, Fleur was happy to find that a pumice stone, a foot brush, and several bottles of oil that would be perfect for what she had in mind.

Fleur began with the lotion, squirting liberal amounts of oil all over the soles. Then, the foot brush came into play and waged a furious war with the calluses on the flapping pair of bronzed feet. The girl beyond the wall started to laugh and struggle, just as Fleur hoped she would. She scrubbed away and brushed those rough feet up and down the arches and underneath the flailing toes like no tomorrow.

A fresh squirt of oil later, Fleur reached for the pumice stone, and began rubbing it around the yellowish ball of the right feet. Already, the foot felt softer and smoother to the touch. The girl behind the wall clearly was not a fan of the pumice stone, as the foot writhed and kicked in Fleur’s grasp. The light above the foot glowed with approval as Fleur went down to the arches, relentless pumicing away. The fact that the girl’s feet would be much softer and more sensitive for the remainder of her time in Rirebatons brought a smile to her face, especially as Fleur had a sneaking suspicion this girl was one of the Dark Lord’s followers.

“I ‘ope you are enjoying your pedicure…” Fleur said, reaching for the other foot. 


There was no mistaking the pair of feet that awaited Milly Bulstrode in her trial of skill. After all, she had tickled this pair of pale, smallish feet with the birthmark under the arch dozens and dozens of times.

“Oh, Daphne,” she said, and gave the feet sticking out of the wall a little rub. “Wish we could be meeting under better circumstances, but here we are. I hope you’re okay. We miss you. They aren’t mistreating you, are they?” Daphne’s velvety-soft, immaculate feet did not make any response, except for some wiggling in response to the gentle fondling. It seemed her friend could not hear her.

Milly sighed. Well, what to do now? She gave her best friend’s big toe a little pinch and wiggle, and she was able to make out a little muffled squeak from beyond the wall. She knew Daphne Greengrass’s alabaster feet like the back of her hand, and she could have tickled them silly with her eyes closed. After all, the art of tickle torture was very much about information—what was the most effective tool you could use? Where was your lee’s worst spot? Blindfold? Verbal teasing? Milly wanted to win, wanted to demonstrate her prowess in front of all these others, but at the same time, she was not about to put her dear friend through unnecessary torment. That bitch Lavender Brown was probably doling it out and then some.

So Milly decided she would win, but in a way that wasn’t going to be too traumatic for poor old Daphne. She took her index finger and traced it down Daphne’s arch, the right foot, then the left, then the right again. A few times was all it took to get the feet wiggling and giggles to come floating through the wall. The lights above the feet started to glow. Now that her feet were warmed up, Milly cracked her knuckles and went to work.


There was no mistaking that whoever or whatever was tickling her terribly sensitive feet, they were very good at it. They knew all the spots. Daphne knew her tender feet had no particular shortage of sweet spots, but it was still a surprise when her unknown tormentor made a beeline to the tops of her feet, and slid and skittered long fingernails all over the flesh there.

The insteps weren’t a commonly targeted location, and Daphne had hoped her (marginally less) arches would be enough to hold her tickler’s attention, but nope, whoever was on the other side of the wall had to be a mind-reader or something like that.  Long nails spidered along the ankles and sides, and Daphne’s splayed and flexed her feet in a desperate attempt to get her feet away. The best she could manage was pointing her toes forward, but that proved ineffective as it was almost like she was holding her feet still on purpose for an easy stroke from top of the ankle all the way to her toenails.

She almost jumped out of her seat when she felt a feather began to brush ever so gently along the sides of her feet. An uplifting realisation gripped her as her shrewd mind calculated the odds of someone else knowing that was her favourite way to be tickled. She shivered at the feather’s kisses, now dancing along the insteps, the light bristles setting her toes to curling and opening in rapid succession. The tickling suddenly stopped to give her a quick foot rub. It was then, she knew for a certainty this had to be one of her friends.

After a few seconds of bliss, Daphne jolted and squealed as she felt the nails scratch the tops of her feet, but after a moment, she realised it was the same symbol being repeated, over and over again. It was a letter M. Milly. She smiled and laughed. Nothing was better than being tickled by your friends.


Well, this was a bit of an odd ending to one’s exams, Fleur thought. It was customary in Beauxbatons during the end of examination season to bring out some fine French sherry spiced with just a drop or two of Firewhisky, but it seemed things were done a bit differently in Rirebatons. She had been transported to what apopeared to be a beach within the castle, as the large expanse certainly hadn’t been visible during their preliminary reconnaissance of the area. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but it was common knowledge that magic always found a way. Wherever she was, it was definitely a beautiful scenic locale—the sun was high and blazing in the sky, with a faint salty breeze rustling through her long hair.

The only thing which prevented him from enjoying her situation a bit more was the fact she seemed to be buried in the sand, with only her neck and bare feet sticking out. She looked and her bare feet and gulped. Having endured trial of endurance, where some dastardly witch did unspeakable things with a hairbrush to her soles (her feet still tingled at the thought) she had a good inkling of what awaited her. She seemed to be alone on this pictueque beach, but she had a feeling that would soon change.

The familiar voice which had accompanied her throughout her trials spoke again, but this time, the voice had a distinctively displeased tone. “New student, your performance has been below our standards, as you have no displeased the required elegance, aggression, and skill required of all those who attend her. We hope you reflect upon your shortcomings and strive to improve yourself in the future.”

“B-but why?” spluttered Fleur. “I did not do zat badly, did I?” Her trial of skill had gone well, at least—she had definitely got the girl with the unsophisticated feet laughing quite a lot by the end of it. She had stuttered a bit during the trial of elocution, yes, and her trial of motor skills had been a disaster, and her trial of endurance had reduced her to tears, but still!

The only reply Fleur received was the sound of light scuttling in the sand caught their attention. What looked like a pair crabs were scurrying their way towards her. When they drew near, making a beeline to her exposed, bare soles, Fleur’s long toes immediately curled down in fright at what ticklish fate awaited her. One crab was silver, glinting in the sunlight. Each of its legs and claws had little silver wheels with sharp, pin-like points. The other one was brown, with legs and claws with serrated teeth that reminded her of combs.

Fleur remembered one time when she was younger, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, she had gone on a beach holiday with her family to Urville-Nacqueville in Normandy. Fleur had been at that age where she was starting to realise how much attention boys were paying to her, and she had strutted on the beach with such confidence in her new swimsuit. The sun had felt so nice on her skin, much as it did now.

Gabrielle had pestered and pleaded to play buried in the sand with her, and after putting it off for a few days, loving sister that she was, Fleur finally relented. Of course, the little trickster had neglected to bury her ankles. She had shown her sister a pair of seagull feathers she had found on the beach and began helping herself to Fleur’s very ticklish feet.

The first brush of the feather sent young Fleur giggling, and when Gabriella whisked the wispy all around and between her toes she let loose several high-pitched squeaks. Fleur tried to clench her toes shut to protect the undersides, but her sister would just wave her feathers along her wrinkled soles until she got too tired to keep them tense. Then the feathers would dance all over the toes again.

Before long, her parents come over to investigation the cacophony, but to Fleur’s embarrassment, they joined in instead of stopping her! She still remembered the flush as several of the cute boys who had smiled at her came along to watch and chuckled behind their hands. Sure, Gabrielle had gotten her comeuppance the next morning, when
Fleur had tied her up with blankets while she was still sleeping and they had played a new game involving a lot of laughter and a hairbrush, but still. Would this be worse?

Fleur squealed as the crabs made first contact with her soles with all their innate quarter-Veela-sensitivity, jarring her from her reminiscence. 

She glared down at her bare feet. Like every part of her body, they were perfectly in proportion, and she had the same natural French tips which came to many of those of French descent.. The sight of the two peculiar crab-like creatures scrabbling over them prevented her from appreciating their inherent aesthetic appeal, however. The Witches of Rirebatons must have shown some aptitude in Transfiguration, as the crabs were apparently based on pinwheels and combs, which were both tickling tools Daphne Greengrass had demonstrated the effectiveness on (they had drawn straws to see who would be the ‘test subject’, and Lavender Brown and her pampered pink soles had experienced firsthand how devilish such tools could be).

It was hard to say which foot bore the worse brunt of the tickling. Most tickling was easy to understand, to an extent—it was either of the itchy, scratchy variety or the tingly, fluffy variety. Feathers and toothbrushes were the two sides of the spectrum Fleur understood it. The combs were easy enough to comprehend, though of course, that did not mean they were any more bearable. The crab was equipped with very fine-toothed combs for claws, and it was an expert at scritching and weaving them all over the place, particularly under and between Fleur’s flailing digits, where the French Witch had quickly discovered she really did not like them being anywhere near. The claws were not that much bigger than toothpicks, yet that only seemed to make them more effective, as it allowed them to easily scamper under and between toes. Fleur kicked and flexed her feet as much as she could in her sandy confines, but every time she successfully nudged the crab away, it only brought her half a second of respite before it tirelessly went straight back to its task of tormenting her slender toes with aplomb. It was focusing its efforts especially on the base of the littlest toe of Fleur’s left foot at the moment, which was proving to be a special kind of agony.

The right foot experienced the strange touch of the sharp metal wheels. It was here that the clear dichotomy between scratchy and tingly began to grow a bit blurry. The second crab’s claws had little wheels which rolled easily up and down sensitive flesh, stimulating all of it with prickly sharp touches. The pins of the wheels ran along her arches, but they could hardly be said to be scratching. It was more like the sensation you got when someone ran a finger down your back, only magnetising a thousand-fold with pointy prongs that drew screaming attention to every nerve as they wandered past. For all her vaunted intelligence, Fleur couldn’t actually work out how it tickled so terribly when the pinwheels glided down her high arch or the pads of her toes. Fleur had to keep her right foot tightly curled too, because reflexive swiping of her foot was a much more risky proposition with the uncomfortably pricks of those pinwheels, though they did not quite seem sharp enough to pierce the flesh, they were still no fun to be hitting with bare soles.

