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Membership Extension

Journal Entry: Sun Dec 20, 2015, 7:37 AM
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Wow... right when my membership expires, a kind, anonymous fellow decides to extend it for me. All I can say is a big thank you for the generous person doing this for me! 

I shall take this as further motivation to continue writing wonderful stories for you all!

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Summer Commission Sale!

Journal Entry: Sat May 30, 2015, 5:39 PM
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In honour of all the flip flops and bare feet seen during summer time, I'm having a summer commission sale! For limited time only, I'll be accepting commissions for only 25 dollars for 4000-ish  words!

More commission info can be found here:
Opening Commissions Officially.Hi.
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. 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/ler

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

Have a lovely summer, all! Note me if you have any further queries.

P.S. The information above at the 'Facebook', 'note me', etc is for the designer of the skin. It's not me!

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Star Wars TK: Rey’s Interrogation


Visions swarmed before her eyes… a young girl screaming at a desert planet as a ship flew away… a hooded figure holding a lightsaber as blue as the summer sky… a forest wreathed in flames as soldiers clad in white armour crawled over it like ants… a black mask hovering over her, radiating malice…

Rey woke with a start, her eyes opening to see the cold visage of Kylo Ren staring back at her. It was hard to say which sight was more frightening: that cruel mask, created from the stuff of nightmares, or the merciless, angry look in those dark eyes.

“Having a nice dream?” he asked softly. “Dreaming of… your home?”

“Stay out of my head,” Rey said, scowling. She felt violated, as though every inch of her body had been desecrated by his foul touch as he invaded the privacy of her mind.

 “You’re doing a good job of stopping me,” Kylo said, sounding furious at her success. Rey realized that he had only seen her first vision, and had missed out on the subsequent three. Perhaps she was stronger than she thought, even against someone imbued with the mythical powers of the Force. Did that mean she was–

“But that changes now,” Kylo declared, disrupting Rey’s train of thought. “Your mind is closed to me, but all defences can be worn down, all energy shields can be… drained.” He drew his lightsaber, a scarlet sword, as red as fury. He waved it an inch from her face.

She was powerless to escape, still strapped the metal chair-like contraption in the New Order Base’s interrogation chamber, with metal and leather straps holding down her wrists, elbows, thighs, knees and ankles. She was only capable of shaking her head from side to side, or wiggling her hands and feet lightly. She was still fully clothed, thankfully, but she didn't take notice of it, as she was focused on this sneering man in front of her.

Rey stared him in the eye, denying the powerful instinct in her head that was screaming at her to cower, to beg for her life, to tell him anything that he wanted to know. Was he going to burn her? Cut her? Kill her? She tested her bonds for the umpteenth time, but just like all the times before, they were as cold and rigid as ever, this cold metal chair, binding her about the wrists, ankles, and waist.

When Kylo swung the blade, purely out of reflex, Rey had to close her eyes, as the red streak flashed at her, again, and again. When Rey opened her eyes, fearing the worst, she saw that all the lightsaber had done was cut at her beige robes a few times.

“I think you missed.”

“I most certainly did not,” Kylo thundered. He waved a hand, and using the Force, suddenly strips of clothing flew off Rey, exposing the bare, slightly tanned flesh on her stomach, underarms, thighs, and feet.

Rey shot Kylo an indignant, scandalized look.

“I’ve consulted Sith holocrons and my master on the best way to deal with breaking a wilful captive,” Kylo said, evidently trying to ignore the wilting glare Rey was giving him. He clicked off his lightsaber and hooked it on his belt. “I found a method of torture I think you will appreciate…”

“Torture?” Rey did not like where this was going.

“Yes… tickle torture.”

For a second, Rey didn’t know how to react. The whole thing just seemed so absurd. Tickling was what parents did to kids! Tickling was what teenagers did to their crushes! Tickling was hardly torturous. And Rey doubted if she even was ticklish, after so many years of living rough in the desert planet of Jakku.

“I know what you’re thinking… maybe I’m not even ticklish,” Kylo said.

“Are you reading my mind?”

“No. Just smarter than you think.” Kylo turned away, reaching for a syringe. He jabbed it into Rey’s bicep, sending some mysterious fluid coursing through Rey’s body.

“A serum of our own design… it stimulates the nervous system, making the subject highly sensitive to all stimuli…” Kylo reached out with a hand, and tapped Rey’s toned stomach. It wasn’t even a tickle, or even a scratch, just a light pat, but Rey found herself yelping all the same. It tickled… And if one light touch could do that much…

Kylo flashed her a predatory grin. “Last chance to tell me where the base of the resistance is…”

“I don’t know!”

“Wrong answer,” he said, and began.

Kylo went to the monitor for a moment, and the metal contraption that bound Rey suddenly gave a mechanical whirl, as gears shifted about, the arms and legs of the device spreading out to resemble a horizontal X-frame, so Rey was stared at the ceiling of this cold, sterile-looking interrogation room.

Rey gasped, shuddering as she felt gloved hands paw at her body in an experimental fashion. They poked and prodded gently, seemingly with little determination or conviction, but Rey found herself smiling through gritted teeth despite herself.

“Let me see if I can remember how to do this…” Kylo murmured, as his fingers began to knead at her tummy, squeezing along her muscular abs.  Each clumsy squeeze sent a jolt through Rey’s body, each one threatening to burst the rising balloon of hot, ticklish laughter that was bubbling inside her. It was when Kylo’s gloved hands reached inside Rey’s armpits that the ballon popped, laughter exploding from Rey’s mouth as she threw her head back. She had discovered, much to her regret, that her underarms were so ludicrously ticklish than even clumsy fumbling was enough to provoke violent laughter. Just what had been in that syringe?

Emboldened by her laughter, Kylo continued, tickling harder and with more confidence, as Rey shook her head wildly. He experimented with prodding in those armpits, and then grabbing, clawing at them. All his methods proved fruitful as the room rang with the sound of Rey’s snickers and snorts. It seemed that any contact with the sensitive hollows of Rey’s armpits really was all it took to unleash a gust of laughter.

Thankfully, after a few minutes of this, Rey could feel the laughter dying down, drying up. The poking and jabbing in her armpits was decreasing in effectiveness. Was it the serum wearing off? Or was she simply being desensitized due to the same spot being tormented so much? 

“Hmmmm…” Kylo pondered, stroking his chin. “Let me try something different.” He pulled off his thick, black clothes, and used her fingernails to rake up and down Rey’s ribs. Immediately, Rey’s laughter double, tripled, and then quadrupled when those nails started probing inside Rey’s navel.

“I seem to be getting the hang of this,” Kylo said, smirking as his nails glided up and down Rey’s toned, mid-section.

“Stahahahap! Stop!” Rey shouted, shaking her head from side to side as his fingers squeezed cruelly up and down her torso. Her hands grasped, her toes curled as every muscle in her body contracted as she tried to evade those merciless fingers, but it was to no avail. At best she maybe shift her body an inch in either direction, and Kylo’s fingers followed her like a homing missile. She was utterly trapped, and Kylo was free to explore her ticklish body any way he liked. Rey closed her eyes for a moment, as he grabbed the tender sides of her stomach, only for them to burst open as he suddenly stuck his fingers up, into her armpits, scratching and scrabbling away with glee. 

“Tell me what I want to know,” Kylo said, tickling more insistently, really digging into the hollows of Rey’s underarms.

What did he want to know? It was hard to think with all this stimulation going on. Thankfully, after a few more maddening moments of armpit torture, he continued.

“Where is the resistance base? Tell me!”

Rey had no answer for him. She honestly didn’t know. She tried to explain, tried to make him see reason, but she couldn’t find the right words, and even if she did, the steady stream of laughter erupting from her lips would have made it logorrheic.

“Hmmm, you’re tougher than I thought,” Kylo said, after a few more minutes of ruthless, brutal tickling on Rey’s stomach. Rey glanced down through teary eyes and saw her stomach was red from all the scratching.

“Does… that mean you’ll let me go?”

Kylo shot her a dark look. “I’ll be better prepared tomorrow. And you’ll regret mocking me.”

He stalked off angrily, and Rey found herself alone. A few moments later, the lights switched off, shrouding the room in darkness.

Fatigue hit her like a speeder, and as soon as she got her breathing under control, she closed her eyes in preparation for sleep. She had a feeling she would need all her strengths in the days to come.



Rey awoke to the sound of shouts, and barked orders. Groggily, she looked around her jail cell, which looked as bleak and grim as always. The sounds were coming from outside the room, when a trooper in black and steel-grey armour was bellowing orders to underlings. Rey was surprised to hear that the individual in the fearsome dark armour had the mezzo-soprano of a woman.

“I want a dozen guards here day and night! This captive cannot, and will not, escape!” She sounded like she would personally skin alive anyone who defied her commands. “And keep an eye out for any suspicious behaviour,” she warned. “Any traitors will get what they deserve.”

 Through the black visor of her Stormtrooper helmet, this woman in charge seemed to notice Rey, and came stomping towards her.

“Ah, you’re awake, Lord Ren has told me to personally see to you.” Rey did not like the way the she said this. The woman’s face was entirely obscured by the armour, but Rey was pretty sure that she was grinning a cruel, cruel smile.

“But where are my manners?” She chuckled. “I’m Captain Phasma, commanding officer of Starkiller Base.”

Rey stayed silent. Was she supposed to introduce herself? Like they were at some kind of posh dinner party instead of in an interrogation chamber?

“I can see that you’re a little surprised to see a woman in charge here,” Phasma continued, clearly having noticed Rey’s surprise earlier. “Am I wrong?”

Rey nodded, reluctantly.

“Well, I could tell you a sad tale of how I had to fight my way up the ranks, hindered by institutional sexism at every stage…” Phasma walked besides Rey. Rey noticed there was a tray full of strange tools and bottles that had not been there the day before. “But that wouldn’t really be quite true. The New Order is surprisingly feminist.” Phasma pulled off her thick, regulation-issue Stormtrooper gloves. “I got promoted because I was crueller and tougher than all the men in my recruiting class.” Rey’s eyes grew wide. Phasma’s nails were longer than Kylo’s had been, and painted a Stormtrooper grey.

And they proved every bit as effective as they looked. Their fingers dove straight into Rey’s armpits, which were as taut and powerless as ever, held tightly by the cold metal clasps of the X-frame.  Rey immediately threw her head back and squealed.

“Good… good…” Phasma muttered under her breath, as she spent about thirty seconds in the armpits, and then ventured downwards, poking all around Rey's ribs, down along her quivering, soft sides, across her toned stomach, and then straight back up into her armpits again. The tickling was exploratory, and rapid, a probing strike designed to gauge a foe’s weaknesses, like a reconnaissance manoeuvre, and Rey had a bad feeling. She was not oblivious to how effective this initial scouting had been. Phasma was making notes of which spots were making her scream, and revisiting them every few seconds. She wasn’t as inexperienced as Kylo, who worked over the same spot over and over again till the sensations numbed. Phasma started and stopped, here, there, and everywhere on Rey’s helpless upper body. Rey had not expected a woman to be so cruel, especially to one of her own gender, but Captain Phasma was all that, and more.

“Interrogation was what really impressed my superiors in the New Order,” Phasma said, as her nails spidered maddening circles along Rey’s belly. Rey howled with laughter, almost obscuring Phasma’s words, but Phasma simply leaned closer as she worked her expert fingers tirelessly across ticklish flesh. “I can break anyone, and you’re no exception, girl.” She emphasized this point by corkscrewing a sharp fingernail in Rey’s bellybutton, making the dark-haired girl laugh her hardest yet.

“Talk. Now.” Phasma put a hand on Rey’s face, and forced Rey to look in her eyes. Or her face, anyway.

“I really don’t know where the base is!” Rey exclaimed. It didn’t take much effort for tears to come to her eyes. She hoped that somehow this other women might empathize with her situation, but she had a feeling that she was about to be disappointed.

“I don’t believe you,” Phasma said flatly, as she drilled her fingertips into Rey’s underarms, making Rey arch her back and shriek with haphazard laughter. “But perhaps this next dose will help you remember where the resistance base is.”

Rey could only whimper as the same serum that Kylo had used on her yesterday made its reappearance. It was swiftly injected into her body, and Rey oculd feel it rapidly taking effect, as everything, even the air from the station’s ventilation system seemed to tease her hypersensitive skin.

“Are your feet ticklish?” Phasma asked, glancing down at Rey’s soles. She pressed a button on the X-frame’s control panel, and the device tilted, raising the feet upwards for easier access, much to Rey’s alarm.

Rey honestly wasn’t sure. She wouldn’t have thought that she was ticklish at all, but she had been thoroughly corrected on that account. Rey had thought that her feet, tough from all the running and walking she did, should not be especially sensitive. Plasma seemed to have the same judgement, as she tsked upon examining Rey’s grimy soles.

“Hmmmm, these are no Senator’s feet, that’s for sure,” Plasma said, scratching her head. “But that’s nothing a little oil won’t fix.”

Oil? Rey was confused as Phasma reached for an unmarked bottle from the tray, and began smearing the thick liquid across her soles, taking care to finger inbetween her toes to make sure the oil did not miss a spot. Her feet tickled slightly when Plasma was sticking her fingers around Rey’s toes, but for the most part, Rey was relieved that the toughness of her small feet seemed to be protecting her.

Then suddenly, after Phasma had coated Rey’s feet with oil, she stood up, and drove her nails into Rey’s stomach once more. Expecting some diabolical misfortune to befall her feet, Rey squealed in surprise, and quickly settled back into hysterics as Phasma’s nails ruthlessly tormented every inch of her tummy once more, spending and especially long time tormenting Rey’s terribly ticklish navel.

After a few minutes of belly brutality, Phasma went downwards to dance her sharp fingernails all over Rey’s thighs. Kylo had never touched her there, and Rey was surprised how much it tickled as Phasma stroked along Rey’s inner thighs and around her knees. It was nothing compared to the strange itching sensation that was spreading across Rey’s oil-covered feet, however. The oil seemed to be having some strange effect on them. Tied on her back, Rey had no angle to possibly see what was happening to the bottoms of her feet, but it almost felt like acid was eating away at them, but in a tickly-sort of way as opposed a painful one. Plasma was giving Rey no time to think about it though, as she ran her nails up and down Rey’s inner thighs while Rey tried in vain to close them, but the metal bonds were as unbreakable and implacable as ever.

“Now let’s see if those feet are ready yet,” Plasma said, giving the backs of Rey’s knees one last tease before she went back to take a look at the feet.

“Wha-what are you doing to them?” Rey asked, fear creeping into her voice.

Plasma laughed. “Can’t you feel it?” She dragged a sharp fingernail down the arch of one foot, and Rey yelped.