All in all, it was too much, far too much. And there seemed to be nothing poor Fleur could do to abate the sensations, either. All she could do was was laugh there, trapped with the thoughts of her failure during the trials. Reflection was perhaps the cruellest thing, and it showed that Rirebatons had their own unique approach to learning…


“I can’t believe they bloody painted my toes pink,” Voss moaned as she and the other winners—Pansy, and Milly sat on chairs to ‘reflect’ upon what a good job they had done. She cringed a bit as a pumice stone worked on the bottom of her foot. A pair of disembodied hands were working on each girl, either massaging  or wielding a variety of foot pampering implements.

“Don’t complain,” Pansy said. “After all, you’ve no idea how others might have it…”


Harry Potter TK: Rirebatons 1
Imagine how flattered I was when :iconnecromansara: wanted to commission me to continue my HP series from so long ago!

To make a long story short, it's various HP people in a magic school of tickling.

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The Inker, Part 2


“My God, detective, please tell me you’re making some kind of progress on this case of yours,” Superintendent Matthews said, gazing through his thick spectacles over a pile of papers on his desk. “We’ve had complaints from tattoo parlours about you harassing their customers, we’ve had complaints from bars about you demanding information on clientele without a warrant, and you’ve even tried to put a claim for a Chinese translator? Are you just trying to make as much trouble for the department as possible?”

“I’ve been investigating, sir,” Alex said, through gritted teeth. She forced herself to take a deep breath, unclenching her white-knuckled fists. She resisted the urge to shout at him, saying: “This is what we do! I’m a cop! I’m not here to make friends like some kind of hippie. I’m here to catch criminals, and I’m trying to take this freak off the streets.”

Matthews rubbed his eyes. “You can investigate without leaving a bureaucratic nightmares trailing behind you.”

“Nightmares,” Alex repeated, in a low hiss. “Nightmares are what these girls are going through. A nightmare is what Samantha endured at the hands of this creep who goes out abducting and torturing young women.”

“Detective, I’m not saying you can’t hunt after this guy,” Matthews said, sighing. “But I need you to explain why this keeps happening.”

Alex crossed her arms. “From our witness, we discovered that our perp marks his victims with a tattoo – a feather on their right ankle.”

“This is the witness with the drug history, correct?”

“Fuck you,” Alex very almost said. Instead, she choked down her fury and nodded. “I have absolute faith in her testimony.”

“I understand. Please continue.”

“The tattoo was expertly done. This meant that the perp was highly likely to be a proprietor of a tattoo parlor or at least, a worker there. That’s why I went there to ask around.”

“Three owners said you harassed customers and workers.”

Alex threw her hands up in the air. “I asked questions! That’s all I need! It’s not my fault if they got offended by every question. Was it so wrong to ask if any of their employees had criminal records?”

“No, but I can understand why the owners of these establishments may not have appreciated you asking those type of questions in front of customers.” Matthews gave another sigh and scribbled something down on the paper in front of him. “You do see, that don’t you?”

“Yes,” Alex said, seething. She had half a mind to make the lives of those parlors who had complained about her very difficult indeed… but she was not that kind of cop, though she was sorely tempted, at the moment.

“How do you explain needing a translator? Those aren’t expensive, you know… our department only has a limited budget for them, and we need to save it for refugee situations or human trafficking cases from Eastern Europe.”

“I had a witness,” Alex said, stubbornly. “That’s what you keep prattling at me to find, isn’t it?”

“Detective, I’m warning you. Don’t use that kind of language with me.”

“I found one of them! She’s the kind of victim the guy always preys on – those lost girls that no one pays attention to. She was one of those fresh-of-the-boat Asian types. Barely spoke English, but I knew what she had gone through.”

“And how did you know this?”

“She had the tattoo. The feather on her ankle. She kept pointing to it, crying, and mumbling in Chinese. I got a lot of useful information from her.”

“Such as?”

“She had been wandering the streets at night, looking for a drug store. She asked the guy for directions in her broken English. The guy told her and offered her a cigarette. You know those Asian girls – always worried of offending others, so she took it. She fell unconscious and woke up in that freak’s dungeon, just like Samantha. He tortured her for hours, and then let her go.”

“Is this girl… reliable?”

Alex shot him a withering look. “She’s no druggie, and she’s not mentally impaired, if that’s what you’re getting at. She is sixteen, though.”

“Oh, Alex…” Mathews groaned. “Did you even get permission from a guardian before you conducted this interrogation? Or should I expect a complaint in the next few days about how you brow-beat a confession out of a minor?”

“There was nothing like that, sir,” Alex hissed. “I did everything by the book, this time.”

“This time,” Matthews repeated. “Your ‘methods’ really don’t instil in me a great deal of confidence, detective. I am of half a mind to just take you off this case, right here and now.”

“You can’t!” Alex said, in a louder voice than she had meant to use. She coughed and cleared her throat. “Erm, what I mean to say is…”

“Save it, detective,” Matthews said, sighing for umpteenth time. “I know exactly what you mean. How many victims do you think this person has… abducted?”

“At least a dozen, sir. I’ve been looking through missing persons reports, and I’m convinced that many of these girls were abducted by this guy.”

“Really? Then, why haven’t we heard of him before?”

“Firstly, he tends to target girls that won’t be missed – the underprivileged or unconventional members of society. He doesn’t go for the middle-class white girl who goes to a good school. Also, I see lots of missing persons reports that were cancelled a few days later. My theory is that these girls were reported missing by their family or friends, but when the pervert released them after a few days, they didn’t want to talk about what had happened.”

“Why is that?” If this man is as monstrous as you say, then surely, they would want to report him to the police…”

“Sir, forgive me for saying this, but you wouldn’t understand, not being a woman.”

“They would be accused of making up a story for attention. You know how the media makes a big deal whenever there’s a freak on the loose. They would feel too embarrassed to talk about this… tickle torture. And since they had no signs of a rape crime on them, there isn’t a great deal of evidence supporting what really happened. I mean, they were basically unharmed. If some gangbanger’s daughter came round claiming she had been abducted, tortured, and inked, would you take her so seriously? Or would you dismiss her?” 

Matthews chewed on that, drumming his fingers along his oak desk as he thought. “Keep me posted on this list of suspects, detective,” he said, finally. “But I’m still considering appointing an overseer just to make sure you don’t get into anymore trouble. Someone reliable, like Stevens, perhaps.”

“Stevens?” Alex wasn’t certain she wanted that glory hound anywhere near her investigation.

“Stevens. So consider this your official warning. I don’t want to hear about you sliding a toe out of line. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said, through gritted teeth.

“Dismissed, detective.”

Alex tried to resist the urge to slam Matthews’s door shut and was only partially successful. She returned to her desk and slumped over it, using an open case folder as a makeshift pillow.

Could she have had a worse ending to what had been such a fruitful day?


Could she have had a worse ending to what had been such a fruitful day? She had got up at noon, gulping down several glasses of water to try to ease her terrible hangover. She had jumped into the shower, ate brunch, filched a few hundreds from her dad’s wallet, and headed out to her favourite club. The bartender greeted her with a kiss on the lips.

“The usual, bae?” he asked, smiling.

“The usual, bae,” she answered. She called everyone bae, especially when they were the ones buying her drinks. She had danced for a while, letting her toned, sexy body gyrate to the pulsing beat of the music. All that dancing gave her a thirst, and she downed several cocktails – compliments of the house. Then, she sat on the bar stool and gossiped, laughing as tipsiness had its usual effect on her, making everything seem funnier.

The bartender slipped her some white powder, and things got even gigglier. By then, it was nightfall.

“The gentleman over there bought this drink for you,” the bartender said, no hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Oh?” she said, tousling her long, bleached blonde hair. She looked at him and waved back. “How sweet.”

“He looks rich,” the bartended confided. “Sit tight, see if he buys you another one.”

“Good idea.”

And sure enough, another drink came. This time, the man came with it, swaggering towards her.

“Can we talk? You caught my eye a while ago. You must be the hottest girl in the club.”

She tried not to laugh as the bartender yawned. It really wasn’t an especially imaginative pickup line. “Get me another drink, and we can talk about my raging alcohol problem,” she said, giggling.

He laughed, but she noticed that the mirth didn’t seem to extend to his eyes. “I love your shoes, by the way.”

“My shoes?” she giggled, guys were often complimenting her low-cut top or her butt, but rarely her shoes. “Thanks. They were on sale.” She flexed her legs, showing off her high-heeled sandals.

“Say, you look like a girl who enjoys having a good time,” he said, reaching into his coat and pulling out two herbal cigarettes. She smiled. You could not go wrong with weed. “Wanna go outside and smoke these?”

“Do I ever,” she said, walking outside.


Alex sat at the coffee shop where she had agreed to meet her step-sister, Vanessa. Her thoughts kept replaying the scene with Matthews, thinking what she should have said, how she could have vindicated herself. She let out a big sigh. It seemed you only ever came up with the perfect comeback when it was far too late.

She glanced at her watch. Vanessa was running late… surely, she hadn’t been, no, that was crazy. That was stupid. Vanessa didn’t match The Inker’s MO, and besides, what were the odds? She was just being silly, the way a paranoid person might assume every stranger walking down the same path was a spy sent to kill him. Sometimes, Occam’s Razor was right – the simplest explanation was the correct one. Vanessa was just late because of traffic or something.

Sighing again, Alex started to ruffle through her bag, looking for something to distract herself with. Naturally, the only thing she had on her was the case file on this mysterious tickler. Resigning herself to destiny playing cruel games on her, Alex decided if she had to wait, she might as well be productive with her time. She began to ruffle through the notes she had gotten from the translator. There were drawings the Chinese witness had done, diagrams, transcripts of things she had written – there was a reason why the whole thing had been so expensive.

Alex placed all the documents around the table and closed her eyes, trying to put together and visualise what had happened, what it must have been like for this poor girl in a strange land. In her mind’s eye, she tried to put the events together.

A thin man with sunglasses and a baseball cap offered the girl a cigarette, which she took, reluctantly. He lights it for her, smiling, seeming so friendly, like the quintessential Caucasian gentleman. She takes a tentative puff, then, seeing his encouragement, a large one, then she falls and faints and would have hit the floor had he not caught her. He whispered words in her ears as he carries her away. Maybe to a car? She doesn’t remember.

She wakes up blindfolded, scared, hearing only the sound of a leaky air-conditioning unit. She tries to move to take the blindfold off, but she can’t – she tries to speak, but there’s a gag in her mouth. She hears a voice in the room. She can’t understand the words exactly, but the tone is mocking. It is the man from before.

He pulls off her sandals. She wiggles her bare feet, afraid he is going to do something horrible to them. She wonders if she will be whipped, mutilated. Tears start to stain her gag. She feels something touch her feet. She shudders, not even sure how to react. It is a riding crop? She gasps, not even able to comprehend how to react when she recognises that it must be a feather. It is so soft and so… tickly, trailing over her nude body. She knows the tales, of how, in her country, thousands and thousands of years ago, tickle torture was performed regularly in the courts of the Han Dynasty. It was the preferred punishment for nobility, as it left few visible marks and the victim could recover relatively rapidly. But she does not feel like a noble right now, as the feather darts up and down her feet, sawing between her small toes. She feels like a little girl, helpless and powerless.

And it only gets worse. The feather is replaced by a toothbrush, and the dozens of tiny, tiny bristles, drive her absolutely crazy. She wails and screams, squirming and struggling, but the straps don’t move an inch. There is nothing she can do but moan into the gag as he scrubs deep into her arches and under and between her toes. Sometimes, he even grabs her foot eith a strong hand so she can’t even scrunch her feet. Even that is denied her.

And things only get worse. So much worse. He…

“Alex!” a friendly, familiar voice greeted, jolting the detective from her disturbed reverie. “Sorry, I’m late. Been waiting long?”

“No,” Alex said, in a voice that was a little shaky and a little hoarse. “No, not at all. I’ve just been… thinking.”


“I’ve been thinking… why have my conquests lacked so flavour, recently?”

She didn’t know what he was talking about. She didn’t seem to understand anything about what was happening to her. He guessed he couldn’t blame her for that. It was clear the country’s education had failed her, though she was pretty enough to look at, in a cheap, trailer-trash sort of way.

He had come across her on the highway – she had been on the edge of the road, her slightly tanned arm extended as she stuck the painted thumb of the outstretched hand upward with the hand closed in the traditional hitchhiker’s gesture. He pulled over and threw open the door of the passenger seat for her.

“Aww, thanks, darlin’,” she said, in a southern drawl. “I’ve been standing there for what feels like hours! It seems like folk here just don’t trust nobody.”

“Well, you never know who might meet out here,” he said, smiling as his eyes trailed down her body. She wore tiny denim shorts, battered Vans, and a purple and white plaid shirt that made her look like a farmer’s daughter. Well, maybe a farmer’s daughter who was trying to ‘make it’ in the city. Her red hair had been crudely dyed, as he noticed that the roots of her hair were a dark brown, and he observed a tattoo creeping out of the sleeve of her left forearm.

“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Where ya headed?

“Into the city,” he said, wishing she would hurry up and get in. ”I work in a tattoo parlour.”

“Ahh, I can see that!" she said, climbing into the car. He drove. "Maybe you don’t mind fixing me up later. I’ve been thinking of getting one here,” she said when they stopped at a red light, pointing down at her ankle, where she currently wore a little black leather anklet.

“Oh? What kind of design?”

“I was thinkin’ maybe some nice flowers? Or a bird?”

“Oh, how original,” he said, drily.

“Thanks,” she said, failing to detect the sarcasm in his voice. “My girlfriends say I got purdy feet, so I think it’s a good idea.”

“You can never go wrong with tattoos,” he said. “They may everyone look more… interesting. You smoke?”

“You bet I do. This grass?”

“The best.”

“I wonder if it’s different in the city,” she said, her big, gullible, trusting brown eyes glimmering at him as he passed her the drugged spiff.

“Oh, it is. Take a good long puff, and you’ll see what I mean.”

And now, here she was, strapped, stripped, gagged, and bound in his dungeon. She hadn’t entirely been lying that her feet were ‘purdy’, as her toes were a nice hot pink colour and the soles of her feet were a much lighter shade than the rest of her, a pleasant shade of peachy pink, but feet that were decent didn’t hide the fact she stank of a small-city girl trying too hard. U

She stank of other things, too, of smoke, cigarettes, sweat, and only under that, fear. Under her tacky farmgirl garb, he had found a pierced navel and a tasteless tattoo on her right flank. He had been exceptional brutal in his tickling there, even for him. He lathered up with soap and scrubbed her with toothbrushes as if doing so could wash off her ugly tattoo.

After he was done, he sprayed his dungeon with air-freshener, disgusted that he would have to do such a thing. God, it felt like every day, his captures were getting worse. What was next, some homeless woman? They were such cheap trophies, lowering the tone of his torture chamber. He looked at the video camera he had setup to record the session and wondered if he might just delete the footage straightaway.

His past few had been like this, too, little, inconsequential people that failed to entertain him beyond the initial snare. His latest two conquests had both been underwhelming The blonde wasn't really as ticklish as he would have hoped, but at least her feet had tasted great, unlike the Chinese girl who had been crying all the time, which had been bored him after a while. At least the Chinese girl's reaction to the vibrator had been fun, shuddering and moaning like she was having her very first orgasm - he had needed to use the vibrator for quite a while on the blonde slut till the came. But why did he feel this way? He wondered, bringing the pail and soap of water to the hillbilly’s bare feet.

He looked at them with distaste. Who knew where they had been? He would need to give them a thorough wash before he even considered putting his mouth anywhere near them. What a drag… He sprinkled them with the soapy water, making the redneck yelp in her gag at the sudden cool sensation. He scrubbed lazily up her foot, from the sole to the pink arch, his mind wondering what had changed. These girls had been his type for many years, now. But they seemed to no longer satisfy him. He brushed harder at the ball of her feet, as if it was her fault.

He had a feeling that he knew why. The detective. He wasn’t sure of her name, but he has seen her come into the parlour, blustering about wanting information for a case. Just from the look in her pretty eyes, he had known she was looking for him.

The thought that someone had finally caught on to his activities should have scared him, he thought as he took the toothbrush between hillbilly’s toes, illiciting a muffle squeak from his captive. Yet somehow, the thought of having some attractive detective sniffing on his trail was delicious. He had been used to being the hunter that he forgot about the thrill of being chased, evading your foes, outwitting them, always being one step ahead.

Perhaps that was why these beta bitches didn’t interest him anymore. He wanted the detective. He wanted her here. He wanted to break her. He wanted to smell the fear on her as he played with her body over and over again. He didn’t even realise how hard he was scrubbing the brush over the hillbilly’s toes till he looked down and saw how red she was around her toes.

“I should let you go,” he said. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” He pulled a towel and began drying her feet, wiping away the suds. “Then again, I suppose it would be unjust to let you leave here without having the full experience…”

He licked his lips.               


Vannessa licked her lips. “I love the coffee, here!” she said, sighing contentedly. “I swear, it gets better and better, every time we come!”

“I know this is your favourite place,” Alex said, smiling. “That’s why we always end up meeting here! I’m surprised you aren’t tired of it, by now.”

“Oh, you can never be tired of such heavenly flavours…” Vannesa said, giggling. “How are things with you at work?”

“Well…” Alex said, not even sure where to begin, or if she even wanted to tell her 19-year old stepsister about such things. “Just… make sure you don’t go out too late, okay? Don’t accept drinks from strangers.”

“Oh, Alex…” Vannesa said, smiling fondly. “You give me this speech whenever you’re dealing with some awful cases. I’ll be careful, don’t worry! I know how to take care of myself.”

“I know you do, sis, but there are bad people in this city,” Alex replied, thinking back to the girls the Inker had abducted. “The stuff I’ve seen… it keeps you up at night,” she said, remember her nightmare.

“Honestly, have you thought about changing jobs?” Vanessa said, with the innocent naiveté of someone who had only ever had one job. She currently worked at the local library to make some money to buy herself a car, and she didn’t realise that changing careers wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded. “You’re always so stressed out about work… I’m not sure it’s healthy for you.”

“Well, I never was as good as student as you,” Alex said, shrugging. “And I think I’d be bored stiff at an office job, don’t you? ” They both tittered at the thought.

“That’s true… you prefer a more… active, adventurous lifestyle.”

“That’s a lovely euphemism,” Alex replied, remembering how she had run away from home when she was eighteen to pursue how own life, this ‘active lifestyle’ when Vanessa had only been eight years old. Alex’s dad remarrying had been a part of that, though neither sister was comfortable talking about that kind of thing – it was best left buried away.