“Hmmm, not as soft as I would like,” Plasma said, as she raked her nails up both soles at once, sending Rey into a sudden fit of laughter. Rey felt that her feet were plenty sensitive enough at the present, but it seemed her opinion was being discounted. Plasma gave her no moment to voice any further complaints, as quick as a flash, the cruel Captain was at Rey’s ribs, careful inspecting the shape of each rib before darting to the next rib in line. She counted up and down the ribs, humming a militaristic tune to herself as Rey tossed her head from side to side in wild laughter.

Rey wasn’t sure how long Plasma kept this up for. It might have been ten minutes or it might have been ten hours. Time tended to blend together in that dizzying haze of forced laughter. All Rey knew was that by the end of it, her stomach was sore, her ponytail had come loose, and stray strands of dark hair were plastered across her face, and her feet tingled terribly.

“Let’s take another look, shall we?” Plasma asked rhetorically, as she strode to Rey’s oily soles, the Captain’s boots clanging across the metal floor.

Rey screamed as the Captain’s sharp nails made first contact. Any hopes of her feet not being ticklish, or the oil being ineffective were dissipated. The howls of laughter didn’t even sound like her, as Plasma’s nails swept across the pair of quivering, trapped feet. 

“Much better…” Plasma purred, as her fingers skated across the slick and smooth soles, which were now perfect for tickling. “As soft as if they had been pedicured daily,” Plasma declared, tickling even harder, focusing right in Rey’s arches. Rey wondered how the New Order had time to come with such substances, but she was finding it hard to focus on anything but her own extreme ticklishness.

“Are you ready to talk, or do I have to explore these toes of yours?” Plasma asked, lodging her fingers in between Rey’s squirming toes.

There were many things Rey wanted to say, but Plasma wasn’t interested in hearing them, as they were not about the location of the rebel base. So Plasma set her evil fingernails to work again, wiggling her nails and stimulating the delicate skin between each digit. Rey writhed in her bonds again, despite the protests of her sore muscles. She was now starting to understand what made this method so brutally effective in torturing information out of captives.

“Nohohohoho! Plehehehease nohohoho more!”

“Tickle, tickle, tickle…” Plasma said, ignoring Rey as the Captain ruthlessly rummaged her nails all around the sensitive flesh in between the toes.

“Stahahahap tihihickling thehehehere!” Rey begged, trying to wiggle her toes and dislodge Plasma’s nails, but to no avail. Plasma’s fingers were firmly in place, and would stay there, wreaking ticklish havoc, for as long as she wanted.

“Oh, very well…” Plasma acquiesced, removing her nails from those ticklish toes, allowing Rey to immediately curl her them for protection, but it was no cause for celebration. She had only removed them so that she could run her nails down Rey’s silky-smooth soles, very quickly and repeatedly. “Laugh for me, captive.”

And laugh Rey did. Laugh and laugh and laugh, till fatigue and ticklishness overwhelmed her, and her consciousness ebbed away.

Rey awoke to a screeching headache, more intense than the worst migraine. It like someone was digging a white-hot blade into her brain. She opened to see the outstretched fingers of Kylo Ren, as he stared at her with a face of intense concentration.

“How do you do it? Kylo said, gritting his teeth. “How!?” he shouted, pounding his fists against a nearby monitoring device so hard the glass shattered.

“Her mental defences are likely still intact, my lord,” a woman’s voice explained. Rey’s eyes were still bleary, but it sounded a lot like Plasma. The thought made Rey’s heart sink. Those two were bad enough alone, but tickle torturing her in unison? The very thought sent icy shivers down her spine. And she seemed even more helpless than ever. Her toes her been tied back with metal cords, so even the ability so scrunch her toes or flap her feet had been taken away from her.

“Well, we’ll have to break them, won’t we?” Kylo said, looming over Rey, his face a visage of barely-repressed wroth.

Rey tried not to whimper as she felt a fresh layer of oil being smeared across her bare feet. “Please… I really don’t know anything!”

“If I had a cred for every time I heard that…” Plasma said, laughing. She took her post at Rey’s soles, cracking her knuckles menacingly.

“Captain Plasma has given me some suggestions,” Kylo said, as he hovered his fingers over Rey’s underarms, still stretched taut and tight, perfectly vulnerable for tickling. “We’ll see how long you keep pleading ignorance. We’ll break you and get inside that thick skull of yours.”

Rey barely had a moment to feel indignant at Kylo’s remark before the tickling struck her. She threw he rhead back, her head, her pride the only thing preventing her from immediately screaming with laughter. Her feet seemed to have grown in ticklishness, yet again, and Plasma was giving them absolutely no mercy. With the toeties, keeping Rey’s feet taut and in place, she was taking full advantage of their lack of mobility by raking her brutal nails up and down Rey’s arches, especially around the fleshy ball of the feet and along the very centre of the sole.

Rey’s armpits were no slouch in the ticklishness department, and Kylo’s fingers were doing more than their fair share of damage too. Rey was dismayed to detect that Kylo’s bare fingers (he had had the good sense to take his gloves off earlier, this time) seemed to be getting more adept at squeezing every inch of ticklish laughter from her. His fingers, nimble and dexterous from the lightsaber training, or whatever it was that he did in his free time, were a constant wave of unpredictable motion. Rey sometimes found herself recognizing letters or even a phrase or two that Kylo seemed to be drawing in her underarms with his nails. He was getting better at this, Rey thought darkly, and she did not like that at all.

Rey glanced down at the helmet-clad Captain, who was currently doing unspeakably cruel things to Rey’s trapped toes with her nails, really digging in the little-to-no-contact area where the toes met the rest of the foot where Rey was rapidly realizing she was disastrously ticklish. Had he been practicing on her? With her?

She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine the forboding captain, stripped down to her undergarments, strapped into this restricting metal device the way Rey was now. Rey imagined Plasma as a woman with short blonde hair, and pale skin, for some reason. The image of Plasma laughing as her toned, militaristic body was being tormented filled Rey with a strange warmness. Rey’s eyes flew open as she realized that the sensation was her stomach being tickled.

“Nohohoho! Nooooo!” Rey screamed, as Kylo and Plasma double-teamed her torso. Kylo’s slender fingers were covering Rey’s left side while Plasma’s sharp nails probed Rey’s right side.

Clenching her eyes tightly shut, Rey found her two tormentors so distinct she might be able to recognize them by their touch alone. Kylo’s nails were shorter, and his style of torture was more forceful. He appeared to get quite frustrated if Rey didn’t have some grandiose reaction every few moments, and would always tickle her more savagely, more quickly, to compensate when this occurred. In addition, he seemed to prefer a sort of muscle-stimulating tickling, especially around Rey’s stomach, which always seemed to draw Kylo’s attention for some reason. He liked to squeeze and knead, really digging in hard. It was the kind of laughter more likely to make Rey grunt and burst into belly laughs, though with the current overflow of ticklish sensations, it all blended into hysteria.

Plasma had a more precise, methodical touch. She liked to poke and prod, carefully flicking and tracing her sharp nails across Rey’s skin to see which spots drove Rey maddest. She tickled quickly and she tickled slowly, but always in a measured, restrained way, as if everything was building up to some grand master plan. She never seemed rushed, which was a contrast to Kylo’s wild approach. She would meticulously stroke her nails across Rey’s body, watching Rey’s expression and reactions carefully as she made each move, as if she were playing a game of dejarik. Rey could sense that Plasma had great confidence in her abilities. It was clear she had done this many, many times, as Plasma gradually discovered more and more of Rey’s hotspots, and promptly shared them with her tickler-in-arms, who usually would immediately dig into said spot with great haste.

“Try poking her right there, my lord,” Plasma offered, jabbing a finger along Rey’s sides, just under the lowest rib. Rey jolted to the side. Kylo mimicked her actions, and Rey jolted to the other side, shrieking. Together, they had her twisting from side to side like she was doing some hellish ab workout.

The torture session then took a strange turn, as it seemed to almost become a training seminar, as Plasma pointed out more and more spots, and recommended techniques to the curious Kylo. Rey would have thought that this moody man’s pride would lead him to feel demeaned by taking advice from another, but distressingly enough,  he seemed rather receptive to suggestions, as together they tormented Rey to new heights of ticklish insanity.

"My lord, try running your nails along here,” Plasma said, tracing a nail along Rey’s tricep, “and then squeeze right in that spot." Plasma squeezed the flesh along the armpits, just below the breast. Rey squealed, and then squealed again as Kylo imitated Plasma’s action.

“My lord, the central part right there seems to be a vulnerable spot for the captive,” Plasma stated, her voice stoical, as if she was ordering lunch at the Death Star Canteen as opposed to coldly listing out all of Rey’s most devastating spots. “Try using your nails like this.” She spidered her fingers across the hollows of both of Rey’s armpits at once, making the dark-haired girl howl. She stepped aside to let Kylo have a go, and after he was met with similar results, the two of them worked together to deliver a harrowing tickling experience to Rey’s more underarms.

Rey would have happily cut her own feet off as the two tormenters then walked to the foot of the torture chair, and began to walk Kylo through the best way to tickle torture Rey to the depths of insanity.

“My lord, this combination has proven profitable for me,” Plasma demonstrated, scratching right under the ball of Rey’s  right feet, and then immediately running her sharp nails the lengths of Rey’s helpless arches, in a zig-zag pattern. Rey snorted, and then burst into rapid-fire laughter.

Kylo tried to copy Plasma’s manoeuvre on Rey’s left foot, which was closer to him, but he scratched too low, and his didn’t zig and zag his fingers enough, failing to bring Rey to quite the same hysterics as Plasma had.

“It’s more like this, my lord,” Plasma explained patiently, demonstrating her manoeuvre once more.

“I think her other foot is simply more ticklish,” Kylo grumbled. Kylo grit his teeth, but it was impossible to tell if he was frustrated at being lectured by the Captain or if he was frustrated by his own ineptitude. Either way, he took it out on Rey’s poor foot, as his tickled it cruelly with his trademark fury.

“Excellent work, my lord,” Plasma nodded, and Kylo gave a sort of grimace that could almost have been a smile, though perhaps Rey did not see clearly as her eyes were getting teary from laughing so hard.

“Here’s another fine spot I’ve discovered, my lord,” Plasma said, her words driving another dagger of fear in Rey’s heart. Rey’s fear proved to be well-founded as Plasma used only her two index fingers to scratch a small spot on both arches, which led to a disgustingly disproportionate billow of laughter.

Kylo hit the same spot, but he scratched too hard, and the tickling was less effective as a result.

“A softer touch is sometimes needed, my lord,” Plasma said, delicately teasing that horribly ticklish spot on Rey’s arches again to emphasis this point.

Kylo muttered something under his breath again, and followed her instructions, though Rey still felt he tickled too hard. She wasn’t about to correct though, of course.

It went on and on, Plasma spilling every one of Rey’s ticklish spots happily, as together they tickled her to her limits and beyond. They got so into the lesson they even forgot to ask Rey where the resistance base was, though Rey wouldn’t have been able to tell them anyway.

“Your lessons have been… most useful,” Kylo said, seeming to stutter over the words. “I… thank you for them.”

“The pleasure was mine, my lord.”

“Your presence will not be required tomorrow. She’ll tell me all her secrets, and I will break her with my own two hands.”

“Very well, my lord, but if I may make a final remark…”

Rey wanted to keep listening, as she had a feeling these last words could be the difference between madness and sanity, but it had all been too much, simply too, too much. Her entire body ached. Her stomach was sore. Her head was spinning. She closed her eyes.


Rey woke to the whirling of a droid. She opened her eyes groggily. She seemed to be alone. At the foot of the torture chair, there was a small tank-shaped droid, about the size of an astromech, brushing the floor with its spinning brushes. It had two brushes, one to sweep along the floor, and another to dust along the walls. Rey had seen such droids before. It would not have surprised her if she had scavenged a droid of this exact model once, though right now her time on Jakku felt like a million years ago. Yet right now, in this moment, staring at this droid as it busily swept up a trickle of drool from where Rey had slept, she had this powerful sense of trepidation, a bad feeling that somehow this droid would do her harm. The thought made her toes curl, or the thought would have, had her toes not still been firmly tied back with metal threads.

Her meditations were interrupted by footsteps. Kylo Ren strode into the room, smirking.

“Good morning,” he said, reaching for the bottle of oil, instantly dashing Rey’s hopes that anything other than horrendous tickle torture might be on the agenda today. “Are you ready to tell me all your secrets now?”

“I don’t have any secrets to tell you! I really don’t know! Why won’t you two understand that…”

Kylo snorted. “Still playing innocent, are we? We’ll see how long that lasts today.” He rubbed the oil deep into Rey’s soles, taking care to coat the toes with the sensation-enhancing substance too.

Kylo gestured to the droid, and the droid hummed its way in front of Rey’s feet, its brush looking devastatingly bristly upclose.

Rey didn’t know what made her say this. Perhaps it was frustration, desperation, or simply acceptance of her situation. “I thought you said you were going to do this yourself. Still need someone to help you?”

Kylo’s hands shot out and rummaged across Rey’s stomach, making the dark-haired girl gasp.

“What was that?” he asked, tickling even harder.

Rey tried to speak, but his fingers were terrible. He had a finger right in her belly button, wriggling about horribly.

“What did you say to me?” He gestured, and the droid began its cleaning duties. The two motorized brushes whirled and spun over Rey’s bare soles, as her oiled-up toes twitched helplessly.

“What did you say?” Kylo growled, his hands ravaging the soft sides of Rey’s stomach. His hands were horrible. He really had gotten much better in his technique, Rey realized, to her dismay. The torturous brushing against her slick, oily ticklish soles was a very close second, however. “Say it. Tell me.”

“Nahahahathing! I sahehehehed nohohohothing!” Rey could only close her eyes and scream. Kylo laughed, and waved his hand. Suddenly, the brushes at her feet begin spinning even more quickly, jarring her eyes back open and redoubling her squirming and hysterical laughter.

“That’s not what I want,” Kylo said, as his fingers leapt into Rey’s armpits, drawing circles in the hollows of her underarms. “Ask me what do I want,” he said, in a voice as soft as a lover’s.

Rey’s first instinct was not to play along with whatever twisted game this dark Force-user man had in store for her, but after a few moments of silent defiance, Kylo waved a hand. THe droid’s brushes made a beeline for Rey’s toes, and Rey found herself howling louder with every rotation of those merciless bristles on her tender digits, her feet straining against the toe bondage without gaining any relief. 

“What… do… you… want!” Rey managed to say, between shrieks.

“I want you to beg, I want you to scream, and I want you to shudder in fear everytime I walk into this room,” Kylo said, a haughty, wide grin stretched across his lips as his fingers skittered from spot to spot. Rey had a grin stretched across her lips too, but for an entirely different reason – it tickled too damn much.

“I almost hope you don’t tell me what I want to know…” Kylo said, his tone confiding as he slipped a finger into Rey’s belly button to punish the inside of her navel. “It can get mighty dreary in this base sometimes, when I’m not out on a mission. You’re an… amusing distraction.” Kylo laughed. Rey wasn’t sure that was a compliment as Kylo retracted his finger from her poor belly button, but it was no moment to celebrate, as both hands began speedily squeezing up and down her sides.