In many ways, Vanessa was everything Alex had never been. While Alex had been the consummate rebel, Vanessa had been every mother’s perfect dream – beautiful, intelligent, and most importantly, mild-mannered. She had never gotten into any kind of trouble, avoiding the normal pitfalls of boys or partying, graduating with excellent academic results from high school, last fall.

Alex still remembered how surprised she had been when she saw her sister for the first time after returning from the marines. The last time Alex had seen Vanessa was when the former was six years old, so the mental picture Alex had in her mind was of that six year-old girl, chubby and shy, mixed with the portrait of Vanessa’s mother, Alex’s stepmother, whom Alex had never gotten along with. She had been the reason Alex had left home – after the glue holding them together, Alex’s dad, had died.

And Vanessa had changed so much, since then. Vanessa was the portrait of natural, youthful beauty with her big brown eyes, faithful and innocent like a puppy's.  Her long light-brown hair tumbled past her shoulder, framing her heart-shaped face, nicely. She wore minimal makeup, but she wasn't the kind of girl who needed it to look breathtaking.

After returning from the marines and starting her police apprenticeship, Alex had tried to reconnect with her stepsister, feeling a pang of guilt for abandoning this young girl to the clutches of that awful woman,

“Hey, you know I’m here for you if anything ever happens,” Alex said, putting a hand on Vanessa’s shoulder. “If some creep is giving you trouble at work, you just call me, and I’ll kick his ass.”

“I know you will,” Vanessa said, smiling appreciatively. “

“Actually, why don’t I help you finance your car?” Alex suggested. “It’s better than letting the money sit around in my bank account.”

“You don’t need to do that!” Vanessa insisted, but there was an excited tone to her voice that Alex knew she was secretly pleased that Alex had offered. She was only saying no so she didn’t seem greedy. She wanted Alex to offer again.

“Come on. I insist.”

“Oh… oh, go on, then!” Vanessa said, caving. “Fine. But you have to help me pick the model!”

“Fine, fine,” Alex said, laughing. There was nothing that satisfied her more than this. Sure, there was a certain amount of gratification from taking scumbags off the streets, but this – feeling the familial love was what she had never truly had, and she couldn’t think of anything that mattered more to her, right now.


She couldn’t think of anything that mattered more to her, right now.

She had to leave, had to escape. She kept tugging on her ankles, but all that was doing was making her bare ankles sore from rubbing against the padded foot holes of the strange contraption she found herself bound in. Again.

Samantha whimpered into her gag, though the sad sound was promptly enveloped by a fresh cackle of laughter as he worked some new device over her trapped, bare soles. She thought she had been so careful. How could this have happened again? After being abducted by him, this monstrous tickler, she had told herself she would never make the same mistakes again. She would never party in seedy bars, accept drinks from strangers, all that shit.

Yet here she was, laughing and laughing into the gag, as her pale toes quivered helplessly in their binds. She had gotten a call from a police officer saying they had found some evidence in the bar and asking her to come down as soon as possible. Only it hadn’t been a police officer, and the rest was history. Samantha wasn’t quite what the fuck was he pulling through her toes, but it felt very bristly and tiny as it snaked along those sensitive undersides. She pounded her head back into the padded headrest, hoping that would knock her out, but she knew better – there was no escape till he was bored of her.

Blindfolded and gagged, there was nothing Samantha could do but grunt meaninglessly as he had his utter, absolute way with her, just like last time. It was shocking to consider that her warped, tickle-abused mind was thinking about how it was better that he was here. His… touch might have been preferable to his machines.

A few hours earlier, Samantha had woken up in the same cold, remorseless bondage apparatus as last time, her body stretched out and taut, with the feeling of small brush-like devices taped all over her body. The only thing she had heard was the drip of the ventilation system, and the faint smell of the crazy psycho’s body spray. The door burst open.

“Tell me everything you told that cop,” her torturer said, plainly furious. Samantha tried to tell him to fuck off, but her words were swallowed by the gag. “I’ll give you one hour to consider your answer. After that, your next chance to talk will be three hours later. Consider carefully.”

He had turned on the motorised brushes, then, the electrical humming and whirling filling the room. Each of the little devices (perhaps they were electric toothbrushes?) were taped to a sensitive spot – one in each armpit, several scattered along her ribs, one in her navel, a few on her thighs, and a fuckton on her feet, especially along the arches and around the painted toes. He had remembered all her spots, ensuring no secret ticklish spot felt lonely.

Samantha felt proud of herself for enduring the first wave. But after three more hours… she felt less proud. He had used the vibrator, an especially cruel machine while the other devices continued their ruthlessly pillaging of all her ticklish spots. He had brought her to the edge, only to let the tickling crash everything down. Then he would build her up again, using circular insistent motions, the feeling so good that Samantha could barely feel the bristly devices… only to take it away and let the tickling sensations drown away the euphoria.

“You’ve been a good girl, Samantha,” he said, tickling her right foot with one hand and using the vibrator with the other. “You’ve give me what I want on our detective friend, so I think I might maybe give you what you want, now.”

The vibrator felt good, criminally good, outrageously good.  She was so close… she could feel it, taste it… 

“Actually, you know what?” He pulled the vibrator away. “I don’t feel like being nice. Not after you ratted me out to the cops.”

“What? No!” Samantha wailed, but her open mouth was used against her as he crammed the plastic ball gag back in. She hadn’t been able to see it coming on account of the blindfold, of course.

“I want you to really think about what you’ve done,” he said, turning all the motorised brushes back on, sending Samantha back into shrieking hysterics. “Snitches get stitches. Stiches from laughing so much though, in your case.”

Samantha barely heard the door close as he left the room over the sound of her own involuntary laughter.   


“Detective Jones? I got a tip that might be related to your case.” Just those words, left on a scrap of paper on her desk, had Alex driving from one side of the sprawling, dark city to the other. Stevens was beside her, tapping his fingers to the beat of the music from the radio as he looked out the window. Stevens would not have been her first choice or even her fiftieth choice, but he was the only person in the police station, and personal dislike aside, she wasn’t about to go facing down the mysterious perp without some kind of backup.

“So, what are we looking for, exactly?” Stevens asked, turning to look at her while she drove. Alex waited till they were at a red light. The last thing she wanted was to get so riled up that she ended up losing concentration on her driving. Wouldn’t that be an awful ending to this story?

Alex shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. The person reporting the information was a woman who reported one of her neighbours harassing her, making inappropriate comments and trying to invite her into his home. Apparently, he tried to drug her drink, once.”

Stevens scratched his stubbly chin. ‘And why is that something we need to drive for hours to deal with? It’s routine.

Alex chewed on her lower lip as the traffic light turned yellow.  “There’s more,” she said, dressing her foot down on the accelerator. “His behaviour fits a certain… profile.” The informant had reported strange noises coming from his apartment, and she had taken to great lengths to describe his depravity and perverseness.

Stevens blew out a long breath. “Well, I don’t know the case very well. And by very well, I mean at all, so I guess I’ll take your word for it. Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” Alex said, testily.

“Geez, no need to be such a ball-buster, Alex! Fine, forget it.”

About one song, later, the tension palpable in the small car and Alex starting to feel a little guilty, she sighed as they stopped at another light.

“What’s your question?” she asked.

Stevens huffed and didn’t say anything. “Why does this matter so much to you?” he finally said, after making Alex wait for a few uncomfortable moments.

She thought about Samantha, and the poor Chinese girl, and God knows how many other girls this freak had gotten his mitts on. She thought about Vanessa, soft, delicate, superticklish Vanessa, screaming in the dark as he had this way with her. Alex remembered that one of Vanessa’s former boyfriends used to love to dig in Vanessa’s side and make her squeal when Alex met the two of them together. He might have found the high-pitched squeaks cute, but Alex had always found such childish behaviour annoying, so she had Vanessa to meet alone, henceforth. “You wouldn’t understand,” she replied.

He sighed. “Well, I definitely won’t if you don’t tell me. At least we’re almost here, aren’t we?” He glanced down at the SatNav. The building they were in was deep in the projects, where the law tended to shy away from.

Alex checked if she had the right address, while Stevens walked rather close beside her, constantly looking left and right at the people walking around them. Tattoos seemed to be the fashion here, as did frowns and suspicious looks. Alex was no racist, but she couldn’t help but notice that white girls were quite the endangered species here, from what it seemed. For once, she was grateful to have Stevens by her side. She rang the doorbell, only for it to not react. She resorted to pounding on the stained wooden door, instead.

“Who the fuck are you?” was the friendly greeting Alex got when the door was opened. She recognised the voice as the woman who had spoke on the phone. There was no denying that, at a glance, she seemed like the Inker’s type. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties, with dreadlocks in her hair, though the black rings around her eyes made her look a bit older. Knowing all the attention the Inker placed on feet, Alex could not fail to notice that the Latina wore pink flip flops, which clashed mightily with her dark chocolate-brown skin. Her skin was a canvas of tattoos, which protruded from the bottom of her jeans and from the arms of her t-shirt.  Alex noted a tattoo of a flower on tops of the right foot, as well as chipped red nail polish on the toes. She certainly fit the profile.

“We’re responding to a tip you gave the police,” Stevens said.

“Shut up!” the woman hissed. “You tryin’ get me killed? Get in here.”

The two police officers were rather unceremoniously rushed into the room. Alex was hardly an interior design expert, but the word she would have used for this place was tacky. Peeling wallpaper, the faint smell of food gone bad, and mismatched and worn furniture were scattered about randomly in the sitting room. Alex must have hid her disgust poorly as the woman glared at her.

“What, you never seen a poor person’s house, before?” There was an implied ‘bitch’ in the sentence, but Alex bit back her anger, determined.

“I’m just, uhhhh,” Alex said, trying to think of a non-nasty way to end the sentence.

“She’s just tired from the long drive here,” Stevens said, jumping in. “We drove for almost two hours to come visit. That’s because we think your tip is worthwhile and worth following it up.”

There must have been something in his simpering tone that pressed some kind of magic button with the woman, as her expression softened, and she nodded. “Y’all never respond to any calls from this neighbourhood. It’s like y’all we’re here.”

“We don’t know anything about that,” Alex said. “it’s just what you said matches information on a serial… abductor of woman.”

“Y’all taking about some maniac who goes around abductin’ women?” the dark-skinned woman asked, her eyes widening.

“Well, yes, basically.” Alex chose to omit the bit about tickling – be better if the witness mentioned it herself. “Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”

“Well… I don’t know,” the woman sat down and lit a cigarette. She offered the carton to both officers, who declined.

“Why don’t you tell more about what you know?” Stevens asked, in a soft tone. So he was playing the good cop in this one, was he? Okay. Alex made a better bad cop, anyway.

“There’s this guy… a few doors down.”

“How many?” Alex asked. “You know his address?”

“I’ll write it for you guys in a sec. He’s always throwing these large parties, lots of booze, lots of weed, that kind of shit.”

“Uhuh,” Alex said, chewing her lower lip. This did not sound like the Inker.

“So one night, I go over, thinking , well, fuck it, this is happening two minutes away, I might as well go check it out.”

“And what happened at the party?” Stevens asked.

“Well, as I walk in, he stops me at the door. Looks at me with these creepy dark eyes. Gosh, I can still remember his stink…”

“What did he smell like?” Alex said, remembering something Samantha had said.

“Like bad eggs. The fatass never showers, I swear.”

“I see…”

“He looks me up and down, licks his lips, and says he wants to give me the grand tour. It doesn’t look like there’s shit to look at in his crappy house, but I play nice. He presses a drink in my hand, and he shows me this kinky sex dungeon, whips, handcuffs, all that shit. He asks if I’d like to give ‘em a try. He puts his hand on my ass. I throw the drink in his face and get the fuck out of there. A few hours later, my girls tell me I should report his ass. By then, I’m so shitfaced I think that might be a good idea. And now, you’re here. That’s it.”

“Really, that’s all you know?” Alex demanded.

“Unless y’all want to know about the clubbin’ that happened later that night, year.”

“Argh! What about the tickling?”

“Ticklin?” The woman shook her head, her dreadlocks flapping. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about? I ain’t into that kind of weird shit.”

Alex stood up, storming to the door. “Friggin’ time waster…” she muttered, feeling her cheeks burn. She could sense Stevens looking at her.

Alex felt a strange anger consume her, roaring in her ears about this time waster. Her fist shook as the woman fixed her with a druggie’s dopey smile. Alex couldn’t explain the strange urge that popped into her mind – it must have been the lack of sleep or the strength of her obsession with this case, but she wanted to reach into her belt for handcuffs, cuff her wrists behind her back, and just tickle the shit out of those pretty tattooed feet of hers.

“Well? Did he do stuff like this? Did he? Huh? Why are you laughing so much? Are you happy that you’ve wasted police resources? Put your feet on my lap, you fucking drugged-out bitch, or I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice!”

She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Stevens’s. She turned and violently shook it off and stomped  to her car.

“What’s her problem, man?” she heard the drug dealer say.                           


Driving back home alone, Alex kept raising the volume of her music, hoping it would be enough to drown out the noise roiling about in her mind. Steven had been livid, glaring and muttering under his breath as the long trip back to the station was as agonisingly slow as ever, exacerbated by the fact they were bogged down in brutal traffic.

“I need to be briefed on this sort of thing, Detective,” he had said, frowning as he stared out the window. “Why would you leave your partner out to dry, like that? That’s like sending me into a firefight without a sidearm. I mean, come on!”

After Alex had explained that she hadn’t thought the nuances of the particular case mattered due to the fact she was the lead investigator (sole investigator, really) not him, his mood had flip-flopped again, and Alex couldn’t say which one she disliked more.

“Then again, I can see why you were a little embarrassed… I mean, this is your big case? Some kinky tickle freak? This guy sounds like some kind of urban myth and not even the scary kind!” He had shaken his head, chuckling while Alex ground her teeth so much she was worried she might need to make a dentist appointment.

“I mean, there are real killers in this city… tickling? Come on? Even if it’s true, this whole thing just sounds so… ridiculous.” He flicked his wrist as if banishing the Inker to the part of the tiny, stamp-sized chunk on page eleven of most reputable newspapers. “Could you imagine giving a press conference about this guy? What kind of advice would you give? Wear socks? Don’t wear crop tops if you have a ticklish stomach?  I mean, even if you catch this guy, wouldn’t you be labelled as that strange fetish hunter, forever?” Alex chewed on her lower lip as she stared dead-ahead. Stevens’s words made a lot of sense, even if she had been too busy fuming at the time to realise. And she had to admit she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She gave a big sigh, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the pumping bass line of the song. She had to catch this freak, first. All that stuff could come later.

She whistled to the tune of the song. Just focus on the present… just focus on what matters…


He whistled to the tune of the pop song blaring in the shop as he tossed all the essentials he would require for his next little guest. He stopped as he examined shelves of vibrators, hmming and ahhing as he compared prices and function. The best thing about going to the local sex store was that unlike Walmart and their ilk, there were no employees buzzing around asking if they could help you if you so much as stopped for a few seconds to think.

Humming to himself, he wandered up and down the aisles. He always made a case of visiting different stores for his purchases, lest he be recognised as a frequent customer and thus remembered. Sometimes, he would even eschew the ‘professionals’ entirely, and simply visit a few hardware stores to see what he could jury-rig with his own two hands, Google skills, and a bit of elbow-grease.

Somehow, it made the satisfaction of having a girl squirm in devices he created themselves all the more delectable. He picked out some baby oil, examining bottles and eventually choosing the one that did not use chemicals tested on animals. He might have his own philosophy and certain immorality when it came to taking his pleasure, but he still liked to think that didn’t make him an entirely evil individual. He picked up a new vibrator, along with several batteries, as well as several other straps, ball-gags, and various sundries. He even picked out some objects he normally wouldn’t use, deciding that this event might be his grand finale in the city before moving elsewhere – the people in this place were starting to bore him, anyway. He picked out a pair of sound-cancelling ear-muffs, curious about what experiments in sensory deprivation he could play with these…

“You have a special evening planned with a lucky someone, huh?” said the cashier, a perky young man with short blonde hair and a tattoo on his neck. 

“Oh, you know it... gotta keep the ladies entertained.”

“Ha!” the cashier said. “Don’t I know that! Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I bet they won’t be disappointed! Can I interest you in some novelty fuzzy handcuffs? They’re on sale.”

“Hmmm, you know what? Sure. The lady I have in mind is going to really appreciate that.” He slid the money across the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you very much, sir! Have a great time!”

“Oh, I’ll try,” he said, whistling as he nudged open the door of the shop with his shoulder. “I’ll try…”

As he walked back to the car park, he wondered why he had been so garrulous with that young cashier. It wasn’t like him to be so chatty, especially when the very point of coming here had been to avoid being remembered. He couldn’t explain the pep in his step, the excitement that bubbled through his veins like he was tying a girl up to the first time, back when he was still in high school. She had been teasing him all day in class, wearing pink flip flops that she kept dangling and slipping in and out of. He hadn’t been able to focus on class for scarcely a moment with her long, pale toes waving at him.

This shoeplayer, a brown-haired member of the swimming team, with her toes painted every colour of the rainbow, had been tempting every boy in the class, and he had practically considered it his civic duty to punish her for such tantalising behaviour. Later, in an empty classroom, with duct tape around her mouth, her pretty toes taped together, he had shown her what happened to teases with his fingers, his tongue, and a scrub brush he took from the janitor’s closet.

Why did he feel this way, today? Ah, the anticipation, the suspense, the excitement… the weekend would be very fun, indeed…


At their favourite coffee shop, they spoke about the coming weekend. Well, Vanessa spoke, and Alex listened, letting her sister’s infectious bubbliness wash over her. Vanessa was so vivacious, so unanimated, a broad grin ever present on her face as she spoke quickly and effortlessly.  Alex had wanted to celebrate somewhere properly, as Vanessa had scored a scholarship for her dream university, but Vanessa was insistent that they should stick with their traditions. Their after-meal ritual had a new kink to it, though: after their coffee, Vanessa took Alex for a spin in her new wheels. Vanessa was too cautious and timid a driver for Alex’s sake due to a rigid adherence to the speed limit, but she tried to hide this fact so her sister would enjoy herself more.  That didn’t mean Alex didn’t tease Vanessa a few times for driving like a grandma, of course. Alex recounted a few adventures she had during high-speed high chases and joked Vanessa would be the easiest criminal to apprehend if she ever committed a crime.

Chuckling and laughing, Alex waved goodbye as she was dropped off at her home. The broad smile was still on her face when she slid the key into her apartment, though it faded when she saw the item on her doorstep. It was a parcel, unmarked except for a symbol on the top.

It was one Alex recognised, having seen it on every one of the Inker’s victims: a feather. She knew she should she call it in, get the box dusted for prints and DNA, but she had a feeling her perp was too smart for that. This was a challenge. This was a taunt. This was a dare to come get me. She opened the parcel and saw it was a CD with the words 'play me, detective' written on it.


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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee (and Occasional Tickler), Part X


On the way up Route 110, as Sapphire was near Mauville City, the brown-haired girl was delighted to spot the profile of Ruby in the distance, who seemed to be catching some of the nearby wild Pokemon. He seemed taller than when they had last met, somehow. She wondered if Ruby would keep his word about tickling her silly if she lost to him again. The thought made her tummy flutter.