“And it’s been very educational to think of new ways to torture you,” Kylo said, his voice almost tender. But he didn’t give Rey any time to ponder on this as he never ceased his ticklish ministrations.

“I saw one of these droids in the hallway the other day,” Kylo said, sounding smug as his fingers danced across Rey’s sides. “A wonderful idea, wouldn’t you say?” He laughed along with Rey, taking her hysterics as an affirmation of his statement.

“Do you know what this is?” Kylo said. He waved a hand, as a small, device appeared in his hands. He stuck it in Rey’s tear-streaked and sweat-laden face. He even stopped tickling, just so Rey could get  a good look at the device. Even the droid scrubbing her poor feet slowed to a crawl. The device was straight, with a small circular brush that bent at a right angle from the object. Rey vaguely recognized the object as something she had noticed in the markets of Jakku and her scavenging, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. She wasn’t in the strongest mental state, at this point.

“No…” she said, Kylo’s expectant look made it apparent he wanted a response of some kind.

“It’s part of our soldiers’ basic supplies.” He sounded excited, jubilant. “They use them to clean their teeth. Apparently dental hygiene is one of the focuses of the New Order.”

He reached out with the Force, and like magic, he had two of these electric toothbrushes; one for each hand. Rey had a bad feeling about this.

“So, this is what I’m going to do,” he turned the toothbrushes on, filling the room with ominious whirling. “I’m going to scrub every inch of your armpits. I’m going to scrub every inch of your ribs. I’m going to put this inside your belly button. We don’t want you having cavities, do we?”

Rey was shouting and begging before those evil-looking devices even touched her, but a second before they made contact, Kylo suddenly pulled away. “Unless you want to tell me where the resistance base is.”

“I really don’t know! I told you a thousand times, please! I, really, really, don’t know where that is! Don’t tickle me anymore!”

 Kylo just chuckled. “So be it.” 

He flicked a finger, and the droid went straight back to buffing the arches of Rey’s feet, as he went to work applying the electric toothbrushes to Rey’s upperbody, in all the spots in he had just detailed so lovingly.

It was clear he was proud of his ingenuity, as he refrained from restraint and went straight to Rey’s sweet spot, her stomach, with the toothbrushes.  He sent the toothbrushes circling around her navel, laughing at the way Rey’s belly would spasm like one of those exotic Twilek dancers. He traced a few shapes with the toothbrushes, as Rey’s muscular abs contracted and clenched with every movement.

Rey was losing her mind from the brushing. It was hard to say what was worse. The brushing at her feet was much larger, and smeared with the oil, they were terribly ticklish, and utterly overwhelmed by all the bristles of the droid as it happily cleaned her feet. The toothbrushes at her stomach were smaller, and thus theoretically more manageable, but she had always been so much more ticklish up there that it all seemed to about balance out. Her stomach made a strong bid for ticklish prominence, however, as the toothbrush circled the inside of Rey’s quivering belly button with its buzzing head.

“You may continue to vex me, but I’ll keep thinking of new ways to break you,” Kylo sneered, as he grabbed Rey’s chin and forced her to look at him. Inadvertently, Rey let loose a bark of laughter, spraying him with a bit of spittle as the droid continued to apply its brushes to her arches. Kylo wiped the spit with the back of my hand. “You did that on purpose,” he yelled, as in his fit of rage, he dropped his toothbrushes and dug his fingers roughly into Rey’s armpits.

Rey turned to shout that she hadn’t meant it, that she didn’t know anything, and that she couldn’t breathe from laughing so hard, but it was no use. She laughed and laughed and laughed, as the droid and Kylo’s furious fingers tickled her into hapless hysterics. Rey was no match for Kylo’s wrath, and her resistance, and consciousness, were worn away by insistent brushing at her soles and haphazard fingers in her underarms after several hours. Kylo never stopped tickling her this time, as he seemed so determined to smash away her resistance, but no matter how often he yelled at her to tell him where the base was, Rey could do nothing. She could do nothing but laugh, as the tickle torture continued without stopping and she finally fainted.


Rey stirred, and her sensation was the welcome feeling of new. Something felt slick and rubbery around her feet, and her fingers felt funny, but maybe she was sleeping on some synthetic material, having been sprung from the ghastly prison by her allies. She opened her eyes, and the familiar feeling of dread and trepidation returned. Things were different, in the dank depressing interrogation room, but most certainly not for the better. The chair seemed to have been upgraded, as new shackles now held Rey much more securely to the cold, unforgiving metal, even restraining every individual finger.  Rey could feel a mould around her neck, preventing any movement. At her feet, every toe was held completely still by a carefully designed mould. A droid was stationed in front of the immobile feet, a cleaning droid with four little implements that look liked motorized brushes.

It was not the kind of new beginning Rey had hoped for when she woke up.

“So you’ve finally awakened,” a high, cruel, female voice said. Rey’s heart sank.

There was the familiar clank of boots on a metal floor and Captain Phasma, her grey glinting in the harsh lights of the interrogation chamber, appeared in front of Rey.

“Do you like the new upgrades to your chair?” Phasma asked, but her eyes were not on Rey, whom the question had been directed to. Phasma’s eyes were focused on the thick black gloves she was unpeeling from her own hands. The gesture sent a shiver of fear down Rey’s spine as she Phasma’s nails, looking as sharp and fiendish as ever.

“I’d rather see you in here,” Rey replied. “Then we’ll see how tough you are.”

Phasma laughed without mirth. “Ha. Ha. Aren’t you funny?” Phasma used one fingernail to slowly, ever so slowly, drag up the arch of Rey’s right foot. Rey shuddered, gritting her teeth, and refusing to fall to pieces from the touch. She knew the laughter would come, but she didn’t want to give Phasma the satisfaction of crumbling after a lone finger. Rey had taken worse. She could fight it.

After lightly scratching for few moments, Phasma traced her fingers upwards, brushing through the crevice between Rey’s toes, along the shins, up the inner thigh, till the finger rested on Rey’s stomach. Already, Rey was panting from the effort of defying the ticklish instincts that bubbled away within her.

“You can’t move, can you? Not even an inch.” Rey hated it, but Phasma was right. What little movement had been allowed her before, for example, the scrunching of her toes, had been taken away from her too, like everything else in this merciless room. Phasma circled Rey’s stomach with a fingernail slowly, then suddenly dug all ten fingers into Rey’s sides, making the brunette squeal in surprise.

‘I can see you’re in a defiant mood today,” Phasma said, using her knuckles to prod Rey’s ribs. The vibing sensations made Rey gasp and shudder at the same time. “Lord Ren will like that. And hate it at same time.”

“I could not care less what ‘Lord’ Ren wants,” Rey replied, glaring. She was biting hard on her lower lip as Phasma continued her work. It tickled terribly, like it always did, but Rey was sick of being brought low and weak by this silly childish tickling again and again. She would delay the inevitable, and she would fight Phasma for every inch.

Phasma laughed. “You’re cute when you’re trying to be tough,” she said, as she spidered her nails along Rey’s biceps, making the muscles there tense up and contract like Rey was attempting a chin-up.

For a few moments more, there was only the sound of grunts, gasps, and silence, as Rey choked down the laughter that continually threaten to burst from her lips, as Phasma and her merciless nails continued to trail their devastating paths across Rey’s helpless body.

“Well, I must admit I’m impressed,” Phasma said, as she stopped for a moment, stretching her fingers and cracking her knuckles. “A girl as ticklish as you shouldn’t have been able to take so much of this.”

“Maybe I’m just tougher than I look,” Rey retorted, as she panted, sweat trickling down her neck. Trying to resist the urges instead of simply succumbing to them had exhausted her. It was like wading against the current. It took an almighty amount of effort to stand your ground and not be swept away. Rey wasn’t sure how, or why, but she could feel like there was this hidden reserve in the back of her mind, urging her on, and granting her strength. Could this be…?

Phasma shrugged. “Perhaps you are,” she said. “But I preferred it when this room echoed with the sound of you laughing and begging.”

“Wha-what are you doing?” Rey said, as Phasma made a moved to the tray of tools, picked up what looked like a metal visor, and walked to Rey’s bound body. With the tight bondage in place, Rey couldn’t even move her neck, so Phasma easily affixed the visor over Rey’s eyes, throwing the girl’s world in blindness.

Then, as Rey acclimatized to this dark, dangerous world around her, Rey heard the gentle squirt of oil being squeezed out of its bottle. A fresh coat of oil was applied to Rey’s feet, stomach, ribcage, and armpits. Rey could only breathe deeply, and try to get her tingling body under control. Blindfolded and smeared with that accursed oil, every sensation of her body suddenly felt accentuated, intensified. Cruel woman that she was, Phasma then made Rey wait, made Rey anticipate the horrific tickling onslaught that was undoubtedly about to befall her.

Rey couldn’t see, but she could sense, she just knew, that Phasma’s long, cruel fingernails were inches away from Rey’s slick, toned stomach, just waiting for the moment Rey lowered her guard. All Rey could do was tighten her abs, prepare, and wait.

The sound of the automated whirling of the droid’s brushes caught Rey completely wrong-footed. She could only splutter as the small, brushes suddenly began to sweep across her oiled, exposed soles with surgical precision, making no unnecessary movements. Rey had no idea what kind of programming the droid had, but it was certainly decided for darker purposes that simply cleaning, as they proceeded to dust in between and under each and every one of Rey’s quivered, tied-back toes, one at a time.

As the sensations from her traumatisingly ticklish feet crept up her legs, Phasma’s fingers suddenly flew into motion, skittering around Rey’s stomach while the young brunette’s mind had been on the brushing her feet were receiving. Rey screamed as fingers scrambled across her stomach and ribs, Phasma’s long nails taking care to torment Rey’s navel thoroughly.

She was laughing so hard that she barely heard his footsteps till it was too late.

“You know, I’ve been meditating on what to do with you,” Kylo said, as he procured an electric toothbrush, and began applying it to Rey’s armpit, occasionally dragging it upwards to tease along the nape of the neck.  “And I’ve come to a realisation.” He held Rey in suspense a few moments longer, as she laughed herself silly, all hopes and plans of defiance utterly decimated. “I don’t care if you tell me where the resistance base is, or even if you know where it is.” He dug his nails hard into Rey’s armpits. “I’ll keep you as my prisoner, as my little pet… something to play with and blow off some steam after training with my master. I’ll be sure to program the droids to keep you entertained while I’m away, of course.”

So that was the secret behind the droid. Rey felt the brushes make swift, brief strokes across the arches of her feet, driving her to new heights of insane laughter. As horrendous as it was to be tickled by Phasma or Kylo, their sensations had never extended past a few hours, minus that one time when they had worked in shifts. Rey imagined the prospect of several of these droids tending to her for half the day, with one droid at her feet, one droid at her stomach, and one at her armpits…

Rey wanted to weep. She wanted to scream. She wanted to attack him. But all she could do was laugh.

“You’re mine forever now.” Kylo laughed. “Unless someone comes to save you, of course,” Kylo said, scoffing. “But what are the chances of that happening? A million to one chance.”

Never tell me the odds, Rey thought, as she fell back into the prison of laughter.  


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Jennifer Lawrence TK: Captured by the Illuminati


“Rise and shine, sleepyhead…” a voice whispered in Jennifer’s ear. She groaned, keeping her eyes tightly closed. She wasn’t quite ready to get up for the tribulations of the day. She knew she had a full day today, with a movie shoot for her latest film, followed by several media appearances she had been signed up for by her overzealous agent. Just give me five more minutes...

“Wakey wakey…” the same voice whispered in Jennifer’s other ear, but she was half-convinced she was still dreaming. How would there possibly be someone in her secure, private mansion? She tried to roll over to find a better position to sleep, but found that, strangely, she couldn’t move. Her eyes flew opened, pupils dilated with shock and surprise. It took a few blinks for her blue eyes to become accustomed to the harsh lightness of the room, but once she had, she didn’t know what to think.

There was a stab of fear as Jennifer took into account her surroundings.  

She was in what could only be described as a cell, cold and sterile-looking. A featureless, small, white room, without any real furnishings whatsoever, with the exception of a metal examination table, which Jennifer found herself currently strapped to.

Jennifer took a deep breath, willing herself to not show fear. As her eyes scanned the room, every detail she took in about her current situation sent alarms blaring in her head. Oh no… what have I gotten myself into?  She could feel the steady pulse of trepidation as her heart pounded in her chest. She glanced down at her body. She could see her sparkly blue toenail polish reflecting from the harsh lights of the room. She saw her pale, slightly tanned legs held firmly down by leather straps. Her toned abdomen, the abs she had worked so hard to get, on full display as she was clad only in the skimpy black undergarments she had worn to sleep the night before. Her wrists were stretched far above her head, like she was in some kind of medieval rack, held in place by the same leather straps that were around her ankles, legs, and waist. But the strangest thing she saw was the other inhabitants of the room, who must have been the ones whispering in her ear. There were four figures in the room with her, clad in shapeless black robes and shiny silver masks. The masks bore a strange symbol of a triangle with an eye in it. It looked vaguely familiar, but the symbology department of her mind didn’t seem to be working at the moment.

Jennifer put on her best voice, the menacing, dangerous voice she used when playing ferocious characters. She was fucking Katniss Everdeen, for God’s sake. It wouldn’t do to show how scared she was.

“Do you know who I am?” Jennifer said, scowling. The second part of her speech was a commanding: “You better let me go right this instant,” but Jennifer never got to say it, as the four cloaked figures immediately burst into snickers by the end of Jennifer’s first line. Jennifer was surprised to hear the laughter was female, from all four of them.

“Of course we know who you are, darlin’,” one of the figures said, in a strong southern drawl. “It would be mighty silly of us gals to go through all the trouble to kidnap you if we didn’t!” The figure guffawed, sounding to Jennifer like every bit the uneducated country redneck.

“What do you want?” Jennifer cut in, putting as much steel in her voice as possible.

“Why so serious, J-Law?” another figure said, this voice was younger, brattier. Jennifer wouldn’t have been surprised if it was some rich idiot’s spoiled teenager daughter under that strange mask. “We’re just here for a few… laughs.”

The brat’s last word sent shivers down Jennifer’s spine, and not just because of the strange way she had elongated ‘laughs’ like some strange hiss. The brat had pulled back the dark sleeve of her robe to reveal a manicured hand with long, cruel-looking fingernails. A pink-painted fingernail was currently sliding around Jennifer’s navel in slow, teasing circles.

“Q-quit it!” Jennifer said, biting her lower lip.  She could already feel the laughter bubbling away inside her.

“You wouldn’t happen to be ticklish, would you?” Jennifer recognized her as being the first voice to whisper. It was measured and educated, with a British accent. The voice came from the foot of the bondage table. The woman was crouched over Jennifer’s soft, vulnerable feet, casually stroking the tip of one finger up and down the arch of Jennifer’s right foot. Jennifer noticed with alarm that this woman had devilishly long fingernails too, only hers were painted a classy white, to match the cold white walls of this godforsaken room.

“N-no! Nohohot at t-tall!” Jennifer said, her voice quavering as the two teasing fingers worked their magic on her taut, trapped body.  She hoped that maybe, just maybe, if only she could hold out long enough, without laughing, they might get bored and stop.  Perhaps even release her once they saw that she wouldn’t play along with their weird games.

The only problem was that Jennifer was rapidly reaching the limit of her endurance, as in truth, she was an astonishingly ticklish girl, as all her friends had teased her when she was growing up. Her schoolmates had poked her in the sides during class, snuck fingers in her underarms when she was carrying things, and once during a school field trip to the beach, they had tricked Jennifer into being buried in the sand, but had left her hyperticklish size eight feet sticking out. The whole class had gathered round, even using shells and things from the beach to tease her poor feet, but all those experiences paled in comparison to what she was currently experiencing. She had always known that her friends would take pity and stop tickling her after a while, but here, tied up and helpless with these four maniacal women, she had no such guarantee.

Jennifer’s head snapped to the side as a finger scratched lightly at her left bicep, slowly dragging its way downwards into dangerous, dangerously ticklish territory.  “So you say you ain’t ticklish? Really? Then you won’t mind me joining in too, will you, darlin’?”

All she could do was grit her teeth and close her eyes, trying to block out the niggling sensations. The tickling was maddening, absolutely maddening. The Southerner’s whorehouse red nail was nipping at the hollows of her armpit, making Jennifer want she could rip her arm out of its socket just to get it away. The Englishwoman’s sharp white nail was stroking at the fleshy ball of the foot, as Jennifer tried to use one foot to cover up the other. The Brat girl’s psychedelic pink was still twirling circles along Jennifer’s stomach, getting perilously close to entering her bellybutton with every circuit.

She wanted so badly to laugh, but she couldn’t give them the satisfaction. She just couldn’t. 

Soon, however, even this point of pride was wrenched away from her, as the final woman spoke, in a high, malevolent voice. “I think it’s time we cut with the foreplay, ladies. I want to hear this bitch laugh.”

Jennifer opened her eyes just in time to see two hands, with all their long nails painted a sinister black, shoot out and grab her hips, rummaging over them wildly. While the other hands had teased, this individual evidently saw no need for such gimmicks, and meant to inflict as much as torment as possible, as quickly as possible. Using the savagely sharp tips of her nails, she squeezed and prodded at Jennifer’s hips, and just like that, the dam was broken.

Laughter flooded freely from Jennifer’s lips. She shook her head from side to side as if she could deny her own supreme sensitivity, but it was no use. There was no going back now. Everywhere tickled, everything tickled. Following Mean girl’s example, all four of them were now going full force at Jennifer’s body with both hands. Four pairs of hands and forty fingernails had unimpeded access to every inch of Jennifer Lawrence’s body, and there was not a thing she could do about it, except to laugh at her own weakness, at life for doing this to her, and at these four crazy women for doing this.

Jennifer arched her back in response to this sudden influx of ticklish sensations, but that only seemed to make things worse, as Brat girl tickled her ribs and stomach even harder.

“Let’s put a cushion under her back!” Brat girl said suddenly, as her nails scampered across Jennifer’s protracted ribcage. “You can, like… see her ribs much more clearly this way!”

Mean girl glanced over, and nodded, before suddenly adding her merciless fingers to the mix, so Jennifer’s right flank was being worked over by Brat girl’s playful, teasing touch while her left flank was being assaulted by Mean girl’s crueller, darker touch. With their combined efforts, Jennifer found she was constantly arching her back despite itself, so desperate was her body for some kind of release from these mind numbing sensations that were swarming her body.

“I should like some toeties to be installed here also,” the Englishwoman said from her post at Jennifer’s ankles, were her nails were presently stroking insistently across the pair of curling, flexing, feet. “She’s such a minx, curling and flapping her feet so.” She sniffed. “Such uncivilized behaviour. One should simply take one’s punishment on the chin, instead of struggling so.”

“I couldn’t agree more, hun,” the Southerner said, as she raked her nails up and down Jennifer’s helpless hollows, sometimes slowly, and sometimes quickly.

Punishment for what? Jennifer thought, through a haze of tickle-addled delirium. She wanted to ask, but she was having trouble formulating words at the present, as unbidden laughter seemed to have priority.

As Jennifer’s laughter bounced across the walls of the room as if mocking herself for her absurd ticklishness, Mean girl leaned forward. She had stopped tickling, though the other three had continued their rampage. “Do you want us to stop?” Jennifer could hear the mocking smirk in her voice. Through teary eyes, Jennifer saw the bleary reflection of Mean girl’s mask; she saw herself, red-faced and writhing, her mouth wide, her pearly white teeth on full display as she laughed and laughed.

Hating herself, Jennifer nodded.

“Then you’ll need to beg. Beg us for mercy, and this is over… for tonight.”

Jennifer did not like one bit what that last part had been about, but she had more pressing matters to focus on, namely three pairs of evil fingernails still ruthlessly tickling her spots.

“Plehehehease stahahahap!” Jennifer begged, despising the pathetic whine that came from her voice.

“More!” growled Mean girl, skittering one hand over Jennifer’s collarbones, while her other hand dug into Jennifer’s right armpit to emphasize her point. Jennifer was beside herself with laughter, as Mean girl and Southerner took possession of a ticklish underarm each.

“Mehehehercy! Mahahaharcy! Pleaseheeheeeese!”

“Say I am your slave.”

Jennifer bit her lip, hesitating for a moment, but suddenly Mean girl stalked off. She reappeared at Jennifer’s left ankle, gripping Jennifer’s pedicured toes, pulling them back, and slashing her nails up and down the squirming, silky-smooth foot, as Englishwoman and her careful, measured touch continued to weave patterns all over Jennifer’s other foot.

Jennifer couldn’t bear the thought of enduring this any longer. She leaned down and saw her pale body was already reddening, wounds from this one-sided war of laughter, as painted nails stoked her ticklish body. Brat girl had a finger in Jennifer’s navel. Southerner had moved down to work on Jennifer’s thighs. Her right foot and left foot were in Englishwoman and Mean girl’s clutches. This had to stop.

“I’m yohohohour slave!”

“I can’t hear you!” Mean girl said, smirking. “You’re too far away.”

“I’m your slahahahave!” Jennifer bellowed, as all four tickling hands suddenly tickled her even harder. But still, they ignored her, continuing to tickle and tickle. She shouted it again and again. It wasn’t till the tenth time that they finally stopped.

“Better,” Mean girl said, patting Jennifer’s foot the way you might pet a cat. “Give her something to drink.”

Jennifer saw them lift a bottle of water to her lips. Her throat parched from all her shouting, she drank greedily.

As the room began to spin around her, she realized the drink had been dosed.

“Good night!” Brat girl said, giving her a cheerful wave.

Jennifer slept.


Jennifer woke to the delicious smell of pizza. She smiled. So it had all just been a bad dream after all… her boyfriend must have come in and decided to surprise her with a naughty snack. She opened her eyes, and her stomach dropped.

She was still there, in that miserable room, with those four masked women hovering over here. There were two pizza boxes propped up on plastic chairs.

“Good morning, darlin’,” Southerner girl said. “You in the mood for some breakfast?”

“Fuck all of you,” Jennifer spat. “Let me go! Let me out of this place!”

“That’s no way to speak to us,” Mean girl said, her voice cold as ice and are dangerous as frostbite. “You’re our slave now.”

“Aren’tcha hungry, J-Law?” Bratty girl said, her voice light and cheerful.

Before Jennifer could respond to this obvious good cop, bad cop routine, her stomach gave a loud rumble. She hadn’t eaten in ages. She nodded, reluctantly.

“If you be a good girl, we’ll untie you,” Englishwoman said, her voice high and haughty.

Jennifer nodded again, seeing an opportunity to escape. Southerner balanced the pizza box on Jennifer’s lap, as Bratty girl loosened the leather straps around Jennifer’s right wrist. Mean girl leaned against the wall at the far side of the room, arms crossed.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she called out, in a voice that brook no disagreement. The other women retreated leaning against the same wall as Mean girl. “You have five minutes.”

Jennifer bit her lip. With only a hand free, there was no chance of escape. It would take her minutes to undo all these straps, and she was unlikely to even have ten seconds with her four tormentresses watching her like hawks.  

Perhaps it was best to bide time for now, and wait for the opportune moment. Using her free hand, Jennifer ate, grateful at least that they weren’t starving her. She kept an eye on her four captors. Bratty girl had dug into the pockets of her robe and pulled out a bejewelled smartphone and was tapping away. Southerner was whistling some country tune Jennifer vaguely recognized. Englishwoman was admiring her white nails. Mean girl had her arms crossed, all her attention still on Jennifer.

“Time’s up,” Mean girl barked, after a few more minutes.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Jennifer protested.

“Wouldn’t want you to have an accident,” Brat girl snickered, and nodding to each other, the four girls moved to untie Jennifer. This was her chance…

 “Just so you know, you’re on my private ranch,” Southerner said. “This is all my land for the next ten miles in every direction.”

“No funny business,” Mean girl warned, lifting into her jacket and pulling out a revolver, just to quash Jennifer’s dreams of escape even further. Just wait for the right moment… Jennifer told herself. They’ll make a mistake somewhere…

Jennifer allowed herself to be led away to a washroom, where she promptly did her business. The bathroom was sparse and utterly devoid of anything she could use as a weapon. They promptly frogmarched her back into the cell, where they strapped her down again.

“Good…” Brat girl purred, as she tightened the straps around Jennifer’s waist. “Now that all the boring stuff is out of the way, we can get back to the fun!”

“Fun? You creeps think this is fun?” Jennifer hadn’t meant to say this, but the prospect of another massive dose of tickle torture had quite soured her mood. The fact they had upgraded their torture bench, with the toes ties and cushion under her back as they had discussed the night before did not help. By the time they finish looping and pulling Jennifer’s aqua-blue painted toes back, she felt as exposed and vulnerable as she had ever been in her entire life.

“The lil’ lady sure seems a bit cranky, this mornin’!” Southerner said, chuckling.

“I quite agree,” Englishwoman said, with a disapproving sniff. ”She should know by now not to take that tone with us.”

Mean girl, without saying a word, reached underneath the bondage table, and pulled out a toolbox. She fished a plastic ballgag from the box, and promptly shoved it roughly into Jennifer’s mouth. Surprised, Jennifer was barely able to put up any resistance as the cold, uncomfortable material was shoved in her mouth.

“Much better… I like to see the fear in those pretty blue eyes,” Mean girl said, giving Jennifer a mocking pat on the head that made her feel like a dog.

Then, without any further build-up or ceremony, she began running her long black fingernails across Jennifer’s collarbones and neck. Squeaking into the gag, Jennifer tossed her head from side to side, trying to avoid the fingers or by trying to crush the fingers under her neck, but it all seemed to simply amuse Mean girl.

“You are our slave, Jennifer,” she taunted. “Ours now, and forever. And don’t you forget it.”

Jennifer looked up to try to glare at her foe, but she would she was unable to maintain such a stare with so many hands running up and down her ticklish body. The other girls had started tickling too, taking their cue from Mean girl.

Through bleary eyes, Jennifer saw the pink nails of Bratty girl (when they weren’t speaking, their nails were the only way to tell them apart) spidering across her helpless feet, paying particular attention to those pretty-painted toes. Despite her own muffled laughter and Mean girl’s taunts, Jennifer could hear Brat girl giggling, as if the desperate, but futile twitches of her tightly-bound toes amused her.

Southerner’s red nails were exploring along Jennifer’s knees, where Jennifer had just learned, with dismay, harboured many super ticklish areas. The tanned, freckled hand squeezed up and down, even venturing upwards to tease along Jennifer’s thighs occasionally, but mainly focusing on the sweet spot under Jennifer’s knees.

The Englishwoman’s touch was methodical, light, and deliberate, but no less effective as she slowly caressing of Jennifer’s toned midriff with her bone-white nails. She dragged her long nails up and down her exposed skin, watching Jennifer’s face hungrily for her reactions, taking careful notice of the way Jennifer’s body would flinch in response to her precise touches. She was clearly intent on sniffing out every one of Jennifer’s worst spots. This one’s a businesswoman… a nose for finding the weaknesses of others… Jennifer thought dimly, willing herself not to scream into the gag as the Englishwoman’s careful, meticulous questing discovered a secret spot that Jennifer had hidden even from her boyfriends during their pillowplay. With the cushion under her back forcing her to make an arch with her spine, Jennifer’s ribs protruded, making it child’s play to focus fingers right on the ridges of the ribcage, which the Englishwoman did repeatedly, working her way up the ribs and then back down again.

After what could have been twenty minutes or twenty hours, Mean girl called a half to the proceedings. Jennifer had hoped they would give her a break, but those hopes were promptly dashed. “Let’s rotate, ladies.”

Jennifer tried not to cry as Englishwoman pointed out the nightmarishly ticklish spot on her ribs to Southern girl, who was the next to play with Jennifer’s torso.  “That’s the look I like to see,” Mean girl said, giving Jennifer a light slap on the cheek as she walked down to acquaint herself with Jennifer’s toetied and helpless feet. Mean girl began raking her nails up and down Jennifer’s poor, buttery-soft feet before the other girls were even fully in position, but the others quickly made up for lost time, tearing into Jennifer’s ticklish spots with glee.

Englishwoman’s maddeningly light touch on her neck and collarbones… Southerner’s rough fingers working over her ribs and stomach… Bratty girl’s childish fingers teasing all over her inner thighs and knees… and of course, Mean girl’s ruthless nails, scything up and down her soft feet, which had been pedicured only days ago. And totally unable to express her laughter, aside from mmphing into the gag.

It was too much to take… Too much…

Consciousness slipped away from Jennifer.


Consciousness returned, unbidden and unwanted. Jennifer’s eyes flicked open, then immediately squeezed shut. It was better to feign sleep. Sleep was peaceful. Sleep was relaxing. It was when she awake that her troubles began. She could feel that she was still gagged and bound up anyway, so she knew she wouldn’t be escaping.

“I saw that, J-Law!” a girlish voice squeaked. It could only be Brat girl. Jennifer heard her clap her hands excitedly. Jennifer didn’t move. It was time to put her award-winning acting skills to the test.

“Trying to trick me, huh?” Brat girl asked, after Jennifer did not react. “I know you’re awake. I saw you open your eyes.”

Jennifer forced her breathing to stay the same. Brat girl was the youngest of the group, and so she was probably the dumbest too. If she could just fool her, Jennifer might buy herself some time…

“Hmmm, I guess I could have just been imagining things… I guess I gotta go easy on the kush…” Brat girl sounded uncertain. Jennifer heard her walk away from the bondage table. Jennifer breathed a mental sigh of relief, thanking her lucky stars!