She skipped towards him. He looked out at the sound of the rustling grass and smiled at her.

“Hey, Sapphire. So this is where you've been. How've things been going? I was just checking out the Pokémon around here to help with my dad's research.” He looked out the wild grass. “He says that a long, long time ago, nature used to be way more diverse and there were lots more kinds of Pokémon, too. My dad and I want to learn more about those Pokémon from the past, you know? That's why we do fieldwork. And this journey has really helped. I've met a lot of Pokémon on my way here and learned about them, too. Which reminds me! Come on! It's the first time we've met in ages, so let's have a battle! Show me what you and your team have accomplished on your journey, Sapphire!”

The brief battle ended with Combusken knocking out Machop with a super-effective Peck.

“Oh, looks like you got me, Ruby,” Sapphire said, returning her Pokemon and taking a step towards him.  She fluttered her eyelashes at him, hoping he had remembered.

“Yeah, you have to keep trying harder,” he said, oblivious to what had been promised. “Both our teams look pretty wiped out after that, huh! Here, let me help them out. And this is for you.” He smiled in a very friendly, platonic manner.

“You got me a present? Awww, you shouldn’t have!”

That's a Dowsing Machine. Use it to root around for items that aren't visible. If it senses something nearby, it'll react, see? Truth is, once I started using it, I got pretty hooked on it. It's addicting! But I recommend you give it a try. Careful though, you won't be able to sneak up on Pokémon while you wear it!”

She examined it. “It’s used to find items, right? Then why not call it something simpler, like… Itemfinder?”

He shrugged. “Copyright? I don’t know. It’s not my invention.”

“I guess I'm off to get started surveying the next area then. I hope you meet a lot of Pokémon, too, Sapphire.”

Sapphire sat down against a ledge and kicked her shoes off. “Aren't you forgetting something?” His amiable smile turned into more of open-mouthed gawk as his eyes glanced down at her socked feet, wiggling in his direction. The smile returned.

“You, know, I almost did.”

“I know, you dummy,” Sapphire muttered under her breath. She wasn’t about to let Ruby cheat her out of the good tickling she had been waiting for! “Maybe you can ask Combusken to help,” she suggested, flexing her socked feet.

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Ruby said, grinning. Combusken knelt over her shins, pinning them down. Sapphire was already gasping at the feeling of Combusken’s bristly, feathery hands (talons? Claws? Whatever they were, the tickled splendidly) on her ankles. She could feel the gleeful anticipation started to well up in her belly as Ruby slowly slid her socks off. Sapphire toes wiggled about energetically, partly as an outlet for all the pent-up excitement she was feeling, and partially because she wanted him to notice her toes.

“Did you do them red for me? I really like your toes this colour. Red is my favourite…” He sounded like he wanted to kiss them. Sapphire found herself blushing, though Ruby couldn’t see her face with Combusken obscuring his view.

“Maybeeheehee,” she replied, already giggling. She had to admit that Ruby had come into play when she made the always tricky decision of what colour to choose. If Ruby wanted to kiss her toes, well… she wouldn’t have minded… She thought about suggesting this, but before she could muster up the courage to say it, she gasped and arched her back as she felt Combusken’s scratchy hands pulling back Sapphire's toes to allow his trainer free rein of Sapphire’s taut, stretched back soles.

 “You better keep up your training, Sapphire! Cootchie cootchie coo!” Sapphire immediately spluttered into rapid-fire giggles, tickling talk always having this effect on her. He only using two fingers to gently wiggle at her arches, but even that was enough to make her whole body quiver with mirth. “Until then, your ticklish body is mine!” Perfect, she thought.

“But, wow, these are soft,” she heard him say. “You travel so much, but it like you've never walked on these perfect feet of yours…” Sapphire could feel him making long, whisking motions, dragging his fingers from the heel all the way up to the squirming toes.

“Thahahahanks!” Sapphire laid back, her hands balled up into fists as she tried not to Struggle too much. The touch of Ruby’s fingers on her bare, sensitive feet was just... different. Maybe bring tickled by a boy she kinda sorta maybe liked just made the whole thing take on an additional flavour.

But all thoughts of that went out the window when Combusken’s fluffy hands suddenly joined the fray, releasing the toes so that the fire-type Pokemon could brush again against the insteps and tops while Ruby’s warm hands dove into the arches and heels.

“I like seeing them wiggle,” Ruby said, giggling as he began targeting Sapphire’s perfectly-painted red toes. He would try to sneak under them and stroke at the toe stems, which would always make those receptive digits wiggle like crazy.  “It's like they're waving at me.”

After he said that, Sapphire naturally made a point of wiggling them even more, though that wasn’t like that wasn’t something she wanted to do reflexively, anyway.

Ten minutes of thorough toe-teasing later, Ruby stood up from his spot and wandered over to Sapphire’s mid-section.

Ruby's grey eyes met hers. She smiled (Combusken's fuzzy, feathery fingers were continued to rub against Sapphire's bare soles, which contributed to the bubbly ecstatic feeling growing in her tummy). He mustered up a smile, too, though he still looked a little uncomfortable, a little rigid, like he wasn’t sure about… something.

But thankfully, Sapphire knew just the way to help him lighten up. She gave him a little poke in the side, just to make him gasp. And he turned on her, wiggling his fingers. “And I was just thinking if you’ve had enough!” he said as he straddled her hips, his cheeks reddening.

“Oh, nohoho!” Sapphire said, playing along. Had enough? Oh, the silly boy, they were just getting started… She bit her lip, spluttering with laughter, as Combusken was still brushing her feet with those feathery appendages of his, which was brain-scramblingly distracting... but in a good way. They were so soft and fluffy! She could have had her feet kissed by those feathers all day... The feel of Ruby’s warm body pressing against hers felt… interesting. It was like when a puzzle piece fit snugly in just the right place.

Ruby, adjusted his hat for a moment, reached down to spider his fingers along her stomach, through the fabric of her thin tank top. He was adorably shy about it, too, not daring to press too hard, probably out of fear that he might hurt her.

She tried to keep still for him, but she couldn't help but roll from side to side whenever his hands brushed across a particularly soft spot, thankfully, him straddling her hips meant she couldn’t escape, though it wasn’t like she wanted to escape his touch, either. She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, either, as she certainly didn’t want to accidentally hit him, which had disastrously resulted in the end of their last tickleplay, last time.

A little surprised at her own boldness, she raised her hands and tucked them behind her head, like she was relaxing at the beach on some beautiful day. She leaned back on the grass, giggling (and not just because of the way Combusken was playing with her toes with those prickly fingers of his) as she waited for him to see just how invitingly exposed her underarms were.

That might have to wait, though, as he slowly rolled Sapphire’s red singlet up, exposing her pale midriff. Sapphire watched for a moment, smirking as he soaked up the sight of her bare stomach and his face quickly regained its flushed quality.

She squealed as he blew a raspberry on her bare tummy. His warm soft lips felt... After the initial jolting surprise, tickling always had this habit of growing on you. The feeling of the tender nerves of your sensitive body caressed and teased... It just felt sooooooo good! After a few explosive raspberries, Ruby’s warm fingers took up the slack, skittering and sliding all over the ridges of her ribs, his warm hands feeling heavenly as they stroked and prodded gently all over her soft spots. When Ruby blew a wet raspberry while his fingers were squeezing her hips, Sapphire let loose a high-pitched squeak that must have drawn the attention of bikers from Cycling road.

“Had enough?” he asked as Sapphire panted for breath.

A wide smile on her face, Sapphire shook her head. A little surprised at her own boldness, she raised her hands and tucked them behind her head, like she was relaxing. She leaned back on the grass, giggling (and not just because of the way Combusken was playing with her toes with those prickly fingers of his) as she waited for him to see just how invitingly exposed her underarms were.

Eager, hearty giggles burst out of her, which must have spurred him on. His fingers leapt up to her armpits, which were so sensitive that keeping that up in place was a serious challenge. More than once her arms flew out, failing, but Ruby kept her fingers firmly entrenched in those ticklish hollows, the good boy.

Sapphire’s fingers twisted and clenched, mussing up the hair on the back of her head as her body’s desire to save her armpits was repeatedly vetoed.

“Bahahahahah! It tihihihickles! It tihihihickles!”

“I know,” Ruby said, chuckling as his fingers continued to wiggle and wiggle.

A sudden impulse taking her, she shot her arms out and hugged him tightly, squeaking into his back as his fingers continued to tunnel into her armpits. It felt so nice to have him there, to rest her head on his shoulder as his fingers continued to stroke and tease her body while the foot tickling set her whole bidy tingly with warm, happy feelings. It just felt so... nice.

She couldn't say how long the embrace lasted. But she remembered lying on her back, cuddled up beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Sapphire, listen, I...”

“The clouds look so beautiful, don't they?”

“The... The what?”

“The clouds.” Sapphire pointed. “That one looks a bit like a Wailmer, doesn't it?”

“Yeah, a little, I guess.”

“Let's just stay and enjoy it for a while.”

They did.

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Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee (and Occasional Tickler), Part IX


After delivering the Devon Parts to Captain Stern and dealing with Team Aqua in the Oceanic Museum, Sapphire made her way to Route 110. There was a Cycling Road, though unfortunately, she couldn’t go up there without a bike. As she trekked up the path, she came across some kind of strange cottage in the middle of all the grass and trees. There was a sign outside it, stating that this was ‘The Wondrous Trick House’.

Sapphire went inside. After glancing around at the furniture, a strange balding man suddenly appeared, almost scaring Sapphire half to death.