Of course, life had a habit of catching you with your britches down, especially when you thought you were out of the woods. Jennifer yelped into the gag, as one of Brat girl’s long nails suddenly made contact with the bottom of Jennifer’s right foot, dragging quickly up the taut foot. With her eyes shut, and thinking she had just successfully evaded a gruesome fate, Jennifer had been caught completely off-guard.

“Psych! You think I’m some kind of idiot, don’t you?” Jennifer was in no state to deny it, as she began struggling anew. Brat girl’s nails scampered up and down Jennifer’s helpless feet, like a pair of marauding spiders.

"I so knew it," Brat girl said, giggling triumphantly. "Gotcha!”

The only consolation was that Brat girl seemed to be alone, her three partners in crime absent from the scene, though Jennifer felt that Brat girl was doing plenty well on her own, especially when Brat girl leaned forward so she could wiggle her nails along Jennifer’s milky-white inner thighs as well, tickling Jennifer’s left foot with one, and Jennifer’s right thigh with the other.

After a few moments, seemingly getting bored with Jennifer’s deliciously ticklish feet, she moved up again, using both hands on Jennifer’s thighs and kneecaps for a spell, and then reaching up with a hand to experiment with Jennifer’s tummy too. After spending a few more quick moments with one hands on Jennifer’s left thigh and the other at her stomach, Brat girl went full-on into Jennifer’s toned tummy, with her left hand running rampant over Jennifer’s right side and ribs, while her right hand wriggled its way from the top of Jennifer’s smooth, firm stomach down until it reached the lower stomach, right below her belly button. Brat girl’s giggles were practically louder than Jennifer’s as she switched hands, now tormenting the left side and ribs with her right hand while her left hand began crawling up and down Jennifer’s poor stomach.

Brat girl didn’t have to share with anyone, so she was taking full advantage of this fact, treating Jennifer’s ticklish body like a buffet, having a taste here, there, and everywhere.

“You know, you really shouldn’t have admitted you were so ticklish in an interview, J-Law,” Brat girl said, slowing down the tickling right when Jennifer was on the brink of hyperventilation. Jennifer took advantage of the cessation of tickle torture to breath in air desperately through her nose. “That’s what drew our attention to you. That’s why we chose you.”

Jennifer grunted, the only sound she could make with the gag in her mouth, trying to indicate that she wanted to talk. Brat girl obligingly slackened the strap around the back of the ball gag so that it came out of Jennifer’s mouth, the moist, disgusting thing resting on her neck.

“You chose me?” Jennifer asked, trying to get as much information as she could from the gossipy girl.

“Well, we had a few other candidates, but after you said that you hated to be tickled…” Brat girl tittered. “We knew it had to be you.”

“Who is ‘we’? Just who are you people? And what do you want with me?” Jennifer was shouting, so frustrated that she had been abducted with these freaks and desperate to find out why.

Brat girl was about to answer when the door to the cell flew open.

“Naughty, naughty,” Mean girl said, her voice stern as she strolled into the room, with Southerner and Englishwoman behind her. “Hogging her all to yourself, eh? You’ll have to be disciplined for this later.”

“Awww, don’t be like that, guys!” Brat girl said, whinging.

“Rules are rules,” Englishwoman said. “And this violation constitutes an hour in the punishment stocks.”

“But we can’t say that we blame you, hun,” Southerner said, giggling. “Miss Celebrity here sure is a delight to tickle.” There was a murmur of accord.

“Indeed,” Mean girl said, nodding. “Allow us to make up for lost time.”

On that note, another horrendous tickle torture session began. This time they eschewed with the gag, as Mean girl said she wanted to hear Jennifer begging. And beg she did, though Jennifer hated herself for every pathetic word that passed her lips. But begging for mercy, threatening them, and promising rewards in return for her freedom all proved to be ineffective – her words falling on deaf ears as their hands worked all over Jennifer’s gorgeous, ticklish body.

The girls had brought a new toy into play – baby oil, which they lathered generously across Jennifer’s toned stomach, ribs, and thighs, even squirting some into her armpits as if it was deodorant. The sweet-smelling substance was rubbed firmly in Jennifer’s skin, and for the briefest of moments it almost felt like a massage, till the fingers began skating across the now-slick surfaces with villainous intent. Taking full advantage of the added sensitivity the oil granted, the four women relocated their torment around those areas.

Englishwoman drew slow, torturous symbols in the hollows of Jennifer’s armpits, tracing lines, numbers, letters, shapes, and God knows what else. All Jennifer knew was that the sensation kept changing, never allowing her to get used to it.

Mean girl scratched along Jennifer’s thighs, toned from hours in the gym, but still ultra responsive to her sharp black talons. They looked and felt like two dark arachnids, as they spidered up and down Jennifer’s inner thighs, occasionally meandering up along the hips to explore other ticklish pastures.

Southerner had Jennifer’s left side, and her red nails were a blur as they stroked and teased from spot to spot, counting ribs and goosing sides in a wave of constant motion, with the earnest, tireless work ethic of a devoted farmhand.

Bratty girl had Jennifer’s right side, though her tickling seemed a little timid, as her right hand brushed against Jennifer’s ribs while her left hand poked and prodded along Jennifer’s soft side. In one of the rare moments Jennifer was able to muster enough concentration to focus, she wondered what this punishment would be. Would Brat girl be stripped and placed into one of this bondage tables? Jennifer had no idea what Brat girl might look like, but she imagined some dumb blonde in the Miley Cyrus mould, with her pretty pink toes in restraining toeties, a cushion under her back to force her back to arch, and straps everywhere as the other three women worked over her ruthlessly. It was a pleasing thought. It was almost enough to make Jennifer forget her own miserable situation.

One such thing Jennifer would have liked to forget was the fact that, the worst spot today, by far, was Jennifer’s belly, as it overlapped the ‘territory’ of three of her torturers, so Jennifer often had at least two or three hands constantly teasing across the sensitive, soft flesh there.

Every few minutes, Mean girl would call a halt, and fresh oil would be added, but no sooner had Jennifer gotten her ragged breathing under control would they begin anew, digging in with fresh vigour.

“It feels like I’m missing out,” Englishwoman said, as she raked her long white nails up and down Jennifer’s armpits, gazing down at Jennifer’s stomach, which was getting pinker by the minute.

“You’re right. Let’s all give Miss Hollywood’s stomach a good seeing to,” Mean girl said, her voice dripping with malice, as suddenly eight hands descended on Jennifer’s stomach, overwhelming her supremely ticklish tummy. Jennifer fought to get free, but the straps were as unyielding as ever as she shrieked with laughter. They definitely spent at great deal of time quadruple teaming Jennifer’s poor stomach, before Mean girl said they wouldn’t want to desensitize that lovely stomach. And just like that, the girls shifted back onto on the other spots which had prior been neglected. Jennifer couldn’t even find fresh energy to writhe on her bondage table as suddenly two cruel hands appeared in each armpit and two on each foot. The tickling had been centralized on her stomach, yet now it had spread to all four corners of her ticklish body. It was too much, just too much.

Right when she was on the cusp of losing consciousness, or losing her mind, either one, they stopped.

“Who are you?”

Jennifer bit her lip as tears of laughter and fear trickled down her face, knowing that the wrong answer resulted in more tickling.

“Y-your slave…”

“Good girl. Sleep now, slave. We’ll see you in the morning.”

Jennifer Lawrence obeyed.                       


Hungry for food and hungry for freedom, Jennifer woke.

She had no idea what time it was, but her captors were yet to wake up. The lights were off, but Jennifer’s eyes had acclimatized to the dark and she was able to examine her straps at leisure. She squirmed and pushed her fingers outwards, trying to see how far she could reach. The four women had left their toolbox in the room, and if Jennifer could reach it, maybe find a screwdriver or something, then perhaps… Yet the straps were as tough as ever, though Jennifer felt like they might be slightly looser, say a centimetre or so, but she worried she was just imagining things. She took a deep breath. Patience. If she was patient, she could escape, would escape…

Then suddenly, the lights went on, the harsh, white light blinding Jennifer. She instinctively tried to block the light with her hand, but the bonds made it impossible. She blinked rapidly as a hooded figure walked into the room, doubtless with bad, ticklish intentions on her mind.

“My, my… aren’t you up early?” said the clipped, foreign accent of Englishwoman. “Good thing I’m a night owl, myself.”

“What time is it?” Jennifer asked, trying to gauge the European woman’s mood. She had learned to be careful of what words she spoke to these captors, over these past few days.  Sometimes they spoke to her when they were torturing her individually, but she knew better than to try anything when a group of them were there, especially Mean girl. She was the most dangerous of the lot, by far. Have patience, and you will survive this, Jennifer…

“5 o’clock,” Englishwoman answered, rolling back her sleeve to reveal a dainty white wrist, and a designer wristwatch.

“Your accent… where are you from?” Jennifer said suddenly, as Englishwoman suddenly took a step closer, getting dangerously close to Jennifer’s trapped, ticklish body. She had learned to keep them talking for as long as she could. And most people loved to talk about themselves, as had definitely been Jennifer’s experience in Hollywood. Listening to Brat girl rant about her University professors and her stupid boyfriend was much more preferable to being tickle to tears, after all.

“Manchester, but I see what you’re doing, Lawrence.”

“What?” Jennifer replied, putting all the innocence she could into her voice.

“You’re trying to get me to talk… what’s next? What’s my job? How old am I? What’s my name?”

Jennifer said nothing. A denial would be as good as a confession.

“I’m not here to talk to you, Miss Lawrence.”

“Then why are you keeping me here?”

“Oh, they’ll be time for that later,” Englishwoman said, as she reached into the toolbox and pulled out a paintbrush. “But you wanted some personal information about me… here’s something. I love to paint. And as luck would have it, there’s a canvas right here.”

Jennifer tried not to cringe as a dab of baby oil was squirted onto her soles, accompanied by the soft bristles of the paintbrush. Her whole body quivered, shaking in her bonds as best she could. Her toes fought against the toeties, but they were as rigid as ever. Jennifer knew she would laugh, such a thing was sure as sunrise, but she didn’t want to give this British bitch the satisfaction of crumbling into hysterics within moments.

It wasn’t easy, as the paintbrush lightly stroked her helpless, size eight soles. All Jennifer could do was grit her teeth as Englishwoman leaned closer, clearly concentrating on this imaginary masterpiece she was painting on her ‘canvas’. The laughter began to trickle from her lips as the brush began ‘shading’ in between Jennifer’s blue-painted toes, tormenting and teasing the webbing and undersides of those tender digits with methodical, rigorous touches. The brush would go from toe to toe, making sure every one of those plump, ticklish appendages did not miss out on the paintbrush’s kiss.

As Englishwoman procured another paintbrush, so she could ambidextrously stroke both soles at once, Jennifer pounded her head against the cushioned headrest of the bondage table, trying to not think about how badly she needed to pee. All she could move were her hands and neck, so they were a constant flurry of motions, fingers opening and closing as Jennifer tried to find some way to take her mind of the painting on the bottoms of her feet.

“I usually work with finer materials than this,” Englishwoman said, as she suddenly brought both paintbrushes to one lone foot, forcing a squeal from Jennifer. “But one must make do with what one has,” she said, as one paintbrush circled Jennifer’s big toe while the other patiently weaved up and down the arch, held taut and extended by the toe bondage.

“I call it Portrait of a Ridiculously Ticklish Pair of Feet,” Englishwoman declared, giving Jennifer’s toes one last swab with the brushes.

“Have you had enough?” Englishwoman asked, as she stopped ‘painting’; her voice was devoid of concern. Jennifer sucked air in desperately. This Englishwoman always gave her the creeps. Mean girl frightened her with her cruelty, Brat girl irritated her with her airheadness, and Southerner annoyed her with her faux-friendliness, but Englishwoman’s icy demeanour had always creeped Jennifer out the most.

“Plehehehease stop…”

“You know what you have to say, Miss Lawrence…”

Jennifer whimpered. She hated this. All of this. Every day and night they broke her, tarnishing her pride and humiliating as she begged for them to stop. They pushed her and pushed her till she willing to say anything just to make them stop.

“I shall take your silence for appreciate of my artistic talents. It’s high time I painted a masterpiece on your armpits.”

“No!” Jennifer howled, but it was already too late. The baby oil was squirted down in Jennifer’s left underarm, as the starlet desperately tried to reason with her captor.

“The paint’s already out of the bottle…” she said, using her hands to rub the oil in, causing a fair amount of incidental but not accidental tickling in the process. “You wouldn’t want me to waste it, would you?” 

Pouring a final dab of oil onto Jennifer’s armpit, Englishwoman commenced her painting. With her perfect, hairless armpits nice and slick, every stroke, every touch, seemed to be magnified a hundred fold. The paintbrush, with its soft, delicate bristles was a completely different sensation to the nails Jennifer had become accustomed to. Jennifer would have laughed at the fact she could have become accustomed to such a thing if she didn’t want to cry so badly. Before long, Jennifer had two paintbrushes twirling in the hollows of both underarms, tracing symbols and elaborate patterns that wrenched laughter from her mouth with every precise stroke.

“Portrait of a Terribly Ticklish Pair of Armpits,” Englishwoman dubbed, and by her tone, she wasn’t close to finishing, clearly in the midst of a great artistic fervour. Portrait of a Furiously Ticklish Tummy, and Portrait of a Tantalizingly Ticklish Pair of Inner Thighs followed, before Englishwoman finally stopped.

“Well, it’s 7AM,” she said, checking her watch. “Time to wake up the others. I hope you enjoyed our session. It’s important to respect the arts, Miss Lawrence.”

Gasping for air, and her stomach sore from laughing so much, Jennifer had a premonition that she was in for a very long day…



After her breakfast and a sorely-needed bathroom break, Jennifer found herself back on her bondage table, straps tight around her body, and her toes tied back. She had been too tired from her ‘painting’ session to even think about escape, and her fears and anxieties were starting to catch up with her. She had been in this accursed place for several days now – where were the manhunts? Why had she not been rescued yet? How much more of this would she have to endure? Despite all her talk of patience, Jennifer felt she was no closer to escape or understanding why she had been taken in the first place. Was there even a reason?

It was during all these frightening thoughts that Jennifer heard the creak of her cell door.

“Mornin’, darlin’! I hear you’ve been up a while!” There was no mistaking the southern drawl.

“When will you let me go?” Jennifer demanded, as her doubts nagged at her. “You’ve kept me here so long already!”

“Afraid that ain’t for me to decide,” Southerner said, shrugging. “I’m just the hostess of this lil’ gatherin’. You gonna have to ask the others.” The others meant Mean girl, and Jennifer knew the only answer she get from her – screaming laughter, till she passed out, or worse.