“Hah? Grrr… How did you know I concealed myself beneath this desk? You're sharp!”

“Th-thanks?” Sapphire said, but the strange man didn’t seem to hear her.

“Behold!” he said, waving his arms in an overly dramatic fashion. “For I am the greatest living mystery of a man in all of Hoenn! They call me… The Trick Master! Wahahaha! Glad to meet you! You, you've come to challenge my Trick House, haven't you? That's why you're here, isn't it? Yes it is! Consider your challenge accepted! Enter through the scroll there, and let your challenge commence! I shall be waiting in the back! One more thing… I have to warn you. My tricks are quite difficult. Don't get lost!” He rubbed his palms together, cackling in such a laughably over the top way that Sapphire was confident there was no way this could be a baddie. “Now I'm really leaving. I shall be waiting in the back!”  The man spun and sort of flew up into the air, disappearing from sight..

“Wow, that was really strange. I wonder if it’s safe to wander inside the house of a weird, middle-aged man just because he said he had a ‘challenge’ for me.” Sapphire thought for a second, then shrugged. “Ehhh, what’s the worst that could happen.”

She pushed herself through the scroll and into the next room, where she greeted by a punchy, catchy soundtrack blaring from speakers in the room, intermingled with the far more entertaining sound of ticklish laughter. Sapphire would have recognised the sound anywhere! It seemed like the Trick Master had set up some kind of obstacle course with tickling elements – honestly, how cool was that? It was like they set it up just for her!

The room appeared to be separated into little sections. At the first section, there was a pair of teleporting mats, with a disturbingly lifelike robot of the Trick Master in the middle.


There was a girl already waiting.Hurry up!” the Lass said. This robo guy has been telling me we need one more 'player' before we can proceed.” The Lass wore her short dark brown hair in two little pigtails. She looked pretty hip, with her denim jacket under a white blouse. Her red mini-skirt showed off her pale, shapely legs well. Knee-high black socks and red loafers completed the look.

“Oooh, will this be some kind of competition?”

“I think so,” the Lass said. “They say that anyone makes it to end wins an amazing reward!”


The Lass nodded. “How about we have a quick battle, first?”

A quick thrashing later, they stepped towards the teleportation tile (how did these things work, exactly? And why had no one used them for anything better than traps or puzzles in hideouts?) and they found themselves into some kind of wooden stockade in a different segment of the room.

They were not alone. There were three ‘seats’ in the stockade, with Sapphire in the middle, the Lass to her left and a cap-wearing girl to the right. A quick glance at her clothing marked her out as Pokemon Ranger. The Pokemon Rangers seemed to love the colour orange. This one wore an orange cap, an unzipped orange vest on top of a black t-shirt, and orange gloves. Her long black hair was in a ponytail that extended out from the back of her forward-facing cap to the middle other back, and mid-thigh black shorts completed the look. Noticeably, the Pokemon Ranger was barefoot, with her orange knee-high hiking boots and long black socks lying on the ground at the foot of the wooden stockade. Her orange-painted big toes were tied back and secured to the stockade, which seemed to foreshadow some potent foot tickling incoming. Perfect, Sapphire thought. Her favourite. But just how did this game work?

The stockade itself looked like a rather complicated contraption. Sapphire's arms were lifted up high - not taut, just high, and they were attached through padded cuffs to a straight plank which was just above Sapphire's head (the teleporter seemed to have just poofed her into them). The plank appeared it have been drilled through in the middle and screwed in, so it was free to rotate, though if Sapphire pulled one arm down, the other arm would go up, kind of like how a see-saw worked. The other two girls had their feet locked into the same stockade, though their arms were bound around the elbows, so their armpits wouldn’t be as exposed as Sapphire's. She couldn't fathom how such a device would work for a competition, but Mechadoll 3(who had somehow appeared in front of them) was able to fill in the blanks.

CLICKETY-CLACK, HERE ARE THE RULES FOR THIS CHALLENGE,” Mechadoll 3 said, in a synthetic voice. He explained as he began making the final preparations for the challenge, which seemed to involve stripping Sapphire of her shoes and socks. The feel of the cool air on her bare soles sent tingling chills throughout her body. She was so hyped for what this tickling competition would be. The Lass on her left seemed quiet, so Sapphire tried to offer her a quick, reassuring word as the robot tied their toes back. Mechadoll 3 seemed to have trouble removing the Lass’s thick, knee-high black socks due to the padded stockade (it hadn’t had that problem with Sapphire’s thin ankle socks) so it just kept them on, tying the toes through the socks with the string.


 “You’re gonna have a rough time – I was in the middle last time,” the Pokemon Ranger said to Sapphire, sounding sour. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Sapphire said, smiling. “Easy come, easy go.”


“Brushes?” the Lass said, gasping, and right on cue, a large brushing device popped out of the wooden framework. There were two pairs of these cool-looking things. One device covered Sapphire’s right foot and the Pokemon Ranger’s feet, while the other one covered Sapphire’s left foot and the two socked feet of the Lass.

The device looked rather complex, too. There were two sets of brushes – large circular brushes for teasing arches and small, cylindrical ones for tormenting toes. Sapphire’s first thought was that she had to buy a set of these from the Trick Master ASAP. What was strange was that the currently deactivated brushes hovered over the Lass’s socked feet but not the Pokemon Ranger’s.


“Oooooh,” Sapphire said, looking up the plank her wrists were cuffed to. If she brought her right arm up, the brushes would descend and make contact with the Lass’s toetied soles. Lifting up the left arm would send the bristles to the Pokemon Ranger’s feet.

“Have I mentioned how much I like you, friend?” the Lass said, grinning. The Pokemon Ranger shook her head.

Sapphire did not fail to note that no matter how she pulled her arms, one of her own feet would be under attack (since her right foot was bound so close to the Pokemon Ranger’s and her left foot was so close to the Lass’s). She realised she was remarkably fine with that. She actually had the option of trying to level her arms in the middle, which had the amusing effect of tickling all of three of them, at once, though that did seem to violate the spirit of the game.


“A tool?” the Lass repeated as the robot offered a tray full of tickling implements, not unlike the bag Sapphire kept with her. The Pokemon Ranger quickly selected an electric toothbrush. Looking a little confused, the Lass eventually picked a Taillow feather. It suddenly became clear when their arms had only been tied at the elbows. They could use their chosen tool to try to ‘influence’ Sapphire to pull her arm in a certain direction. If Sapphire pulled her arm down in a reflexive protective movement on account of one girl’s tickling, she would send the brushes whirling after the other girl’s feet and start the thirty-second timer to victory.


With an immediate shriek, Sapphire pulled her right arm down. The Pokemon Ranger, having been the one trapped in the middle in the last round, had just had a refresher’s course on tickling, and she knew exactly what to do. She immediately jabbed the electric toothbrush right into the hollow of Sapphire’s right underarm, scrubbing tiny circles in those pale, hairless hollows. Sapphire’s shriek was accompanied by a high-pitched squeal from the lass, whose socked feet had just had their first taste of the brushes, which had whirled to life.

From the sound of her machine-gun giggles, her feet were plenty sensitive despite having the protection of those thick black socks. Sapphire could see them straining hard against the toeties. Sapphire’s left foot was being buffeted by those same bristly, bristly brushes, too, and she could see why the Lass was having such a tough time.

The big brush spun rapidly against the arch, which were pulled back and taut from the toe-tying, leaving the sole helpless to do any form of resistance except quiver or maybe scrunch the other four toes. And that didn’t achieve except put them in harm’s way from the top level of brushes, smaller brushes which invaded their toes, running under them or teasing the sensitive skin between them. Basically every inch of their feet were feeling the itchy kiss of those brushes, and as much as Sapphire loved having her feet tickled, it was pretty intense.

The Lass was dusting her feather in Sapphire’s left underarm, too. It wasn’t as effective as the electric toothbrush, but, well, it was still a feather flittering in her armpit! It wasn’t like that didn’t tickle, especially for a girl as outrageously sensitive as Sapphire.

“I wish I was left-handed,” the Pokemon Ranger complained, though Sapphire thought she was doing a fine job as it was. The Pokemon Ranger had the disadvantage of using her left hand, but she was still the better tickler, by far. The glowing timer in front of their faces already read twenty seconds, meaning the Pokemon Ranger was within arm’s reach (or maybe electric toothbrush’s reach?) of victory.

But the Pokemon Ranger’s aim started to falter, as the toothbrush started touching along the bicep and tricep, which weren’t nearly as sensitive spots, so half-delirious with ticklishness, Sapphire moved her arms, shifting the brushes in the other direction. Sapphire immediately squealed and tossed her head back as the spinning brush got to work on her right foot (she had to get one of these chair stock-y things for her home – she had never been able to tickle herself before!).

She heard the Pokemon Ranger give a bark of ticklish laughter as she got her first taste of the brushes swirling over feet. For a second, Sapphire found herself mesmerising by the twitching dance of the outdoorsy girl’s orange toenails, but then the Lass found a better method of feathering that involved rapid flicks in the armpits and coherent thought became tricky.

The Pokemon Ranger was far from defeated, however. The electric toothbrush was firm and vibrate-y enough to tickle though the thin fabric of Sapphire’s top, so the Pokemon Ranger could tickle Sapphire’s sides and even a bit of her stomach, too. The Electric toothbrush didn’t lose shape against the material of the clothing, too, unlike the feather which was restricted to the armpit (though that was hardly a bad spot to be restricted to, as it wasn’t like her armpits weren’t super-duper ticklish). Sapphire could only Endure fifteen seconds before she couldn’t resist reacting to the Pokemon Ranger’s insistent touch.