“Anywho, speakin’ of my hostess responsibilities,” Southerner said, as she sidled up to Jennifer, who shut her eyes and cringed. “You know, I take a lot of pride in keepin’ a tidy household.” Jennifer noticed Southerner wore an ostentatious wedding ring on her freckled hands as the cloaked, masked woman reached down to open the toolbox.

“And since you’re here in my dungeon, I consider you part of my property,” Southerner said, laughing a melodious cackle. “So it would be mighty poor of me to not keep you nice and clean!”

What she said didn’t click for Jennifer till Southerner pulled out a feather duster, a scrub brush, and a pair of toothbrushes.

“No… No, no, no!” Jennifer didn’t like the look of those nasty looking tools one bit. They were all perfectly mundane, but in this tickle-obsessed setting, they took on ominous meanings.

“What’s wrong?” Southerner chuckled. “I’m doin’ you a favour! You got some dust on you. I got to get it off."

On that note, wielding the duster like a wand, Southerner began to sweep the brush across Jennifer’s helpless feet. She dusted up and down both feet, like a most earnest and diligent chambermaid, taking care to dust every spot, especially in the hypersensitive nooks and crannies along Jennifer’s azure-painted toes. “I gotta be thorough. The dust bunnies love to hide away in corners.”

The feather duster almost felt like some soft, fluffy animal, like a mischievous puppy, was slithering about her feet, utterly unaware of the ticklish havoc its hair was inflicting. It was an interesting contrast to the paintbrushes which had driven Jennifer loopy mere hours ago. One was precise, one covered a large area, yet both tickled her silly.

“Well, I’m finished here,” Southerner said. Jennifer breathed a sigh of relief.

“That tummy of yours is lookin’ mighty dusty though.”

Jennifer pounded her head into the head rest. I should have known better. They always do this to me… raise my hopes and play with my heart like this…

After giving Jennifer’s stomach, sides, ribs, and armpits a thorough dusting for what felt like at least an hour, Southerner stopped. Finally it’s over…

“Hmmmm, I got some good news and I got some bad news,” Southerner said, scratching her head with a manicured hand. “Which one you wanna hear first?”

Jennifer was desperate for some good news. “Good.”

“Good news is, I’m done dustin!” Southerner said cheerily, dropping the feather duster back into the tool brush.

“And the bad news?” Jennifer asked, in a quiet voice.

“I’m afraid I need to do some heavy duty cleanin’ now,” Southerner said, though her voice didn’t sound upset at all.

“Oh God, oh God!” Jennifer whimpered, finding fresh energy to twist in her bonds, but it was useless, as always.

“Hey, don’t you be takin’ the Lord’s name in vain,” Southerner said warningly. “But I’ll be right back.”

Jennifer only had a moment to compose her thoughts before Southerner returned, a pail of water in hand. She dipped the scrub brush into the water, and started to apply it vigorously to Jennifer’s taut, trapped feet. When the innumerable bristles of the scrub brush made contact with Jennifer’s soles, she let loose a scream higher and harsher than one she had ever made. The scrub brush was even crueller than nails, or anything Jennifer had experienced so far. The scrub brush was large too, coating Jennifer’s entire foot in ticklish sensations as it washed and washed the damp flesh.

“Hmmm, I need something smaller to clean in here,” Southerner pondered, disappointed that the size of the scrub brush made it cumbersome to properly ‘clean’ in between Jennifer’s toes. So she switched to the two smaller toothbrushes, dipped them in the pail of water, and set to scrubbing furiously under the toes, and along their stems while Jennifer shrieked with laughter.

“Now your feet are looking squeaky clean!” Southerner cheered. “Won’t you be a sweetie and thank me for my hard work?” She asked, her tone deadly dangerous, as a scrub brush hovered across Jennifer’s right foot, an unspoken threat clear to see.

“T-thank you…”

“You’re welcome!” Southerner said happily. “Now where was I…”

The stomach was next on her agenda, clearly.  Jennifer’s beautiful blue eyes were wide with horror as Southerner held her firm with one hand while she started scrubbing wide circles all over Jennifer’s tummy with the other. The scrub brush had been bad enough on Jennifer’s tootsies, but the stomach was a whole different story, as Jennifer laughed so hard she could barely breathe. Southerner took care to clean every iota of dirt from the sides and ribs too.

“Hmm, what a conundrum, how can I get in there…” Southerner mused, as she brought the scrub brush to Jennifer’s belly button, displeased with the way the bristles failed to reach inside the navel. She promptly switched to the smaller toothbrushes and cleaned every inch of that terribly ticklish spot.

After Southerner was content with the level of cleanliness there, Jennifer was again made to thank her. It took all her acting skills to avoid spitting in this woman’s face, and hide her fury.

The cleaning for the armpits was horrendous, as went without saying, but Jennifer was at least grateful for the fact that Southerner went straight into it with the toothbrushes, as opposed to using the scrub brush first since the large utensil didn’t really fit that easily. The tickling was slightly shorter, though still intolerably long, in Jennifer’s opinion.

“Look at you now, darlin’!” Southerner beamed, as Jennifer panted like she had just run a marathon. “Nice and clean. Now the boss lady wants to talk to you in a few minutes, so don’t you go anywhere!” Giggling to herself, Southerner left the room.

If only there was anywhere to go, Jennifer thought, closing her eyes.


Jennifer awoke to darkness. For a second, she thought the lights of her cell had been turned off, before she felt the stiff fabric of a sleeping mask across her face. Every muscle tensed up as Jennifer heard low voices, talking at just the edge of her perceptions.

“Should we give her up?”

“What have our superiors done to deserve her? Those stuck-up bastards told us it was impossible. Yet here we are. And here she is.”

“Yeah… they would just, like, sacrifice her to that weird god they think we all believe in.”

“Yeah, we’d take much better care of her, anyway, wouldn’t we, gals?”

Jennifer heard them laugh. Then Mean girl’s voice, clear as a gunshot.

“She’s awake.”

Jennifer gasped as a hand made contact with her left foot, sliding its way up her body, along a thigh, across her stomach, through an underarm, till it reached her cheek.

“Sleep well?” the voice asked, in a soft voice. “You weren’t eavesdropping on us, were you?” Mean girl said, her voice venomous.

“N-no, of course not…”

“Oh, of course not?” Mean girl repeated. “Who are you?”

Jennifer bit back the retort that had half-formed in her mouth. “Y-your, y-your…” She couldn’t say it. She just couldn’t not after everything she had endured today.

The blonde darling of Hollywood shrieked as suddenly two claws dug into her underarms, rummaging fiercely.

“I thought you would know better by now,” Mean girl growled. “Ladies, get into position, and take your tools.”

Jennifer didn’t like the sound of that one bit, but she didn’t have time to think about it, as she felt something moist dab her bicep. She barely had a moment to register the feeling before she felt a needle pierce her arm, shooting God knows what into her veins.

“We prepared a lil surprise for you today, darlin’!” Southerner said from Jennifer’s elbow. She seemed to be the one handling the injection. Once the syringe was retracted from Jennifer’s arm, she felt an odd queasiness, like she every nerve was standing on end. It was unlike any recreational drug Jennifer had ever taken, that was for sure.

Jennifer felt adrenaline course throughout her entire body, as she waited for the attack that she knew was coming. And they always said that the waiting was the worst part. Blinded, Jennifer suddenly become acute of every strap, every bit of bondage that secured her to this table, helpless, powerless, to whatever these four crazy women wanted to do to her. Mean girl’s fingers were still in Jennifer’s armpits, making every nerve stand on end. They weren’t moving, but they were there, threatening and imposing, like a loaded weapon that could be fired at any second. Jennifer’s stomach churned and flipped as she waited. Brat girl, Englishwoman, and Southerner were waiting there, their tools and inch away from all of Jennifer’s worst spots, the spots they had gotten to know so well over the last week. They were toying with Jennifer’s mind, forcing her to anticipate the brutal attack that was about to befall her. And it was working.

“That’s a serum of our own creation,” Mean girl said, her cruel talons still not moving. “Our secret order created it many years ago. It’ll enhance every sensation. I think you’ll like it.” Mean girl laughed, and all three of the others joined in, their laughter bouncing off the walls of the tiny cell. Jennifer was starting to tickle herself just from shaking so much.

“What are you, Jennifer Lawrence?” Mean girl said, leaning in, and Jennifer’s world exploded.

Claws scrapped in Jennifer’s armpits, the sensation alone already throwing her into hysterics. Jennifer screamed, begging and shouting out the answer she knew Mean girl wanted to hear, but it was too late. The black nails were merciless, scratching and prodding in Jennifer’s hollows ruthlessly.

Jennifer wouldn’t have thought it possible, but somehow the underarms were the least of her worries today. She recognized the expert probing of paintbrushes in her prettily-pedicured toes that could only be Englishwoman. Each bristle felt like a hot iron, burning away Jennifer’s brain with its mind-meltingly maddening touch.

The toothbrushes were clearly Southerner’s handiwork, as they tormented Jennifer’s thighs, occasionally drifting up the body to tease the ribs or sides with ferocious scrubbing.

The stomach had something different – a completely new sensation. It was a pair of soft, fluffy tools, probably feathers. Their touch was light, but still incredibly effective in driving Jennifer silly with laughter.  The feathers lapped up and down her stomach, as soft as a lover’s kiss, their bristles just firm enough to tantalize all the nerve clusters around that toned tummy. Before long, Brat girl (it had to be her, through sheer elimination) began dipping the feather into Jennifer’s belly button, and the fluffy feathers quickly stoked Jennifer to new heights of chaotic laughter. Jennifer was already laughing uncontrollably – that went without saying, but the feathers dipping into her navel forced her muscles to contract rapidly, like they were spasming.

“You’d make a good belly dancer, J-Law,” Jennifer heard Brat girl say. “All you need is a feather in your button to help you dance!” Bratty girl said, giggling in her infuriatingly schoolgirlish way. Jennifer tried to saw from side to side to evade the feathers, but like all her efforts to escape, it was hopeless. She was trapped in a prison of laughter. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, not one bit, but Jennifer felt more sensitive and ticklish than ever. Whatever was in that serum seemed to be working, as Jennifer laughed herself half-mad.

Jennifer wanted to weep when Mean girl announced the first rotation. Over the sound of her harried breathes, she heard the sound of rummaging in the toolbox, which could not possibly bode well.

Sure enough, when Mean girl went to her new post at Jennifer’s size eight feet, she had toys – a pair of scrub brushes which she promptly put to work on Jennifer’s arches. Meanwhile, Englishwoman’s paintbrushes were tormenting her thighs, Southerner’s toothbrushes were giving her stomach a good cleaning, and Brat girl’s feathers were dancing in her armpits. Jennifer’s screaming barely resembled words now, she begged through her laughter, confessing a thousand times to be their slave, their anything.

The girls laughed at her every time she made such a proclamation, tickling her even harder. They stopped and rotated again, with some more rummaging in the toolbox. Mean girl had picked up these cold, tri-pronged instruments, probably forks, and was ploughing them up and down Jennifer’s ribs. Englishwoman painted a beautiful landscape across Jennifer’s abs, now surely rock-hard from all the laughing. Southerner’s toothbrushes did ungodly things to Jennifer’s terribly ticklish armpits. Brat girl’s feathers fluttered across Jennifer’s heels, and under her toes. Jennifer laughed and laughed and laughed.

At the next rotation, Jennifer was at her wit’s end, promising the women anything they wanted, anything at all, but Mean girl had just sneered and replied: “We want to tickle you more.”

And that they did. Mean girl had something with a sharp point, possibly a pen, and was drawing something all over Jennifer’s stomach. Blindfolded, Jennifer had no idea, but she could guess it was some kind of contract, stating how Jennifer was now their sole property. Englishwoman twirled her paintbrushes in Jennifer’s underarms, tracing all manner of shapes and letters. Southerner scrubbed Jennifer’s trembling toes, two at a time, starting with the big toes. Brat girl’s feathers flittered up and down Jennifer’s thighs.

Then they stopped, as they all went full circle, starting back when they had all begun.

“You’re ours now, Jennifer,” Mean girl said, laughing. “Forever. And don’t you ever forget it.”

Jennifer nodded, desperate to placate them, as tears trickled into the sleeping mask, but it was too late.

They had already started again.

Star Wars Rebels TK: Sabine and Hera!

This story takes place in the series Star Wars Rebels.


It was impossible to determine what exactly compelled Ahsoka to do as she did, but it simply felt like the will of the Force was pushing her in a certain direction. It was as if all the aspects of the universe were conspiring together to incite Ahsoka to cause a bit of good-mannered mischief. Or maybe that was all an excuse and Ahsoka just wanted to blow off a little steam. The Force worked in mysterious ways.

Ahsoka Tano, Jedi in hiding, operating under the pseudonym Fulcrum, had made contact with a ragtag band of rebels, working hard to undermine the new Galactic Empire. The flamboyant Mandalorian, Sabine Wren, with her hair a dizzying array of colour, was Ahsoka’s first target. Using the Force to unlock a chest, Ahsoka found exactly what she was looking for – Sabine’s spare armour. The Mandalorian armour was heavily customised with colourful trim and a variety of attachments Ahsoka didn’t recognise, but it was perfect for what the mischievous Togruta had in mind. With Sabine’s signature etched on the armour through its colourful graffiti, anyone would assume the person inside was the famous Mandalorian herself. And Ahsoka planned to make good use of this fact. After putting on the armour, which luckily, seemed to fit Ahsoka fairly well, despite her lekku, she decided to pay her next guest a visit – Hera.

Both ladies had seemed rather stressed, and with the Force whispering secrets in her ears, Ahsoka had a feeling, no, a premonition, that a bit of ticklish stress relief was exactly what both these rebels needed. Everyone was entitled to a bit of rest and recreation, after all. And that’s all she was doing here, Ahsoka told herself – helping them out!

Her gauntlet-covered hand hovered on the door to Hera’s cabin, as Ahsoka peered through the Force to glimpse what awaited her. She sensed the Force presence of a sleepy-but-not-asleep Hera, already resting in bed. Perfect. The green-skinned Twilek seemed in dire need of a bit of tickle-fuelled mirth. She had this serious, no-nonsense demeanour about herself, but from experience, Ahsoka had learned they were the most entertaining types of individuals to tickle. Ahsoka could recall a memory from her days in the Jedi Temple – it felt like many lifetimes ago now. The memory had been of Master Shaak Ti, whose stern nature had not excluded her from surprising ticklishness, as she remembered her old Master Anakin Skywalker once demonstrating during a ‘private’ training session between the two Jedi. It had taken a few moments for that composure to crack as Anakin’s fingers made contact with those sensitive red soles, but once it had, the laughter had gushed free like a burst dam. Anyway, that was all in the past now, tainted by the stink of the Republic’s corpse, and it didn’t bear thinking about. Ahsoka pushed the thoughts from her mind.

She slipped in the door, quiet as a shadow. She spied Hera gazing at her holopad in bed, staring at its contents pensively. The green Twilek had slipped off her goggles in preparation for bed, and to Ahsoka’s delight, her brown boots with the concealed blaster were off too, though the (presumably) ticklish feet in question were tucked under a duvet at the present, away from view. One look at Hera’s brown and orange jumpsuit also made it clear that they would provide little resistance to insistent tickling fingers. Well, it was time to get this show on the road.

Now, it would have been pure pazaak (a charming phrase Ahsoka had picked up in her travels in the rougher systems in the Outer Rim) to simply use the Force to immobilize the Twilek girl, by say, cocooning her in her own bedsheets, for instance. However, that would make it rather apparent that that the perpetrator was a powerful Force wielder, which would rather defeat the purpose of this little exercise.

So, with just a slight oomph from the Force to nudge her along, Ahsoka burst into the room. With her accelerated reactions, she was able to take four speedy steps into the room before Hera even looked up from her holopad. The pale green face looked up, eyes wide in surprise as Ahsoka bounded even closer, unencumbered by the heavy Mandalorian armour.

“Sab–” the ambushed girl wasn’t even able to finish murmuring her comrade’s name before Ahsoka was on her, wriggling gloved hands into a toned Twilek tummy, protected only by a thin jumpsuit, which Ahsoka presumed doubled as Hera’s pyjamas.

“Sahahahabine! Whahahahat are youhohohoho doihihihihing!” wailed the Twilek, whose relaxing reading session had been jarred so shockingly. It was clear by the reproachful tone of her voice that she saw this as one of eccentric Sabine’s ‘expressions of art’, which was all the better. Hera slapped and pushed at Ahsoka, but clad in the bulky Mandalorian armour and bolstered by her own Force-assisted strength, Ahsoka was implacable as her fingers continued worming all over the Twilek’s ticklish torso.

“Gahahah! Lehehehet me gohoho!” Hera squeaked, her speech peppered with squeaks and squeals as Ahsoka’s fingers continued to probe all over the Twilek’s upperbody. Ahsoka’s attack was like the perfect guerrilla strike, with the focus of her attack constantly shifting depending on which spot was most vulnerable at the moment. When Hera tried to sidle up against the wall to slip away, Ahsoka’s fingers squeezed over the exposed ribcage and sides wildly, in order to tickle the very breath from her lungs. When Hera tried to push Ahsoka’s shoulders or face to buy her some time, Ahsoka’s fingers dove to the exposed hollows, proving once against that the best defence was a good offence.

The Twilek’s response to the tickling stimulation was that of the energetic and bouncy variety, which was similar to the response Ahsoka would have had, once upon a time. Hera was a livewire, every limb twisting and moving in a desperate bid for freedom. Of course, with Ahsoka’s force-assisted reflexes, it was all for moot. Nowadays, Ahsoka saw the merit of waiting and biding for time, but sometimes it was hard to see such logic when you were being tickled so ferociously.

After several minutes of pseudo wrestling, where Ahsoka cunningly got Hera to deplete her reservoirs of energy in fruitless, ticklish struggles, Ahsoka decided she would go for the kill.

Taking careful note of the laboured, giggly gasps from the green-skinned girl, Ahsoka dived on top of the surprised girl, pushing Hera down onto the floor with the weight of her body as well as Sabine’s armoured carapace.

“Now you’re all mine,” Ahsoka said, confident the rumbling distortions of the helmet would mask her voice.

“Hehehehera nohohoho! Nahahahat thihihihis agahahahain!” Hera said, as she tried to squirm loose, but with the armour pinning her down, she could do naught but pound impotently at the thick Mandalorian chestplate.

Ahsoka found the Twilek’s use of the word ‘again’ curious, and she dimly wondered if Sabine had pulled these kinds of pranks before. If so, then all the better…  Ahsoka soon stepped up with a fresh barrage of attacks with her gloved fingers, rolling up Hera’s shirt to expose the bare green flesh. Ahsoka’s fingers danced across the tight stomach like a pair of mischievous arachnids, occasionally dipping into the navel with explosive results. Hera tried to slap away Ahsoka’s hands, but the attempts were weak – it was clear the Twilek’s energy had been drained from the earlier ministrations, just as Ahsoka had hoped. Hera’s laughter took on a squeaky, squealing quality, which Ahsoka found adorable.

After a thorough exploration of the secret ticklish spots the Twilek had been hiding on her tummy, it was time for the coup de grace. As Ahsoka hopped off the panting, spluttering chest to sit down on her ankles, perhaps having a bad premonition for the fate that was about to befall her, Hera showed a surprising reserve of energy, as she scrambled to her feet, evading Ahsoka’s lunge.

But Hera had not even made it three shaky steps when Ahsoka suddenly pressed up against her back, and slid her nimble Togruta fingers all around Hera’s sides. The Twilek flailed, and then collapsed back onto her bed as Ahsoka ruthlessly went after her firm stomach, scratching with wild abandon.

“Naughty, naughty,” Ahsoka said, chuckling from beneath the helmet, using Hera’s own bedsheets to cocoon the giggling girl. “I didn’t even get to play with your feet yet…” Hera really was too breathless to put up resistance now, as Ahsoka feasted on the Twilek’s nylon-clad feet.

With Ahsoka’s proclamation, Hera started to wiggle and make pre-emptive moves to protect her vulnerable feet. She tried clenching her toes, and then fanning them out, or crossing her feet one over the other in desperate attempts to prevent Ahsoka from getting her hands on them. But it was all to naught, as Ahsoka used thumb and forefinger to create a lock that latched around Hera’s big toes and pulled them back. The strong, nimble fingers steadfastly secured the toes, no matter how much Hera tried to scrunch or wiggle.

With the sole stretched taut and the toes helpless, there would never be a better moment to start tickling, and start Ahsoka did!

Ahsoka took a moment to admire the green feet at her mercy, wreathed in the thin, only slightly protective sheath of nylon. The soles were slightly paler, with cute round toes. After an experimental wiggle down the arch in which Hera squeaked, it was abundantly clear that it was a soft, tender foot that just had to be tickled mercilessly.

Hera’s begging started up again, pleading and promising everything from rations to helping with art projects, but Ahsoka was much more curious to see for herself just how ticklish Twilek feet were, so without further ado, she used her free hand to start raking up and down the trapped soles, while Ahsoka’s other hand held the toes firmly in place. The trapped Twilek bounced and writhed on her bed, making it almost feel like there was an earthquake, but this had no effect on deterring Ahsoka (aside from amusing her) as she pulled the toes back even more tightly and began playfully teasing the sensitive skin between Hera's toes with expert tickly touches.

Ahsoka continued her slow and thorough exploration of Hera’s bubble-like toes, which seemed to be a sensitive spot for the Twilek. She went along the toes, across the tip, the sides, the pad, and the fleshy underside, with an unhurried, casual sloppiness. Hera’s toes were starting to lose the energy to even twitch in response, so Ahsoka figured she might as well take her time. After all, her patient couldn't even move, so why hurry? After analysing every inch of those toes for maximum ticklishness and discovering the pads of both big toes were supremely vulnerable to spidering, Ahsoka finally let the toes go… Hera, scrunched her toes shut immediately, and was in the process of thanking ‘Sabine’ for finally showing some kindness when Ahsoka suddenly reached out with both hands to scrape across both soles, sending the poor Twilek into frantic laughter again.

She would scratch across Hera’s heels, race up to the tips of her toes and then back down again. Every fourth or fifth pass she would make a beeline to the undersides of those tender toes, scratching the spaces under and between each one. Hera screamed and shivered, wiggling her legs and flailing her hands. All Hera could do was thrash her head back and forth, as more and more panicked laughter forced its way from her lungs when Ahsoka's fingers dug over her arches.

With a final tweak of those ticklish toes, Ahsoka stood up, and left. Now all she had to do was wait, and watch the aftermath.


As Ahsoka had predicted, once Hera freed herself from the tangled bedsheets, she stormed out of her cabin in the direction of her apparent nemesis. Having already abandoned the armour, Ahsoka followed close behind, barely able to restrain a snicker.

Eager to assist in this little tickle-addled conflict she had created, Ahsoka took a moment to take in the sight of Hera’s slender fingers digging into Sabine’s armpits, wriggling her fingers right under the joint under the arm where the armour provided little protection due to the restrictions it would have on movement. Sabine thrashed, well, like a Mandalorian, and she would have slipped free had Ahsoka not taken the moment to strategically sit across her armoured calves, pinning the blue-and orange-haired girl firmly to the floor.

Sabine yelped in registration of this double team that had been, in her mind, inexplicably sprung on her, but soon she was laughing way too hard to mount much resistance from the position she was pinned to the floor on her stomach.

Any attempts at making a verbal declaration of her innocence were also quashed when Ahsoka, a devilish smirk on her face, unbuckled Sabine’s paint-speckled greaves to get at the ticklish feet within. Sabine’s nylon-clad feet, with colourful toes as flamboyant as her armour, looked ripe and waiting for a taste of tickling. With the addition of Ahsoka’s expert tickling fingers to the mix, the poor Mandalorian was quite beside herself with laughter, as the gliding of fingers down her surprisingly-sensitive soles (Sabine couldn’t remember the last time she had been tickled! It must have been during some dreadful Mandalorian initiation camp she only half-remembered) combined with fingers digging into her underarms quite overwhelmed her.

She took turns pounding her fists on the floor and clutching at her multi-coloured hair, but it was all in vain, as powered by righteous tickle vengeance and Ahsoka’s cheeky streak, the two girls tickled Sabine into hysterics.

“So you like tickling, eh?” Hera asked rhetorically, as her fingers rummaged under Sabine’s underarms, occasionally reaching up to brush against the biceps before digging into the hollows. “Do you? Do you?”

“Nohohohoho!” a confused and clearly ticklish Sabine replied, as she tossed her head from side to side, her supreme sensitivity jeopardizing any attempt to make sense of the strange situation she had found herself in. Ahsoka’s fingers sliding up and down her stocking-clad feet did not help.

Having just tickled the petite feet of the Twilek beside her, Ahsoka found herself instinctively comparing and contrasting Sabine’s shapely, slender feet with Hera’s. Obviously, the colour was different, as Sabine’s feet had the pale whitish pink hue of a human compared to the exotic green feet of the Twilek. Sabine’s feet were also larger, longer, with higher arches and shapely toes.

Deciding to be more methodical, Ahsoka started at the heels dragging her sharp fingernails up the length of the Mandalorian's pink, nylon-clad sole. She took the time to teasingly dust her nails along Sabine’s high arches, before continuing to slowly tickle her way up the length of the slender foot.

Then, just as she reached the top, she dragged her finger across the stem of one of the Sabine's long toes, before slowly making her way down the foot again and repeating the cycle.

Deciding to be more meticulously thorough along the toes and the tops of the feet, Ahsoka used both hands to lightly spider across these areas, delighting in the way Sabine’s feet would flex and curl in response to the encroaching fingers. Every time Sabine clamped her appendages shut, Ahsoka considered simply prying them back, but instead she would use a stern, firm finger to stroke along those high arches, and sure enough, in no time at all, those toes would peel open once more, just long enough for a finger to slip in and tease those fleshy undersides. The sides of the feet and the area around the ankles got thorough exploration too, as Ahsoka was determined to leave no ticklish stone unturned.

Sabine was laughing heartily and continuously now, and although Ahsoka liked to think it was due to her own adept ticklish-inducing skills, Hera’s vengeful assault on Sabine’s toned torso (the Twilek was currently doing unspeakably horribly things to Sabine’s midriff, having loosened a strap enough to sneak a hand in under the armour) was a contributory factor.

Ahsoka quickly found a weak spot, right under the ball of the feet, and really dug in with two strong fingers in those high arches. She rapidly went back and forth, determined to sniff out which foot was more ticklish. She went at the right foot for a time, tickling the same spot over and over again, before getting at the other.

Over at Sabine’s upperbody, it seemed the famous Mandalorian resiliency was starting to kick in. Despite the fact she was under attack from the tickle assailants, she seemed to be tapping into a secret reserve of energy as, still chuckling, she found the energy to dislodge the smaller Twilek girl off her with a tactical squeeze of Hera’s hips.

Yowling in surprise, Hera found herself on her back, as Sabine jumped on her. They found themselves at an impasse, as both girls rolled back and forth, trying to get the upper hand. Like any general of warfare could testify, they seemed to be torn in regards to aggressive offence or protective defence. Both women seemed to be conflicted between grabbing the other’s wrists or trying to snake a hand in to a tickle spot. After wrestling with each other for a time, they both opted for offence at the same time, as Sabine’s slender Mandalorian fingers dug into Hera’s tender Twilek sides while Hera countered with nimble fingers poking into Sabine’s armpits despite the Mandalorian’s best efforts to keep her arms tucked in. As both their laughter filled the room, Ahsoka decided she rather liked the sound. So instead of going over to pull Sabine off, and double-teaming the girl, as their informal alliance should have dictated,  Ahsoka made a beeline to where both rebels’ feet were entangled together. Hooking her own strong leg over them so their feet would not be able to kick free, Ahsoka promptly removed Hera’s loose boots, and went to town on both pairs of ticklish, nylon-covered feet.

What Ahsoka enjoyed most about her current position was how free she was to control the ebbs and flows of the tickle fight between Twilek and Mandalorian. Much like a battle commander, or perhaps a mischievous deity, she could influence the battle however she liked. When Hera had the upper hand, and it looked like Sabine was close to running out of energy, Ahsoka would launch a savage attack on Hera’s arches, to buy Sabine enough time to recover, and thus prolong their tickle fight. When it was Sabine enjoying the high ground, and rampaging across Hera’s ticklish midsection, Ahsoka would shift her attention to Sabine’s long, slender, Mandalorian toes, and promptly wreak ticklish havoc on those tender digits. Ahsoka would tease at the stems and stalks, as well as drill in between those oh so sensitive undersides (a spot Ahsoka had always hated being touched,  personally) when Sabine foolishly left her toes uncurled and exposed.

It was a queer sense of teamwork, as Ahsoka switched sides more rapidly than a serial backstabber. Ahsoka would work with Hera, and they would combine to inflict just enough ticklish damage that Sabine was just about defeated, then Ahsoka would suddenly ambush Hera’s feet, right in those arches, to give the almost-defeated a second wind, and then the cycle would repeat itself. Each time, the girl being betrayed would shriek in response to the sudden change of allegiance, but she usually was laughing too much so Ahsoka almost felt like some kind of diabolical Sith Lord, whose sinister machinations in the shadows were prolonging a conflict for her own amusement. 

After doing this several times, Ahsoka grew bored with the two pairs of nylon-clad feet, as entertaining as they were, and decided to venture upwards to take a more hands on approach. Ahsoka stood up from her perch, and crept closer to where the two young rebels were continuing their tickle fight, admittedly with a bit less vigour than when they had begun. Nonetheless, their stamina was impressive, as their tickle duel had been going on for easily fifteen laughter-filled minutes now.