A fresh squeak and high-pitched peals of laughter, intermingling with Sapphire’s own boyish snorts indicated the Lass wasn’t doing so well. Those thick socks seem to give the Lass a defensive advantage, but the Pokemon Ranger seemed to have a better idea of what she was doing. Sapphire could hardly blame the Lass – it was so hard to think straight were those bristles were having their way with your helpless feet! It felt like dozens and dozens of itchy, tiny fingers were scratching away at her pink heels, her silky-smooth arches, her rosy ball of the foot, her tender red-painted toes, and everywhere in between. Sapphire’s mind always positively melted when someone so much as drug a finger down her foot, but this? Insane!

Twenty-five hectic seconds quickly flew past as the Pokemon Ranger slipped the buzzing dental tool under Sapphire’s shirt and let it hum about on the hipbone before Sapphire came to her senses and stopped the game from being over quite so quickly. The Pokemon Ranger was a better tickler by far, but Sapphire just didn’t want the game to be over! It was just such a novel experience that she just had to savour it.

Unfortunately, the Lass seemed exhausted from the brushing, and she could only muster a weak offence, the feeble feathering on her left was a drop in the water compared to the torrential downpour of ticklish sensations that came from that masterfully wielded toothbrush. When Sapphire brought her right arm back down, activating the brushes on the Lass’s side once more, the Lass actually dropped her feather because she was laughing so hard! She couldn’t reach Sapphire’s ribs or underarms with her fingers (they were too far away for that), so by then, the match was decided. The Pokemon Ranger won, her toothbrush wreaking havoc on Sapphire’s stomach before the thirty second timer went off.

The Pokemon Ranger gave a victorious smile and nodded to Sapphire “You held up well,” she said, giving Sapphire a firm handshake. “Sophia. Maybe we’ll meet again.” Pokemon Ranger Sophia moved to the next room, while the Lass and Sapphire were returned to the first room and their footwear given back to them.

“Oh, my gosh… that was so intense…” the Lass said, sprawling out on the floor and panting like she had just run a marathon. She didn’t even have the energy to slip her red loafers on.

“It was kinda fun, wasn’t it?” Sapphire said, sitting down near the Lass’s ankles and giving a lazy stroke across one of the girl’s socked feet. The Lass immediately squealed and kicked her feet up. She stood up and grabbed at Sapphire’s sides, making the other girl give a happy squeak.

“I shudder to think how ticklish you might be without your socks,” Sapphire said, grinning, her arms held up in a peace gesture after she had escaped.

“Oh, my gosh, I know,” the Lass said, smiling. “I don’t know how I’m going to beat that challenge… gotta work on my tickling skills. Good thing I have an older sister who loves getting pedicures. She’s always tanning at the beach… it can’t be too hard to bury her in the sand or something…”

That surprised Sapphire. “Wait, you’re coming back? It sounded like you’d had enough of this place.”

“Well, it’s not like me to just give up!” the Lass said, shrugging. “I just need more practise! But I think I have had enough for one day… are you going to stick around?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll have another go,” Sapphire said, thinking she would happily have a dozen.

“You’ve got some crazy stamina, girl…” The Lass pulled out her PokeNav. “Wanna exchange numbers? Maybe we can give this another go, next time. I’m Sally, by the way.”

“Sapphire.” They exchanged numbers.

“See, you, Sapphire! Try not to get tickled too bad!”

“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it…”


Sapphire was back in the stockade, brimming with confidence. She was on the right, and she liked her odds of victory. In the middle was a super Kawaii Schoolkid. She seemed to love pink, with a pink scrunchie in her hair, pink sneakers, and a pink watch. The Schoolkid had even painted her toes a bubbly shade of peachy pink. She also wore a green sleeveless blouse, a brown skirt, and knee-high white socks, though the former was on the floor along with her sneakers. Her hair and ears were oak-brown.

The competition this round would be an Ace Trainer. She had long, straight, flamboyant green hair and wore a red sporty jacket with strings that was unzipped, which was over a white v-neck t-shirt-shirt. Fingerless gloves, a short black skirt, and red sneakers completed the look. The sneakers were on the ground, exposing a pair of dainty little feet that were an emerald-green, the same shade as the Ace’s hair and eyes.

“PLEASE SELECT A TOOL,” Mechadoll 3 announced, holding the tray like before. There were multiples of each item in the tray, so there was no chance of someone taking away the tool you wanted. The Ace Trainer went first and picked a wooden backscratcher. It was a good tool – it was a lot like a wooden hand and it could be uased for scratching as well as for poking. But glancing at the soft-looking skin of the Schoolkid’s underarms, Sapphire decided to do the most unorthodox thing by picking the most orthodox item, the fluffy feather.

The Ace Trainer grinned confidently as Sapphire took the Taillow feather, clearly thinking that Sapphire had made an amateur’s blunder. She had a point – the backscratcher was a much more insistent tool and generally more effective, but Sapphire had a hunch that for the young Schoolkid, the light touch of the feather would prove more maddening. Sometimes, the light, itchy tickling was much more insistent that the raw, overpowering Strength of a brute force item like the hairbrush. Sapphire knew that, for herself, at least, although backscratchers would absolutely frazzle her brain, the feathers would be so much more of an niggly irritant that anyone was more likely to have a physical response to them instead of just laughing, like an itch you just had to get. 


Sapphire could not have been more wrong. It was clear that under a maelstrom of insistent scratching from the Ace Trainer, it was clear the giggling, squealing Schoolkid barely even noticed the feather! Sapphire had felt that her hypothesis might have been incorrect, but even worse was that due to the brush working on her right foot (that was there almost all the time, since the Ace Trainer was winning the upper body tickling battle) her own ministrations with the feather were far from at their maximum efficacy. It didn’t help that whenever the brushes went anywhere near the gap between her big toe and second toe she would absolutely lose her mind and erupt with boyish guffaws.  Sapphire hadn’t realised how mind-melting it would be to have both her feet attacked by those swarming brushes at once!

With all that in mind, it wasn’t surprising that the match was over in under two minutes.

“GG,” the Ace Trainer said as she moved onto the next round, leaving Sapphire to simmer. Gah, how could she have lost again! She was, like, supposed to be the tickling expert! Or the getting tickled expert, at least!

Come on, third time’s the Charm, she told herself. But it wasn’t.

Matched up against the Schoolkid from last time with a toned, dark-haired Battle Girl in the middle, Sapphire picked the backscratcher. The Schoolkid made the odd decision of picking the feather. About ten seconds in, Sapphire was already kicking herself. A toughie like the Battle Girl could block out something like the mad scratching of the backscratcher, but the wispy, light touch of the feather? No.

Sapphire wanted to bang her head against the wall, fortunately she was laughing so hard from the brushes spinning against her softer than silk soles that such negative feelings were quickly purged by powerful mirth.. Thankfully, her chance at redemption came soon.

“Sapphire! I didn’t think you’d still be here!”

“Hi, Sally…” Sapphire said, her cheeks reddening at the fact she still hadn’t made any progress. Lass Sally had returned, seated in the middle of the stockade. Sapphire’s competition was the Battle Girl from last time.

Remembering how much the brush had driven her new friend crazy, Sapphire picked the electric toothbrush. The Battle Girl’s comb wasn’t nearly effective, and Sapphire finally got a taste of sweet victory. Somehow, the fact she had lost so many times made the victory even sweeter. She pumped her fists, wanting to shout out to the heavens. “I did it!” She gave a still-giggly Sally a hug and moved to the next room.

Sapphire soon saw the next challenge was a set of monkey bars which you had to cross while trained Taillow snuck under your arms and along your legs and feet. She watched for a few moments as a barefoot Fairy Girl attempted to swing across, squealed with laughter, and fell, having to start the course all over again.

She grinned at the sight. It was like this was some kind of amusement park for tickling! She could spend hours, in here… which is exactly what she did.

When she finally made it to the end, having obtained the password for the door from a scroll ("Trick Master is wonderful.”),  she wanted to give the Trick Master a hug for his brilliant, crazy, crazy brilliant mind.

“Ai! You've made it this far? Hmm… You're sharp! It took me weeks to design those games… You're almost my equal in greatness by one, two, three, four places! Great! You have earned this reward!”

“You’re like my idol, Trick Master, seriously,” Sapphire gushed. Can I be your disciple?” He seemed to misinterpret her smile, though.

“Scrub that smug smirk from your face! It's much too early to think you've won! I'll make new tricks to stump you, I will. You may mock me only when you're done. Come back for the next exciting instalment!” He spun like a top and somehow bounced through the air and disappeared, again.

“Man, I’ve got to learn how he does that,” Sapphire said, stowing the TM he had given her. “I wonder if I can invite Lisia or Roxanne to come with me, next time?” She smiled at the thought.

"Trick Master is wonderful…”

Pokemon: Sapphire, the Ticklee, Part IX
The Trick House is just an excuse for elaborate tickle torture traps, right?

The main tickle trap is inspired by this very creative piece by KitelKat and written into the story with his permission (warning, /M): Back 'n' forth  (M/M) by KitELcat


Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
I do a bit of writing.

Do you prefer upperbody or lowerbody (feet) tickling? 

91 deviants said Lowerbody
39 deviants said Upperbody


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codeman52490us Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016
Happy birthday!
oneortheother Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks :)
codeman52490us Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017
No problem.
TDonkey Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016  Student Writer
Happy Birthday man, love your stories ^^
oneortheother Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Glad you enjoy them!
Sunking88 Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016
Happy Birthday
oneortheother Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks, man!
Sunking88 Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017
footlover2011 Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016
Happy birthday 
oneortheother Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
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