Deciding that Hera probably needed a breather the most, Ahsoka decided her first target would be the wilful and eccentric Sabine. Preoccupied with Hera’s fingers diving under her arms, the Mandalorian did not notice Ahsoka's movements out of the corner of her eye. No Jedi would ever be caught so unaware, Ahsoka thought, with a smile on her lips as Ahsoka moved closer until she was able to reach out with a pair of strong hands and snare Sabine’s wrists. After a brief struggle, in which Hera assisted by whittling away Sabine’s resistance with a few well-placed fingers, Sabine was on her back, with Ahsoka’s legs firmly pinning the Mandalorian’s arms down.

“Nohohohoho fair!” Sabine yelped, but her pleas fell on deaf ears, as Ahsoka’s hands promptly dove straight into the hollows of Sabine’s armpits that were now stretched and helpless. Meanwhile Hera sat down on Sabine’s ankles, and entertained herself with the ticklish pair of nylon-clad soles that she had yet to be acquainted with today.

Giggling to herself, Ahsoka lowered her nails along Sabine’s toned, slightly-muscled bicep, and began to draw slow, raking lines from top to bottom, starting at the top again when she reached the bottom. The Mandalorian’s soles had been surprisingly soft, and she was pleased to discover Sabine’s underarms were of the same soft, yielding flesh.

Ahsoka loved the power she felt, as Sabine tried to escape by desperately twisting and flexing her arms, the tendons of her muscles rippling and contracting. Yet she could not dislodge Ahsoka due to the full weight of Ahsoka’s body trapping her. And Ahsoka was making full use of her unfettered freedom to explore Sabine’s underarms by tracing a wide variety of patterns in those tender Mandalorian underarms. Slow circles and slow figure eights were drawn, and then spelling out words and phrases, in various flowing and looping languages, enjoying the way the smooth, silky skin moved under her nails.

When Ahsoka glanced down, she could see that her current ally was also having a wonderful time rampaging across Sabine’s sensitive soles. The Twilek’s fingers danced from heels to toes, sliding her nails across the slick nylon surfaces, as Sabine burbled with hysterical laughter.

Feeling a bit of pity and deciding that it was time Hera was laughing her head off again, Ahsoka released the pressure from Sabine’s wrists and stood up. She was about to pounce on Hera, knock her down and reverse the situation again, when to her surprise, she felt questing fingers around her own sides. Squealing in surprise, Ahsoka spun around to discover a red-faced Sabine, panting and still giggling, but evidently still strong enough to launch a spirited assault. As Ahsoka took a step back, Hera suddenly lunged at her legs, knocking her to the floor. In a flash, Ahsoka was on her back, as Sabine straddled her arms, raised away from her head, while Hera hopped onto Ahsoka’s ankles. There was a queer sense of deja vu, as mirthful laughter began spilling from Ahsoka’s lips. She wondered what she wanted to do now.

Sure, Ahsoka could use the Force to free herself with ease, but as Hera tore off Ahsoka’s boots and began running fingernails down her nylon-covered feet, Ahsoka decided she was in a generous mood. She giggled to herself. After all the ticklish mischief she had been up to, she might as well let the two young rebels have their fair share of ticklish fun. It was her comeuppance. But only for fifteen minutes though… Ahsoka thought, quickly reducing that number to ten as Sabine stroked her fingers along the sides of Ahsoka’s stomach where, despite her toned abdomen, Ahsoka was still very ticklish. She thought about the Jedi Code, and bringing balance to the galaxy.

Fair was fair…

Star Wars TK: Grayce Vasma

(This takes place at an indeterminate time during the Clone Wars.)


Bounty Hunter Grayce Vasma couldn’t help but admire herself in the full-body mirror in her private hideout. She strutted and posed, watching as her toned abdominals tightened and relaxed. The model turned bounty hunter had never quite been able to put aside the vanity that was an occupational hazard of her previous profession.

She pirouetted, admiring her attractively-muscular body from all angles. There was no clone trooper alive who could possibly make this armour look as good as it did right now, she thought to herself, a conceited smile on her face. She struck a pose with her blaster, marvelling at the way the light caught her spotless white armour. The armour was military-issue, with the exception of the armour at the torso being cut off to expose several inches of bare stomach. The loss of protection was worth the sheer style factor in Grayce’s book, every day of the week. She ran a gloved hand through her honey-blonde locks. It was a crime to look this good, surely, she thought, awfully pleased with herself for coming up with such witty wordplay.

Grayce chanced a glance at the timepiece in the room, and groaned loudly at what she saw. Where had all the time gone? She was now late for a meeting with her Hutt boss, and Jarba did not like to be kept waiting. The idea of being her own boss, and being self-employed, was one of the reasons Grayce had been intrigued by the bounty hunting discipline, but as the months went by and her credits dried up, she realized she might have to demean herself and reluctantly be an underling again. Sighing at the idea of seeing that hideous green slug of a boss, she gave herself one last appraisal, polished her boots, took a quick shower, and she was out the door, quick as a flash.

Jarba had said he had quite the job for her.


“Grayce Vasma… why must you always vex me so…”  Jarba grumbled in Huttese, as the modulator in Grayce’s earpiece provided a translation, not that Grayce necessarily would have needed one to work out the Hutt was displeased.

“Oh, come on, Jarba… there’s no need for all this!” Grayce said, ashamed of the whining mewl that her voice had become. She had been working with this Hutt for half a year now, and it seemed like the Hutt found an excuse once every few weeks to put her through this over some imagined slight. So what if she had been a teeny tiny bit late to their meeting!

“I want to believe that, Vasma, but it seems this is necessary to keep you in line,” the Hutt said, shaking his massive great head. “Your behaviour is always vastly improved after one of our discipline sessions.”

“That’s bullshit!” Grayce shouted.

The Hutt laughed, as she had just proven his point. “Pretty human females should not use such foul language,” he said, nodding to his cronies, a Trandoshan and a Bith in grubby mercenary garb. They had both done this many a time, so they needed no further instruction as they strapped her struggling to one of the Hutt’s dancing poles in his grand hall.

Grayce put up a token fight, more for her pride than in the hope of escaping, as the Hutt’s henchman bound her wrists to a notch at the top of the pole. She groaned. It was bad enough the fate that was about to befall her, but why did Jarba have to do this in public? Grayce had a reputation to maintain!

“How long?” Grayce said, as they strapped her in, her blue eyes resigned to her fate.

Jarba stroked his ugly great wrinkled chin. “Twice as long as the time you kept me waiting shall teach you to be more punctual in future,” he decided, chuckling his horrible, throaty Hutt laugh again.

“That’s not fair!” wailed Grayce, but it was already too late, as she saw the familiar blue feathers rear up to greet her. An electronic mass of tendrils, tentacles and feathers, designed to tease and torment female flesh, as was this particular Hutt’s perversion. She tried to resist at first, like she always did, but the feathers dancing over her exposed stomach quickly sent her twisting and writhing with laughter. Jarba had given her a good deal the first time Grayce had dealt with him while wearing the midriff exposing armour, but even the power of her sexy stomach had not been enough to placate him today, it seemed. He must be in a bad mood or something.

To her left and right there were scantily-clad Twilek girls, doing the same ticklish tummy dance as she was, as the ghostly tendrils slid up and down sensitive skin. All she could do was laugh and dance as her belly was teased by these feathers. She let loose a squeak as a feather darted into her belly-button, her squeal so high-pitched half the room, full of smugglers and other bounty hunters turned to her, with hungry, lustful looks in their eyes as they watched her gyrate under the touches of the tendrils.

Grayce almost didn’t mind this part, basking in the glow of all this desire. It had been one of the things she had enjoyed about being a model, after all. If only she weren’t so damn ticklish.

After Jarba had finished with his perverse enjoyments, Grayce found herself hastily expelled from the compound, with her next mission glistening on her lips. Wow, they weren’t joking when they said they had quite the bounty for her. It seemed someone had finally realized just how talented Grayce was as a bounty hunter; she had finally gotten to the big leagues by landing a bounty on none other than Padme Amidala. And it wasn’t just the senator on her plate, but a two for one – young Jedi Ahsoka Tano was also requested to be captured, alive.

Grayce had always known she was the best in the business, even though she had only technically been in the business for such a short time, but it was nice that the rest of the underworld was finally starting to pay attention too. They would not have assigned this to her if they did not think she was capable! I mean, it’s not like some desperate fool would pay every bounty hunter to hound the same quarry or anything! That would be madness! Oh no, it was clear that Grayce was special, and had been chosen specially for this task, Grayce thought to herself, as she strolled to where the intel she had been given said the senator and her Jedi bodyguard would be.

And sure enough, after only a few minutes the infamous pair arrived down the designated street. Grayce breathed a sigh of relief, as she had ended up a few minutes late due to the unforeseen fact that she had chipped a nail, and was almost worried she might have missed her big break. The red-skinned Jedi and the well-dressed Senator were being hounded by a trio of expensive droids, though even to Grayce’s untrained eye, it was clear they were not on the same side. The fact the droids were firing at them rather gave it away.

What a happy coincidence! Grayce thought, as she watched the three droids chivvy the pair in a corner, with the Jedi’s green blade a flurry of movement as it deflected blasts left and right.

“Surrender, Jedi,” came the cold, iron voice of the droid’s vocabulator. “You cannot prevail against u–”

The droid found itself unable to complete its sentence, as a nearby dumpster flew off the floor and reduced its body to a flat pulp, like a flyswatter.

The other two droids scattered, but were promptly dismantled by a flurry of lightning green streaks.

As pieces of battle droids fell to the floor, Grayce thought this a fitting time to make her triumphant entrance.

“You’re mine, Jedi!” Grayce yelled, pouting her lush, full lips forward. She pulled out her blaster

Ahsoka brought up her shimmering emerald-green lightsaber to deflect the blasts, but to her surprise, the scorching blasts were not even close – they bounced harmlessly off the floor in front of the Jedi and Senator.

“Bloody sights must be off,” grumbled Grayce, as she gave the blaster a thump, the way one might, in a fit of frustration, tap a misbehaving electrical appliance.

“You sure about that, bounty hunter?” Senator Amidala said, her arms crossed in a symbol of defiance. “You won’t be the first mercenary we’ve sent packing today!” 

“Don’t worry, Senator,” the young Jedi said, raising a gloved hand. “I’ve got this.”

Grayce could only let out a squeak as she felt like the fickle forces of gravity were playing tricks on her, and she fell back, flying into the wall. Her blaster fell from her limp hand and clattered noisily to the floor. She found herself curling into a ball, nursing her poor back.

“Well, I guess that takes care of that,” Ahsoka Tano said, with a cocky sniff.

“Ugh,” Grayce grunted, as she slowly got to her feet. The bounty hunting business had proven to be a lot more active than she had expected. She had figured the arrogant Jedi and the prissy Senator would surrender in awe of her obvious brilliance, which would have been the civilized thing to do, but it seemed she would have to do things the hard way.

She picked up her blaster from the floor, gave the malfunctioning device a thwack, and took aim at a nearby wall. The floor in front of the wall suddenly sizzled with superheated energy. “Argh! Useless, useless, thing!” Grayce threw the broken blaster down on the floor hard. It somehow bounced off at a funny angle and collided with her shin, making Grayce hop up and down on one foot, cursing and snarling.

“Let’s do this old school then,” she sighed, as she reached into her pouch and pulled out a little stun baton. Now where had her wily foes escaped to?


“Back again for more?” Ahsoka Tano said, a playful smile on her slightly dishevelled face.

“You know it,” Grayce retorted, though her snappy comeback sounded better in her head. She jabbed the stun baton towards the pair in what she intended to be a threatening manner.

“A good bounty hunter knows when to quit, or they don’t stay in the business long,” Senator Amidala said, with her arms crossed sternly. The wreckage of a dozen droids littered their feet, oil and electrical fluid soaking their boots, but Grayce wasn’t about to let some measly, unimportant thing like the remains of unsuccessful bounty hunters stop her from achieving the destiny she knew she was owed. “I really don’t think this profession is for you, miss,” the senator said, with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh, and why would I want to quit?” Grayce replied, taking a few flourishing swings with her baton to try and intimidate them.

“Well, for a start, your stun baton is off,” Ahsoka Tano said coolly, shaking her head.

“Is it?” Grayce said, pressing the palm of her hand against the electrical tip of her weapon. As electricity surged through her body, too late did she realize she had been suckered. Who would have thought the Jedi would be this crafty! The forum groups on the HoloNets always said Jedi were gullible, honest, and naïve fools!

As Grayce twitched and began to fall to the floor, the image of the Jedi and Senator laughing at her burning away in her mind, she had a pure moment of brilliance. It was one of those moments where everything just clicked into place; one of those ultimate moments that are a culmination of luck, talent, and ingenuity. As Grayce fell to the floor, she tossed the stun baton towards the puddle of oil, and grinned as the shocked, surprised cries of the Jedi and Senator filled the air.

I bet they didn’t see that one coming.


With her two captives unconscious, Grayce finally had a moment to properly take in their appearances. The Senator had her lush, chestnut-brown tresses tied back in a functional ponytail, and with her tan riding boots and brown overalls combined with a red vest, she looked more like a well-dressed high-class lady enjoying a trip on a hike than one of the most powerful members of the Senate. The Jedi looked no better. Up close, her unappealing skinny, lanky frame was even more apparent, combined with that garish orange skin colour. Grayce knew she shouldn’t expect such a tacky, gormless species as the Togruta to know any better, but the red and brown colour scheme combined with orange skin the Jedi had going on was simply an appalling crime against fashion.

To her good fortune, Senator Amidala and the Jedi – Ahsoka, Grayce seemed to recall her name being, had failed in their pathetic escape attempt near one of Grayce’s old flames. After a  bit of wheedling, flirting, and half-promises, Grayce found herself in his spare bedroom, with the knocked-out Jedi and Senator slumbering on the floor.

Quickly getting to work lest they wake up, she bound them with ropes her ex had left lying around (he had always had a kinky side, that one, though Grayce had never been one to complain about such scruples). As the Jedi began to moan and stir while Grayce was putting on the final touches, Grayce suddenly recalled the neural disruptor Jarbo had given her, and cursing under her breath for not doing this sooner, quickly slipped it around the Jedi’s neck, sighing in relief as it clicked on.

“Urgh…” groaned Senator Amidala, attempting to sit up but finding she was bound tight by the ropes. A thick coil of rope around her forearms secured her to a chair, and another thick coil around her ankles secured her legs to a stool. The Senator’s bright brown eyes darted to her unconscious Jedi companion, and then to Grayce.

“What do you want?” she said, in a voice that brook no fear. Grayce had to hand it to the Senator. She was one cool customer. It was a senatorial voice, a calm voice of negotiation.

“That’s a good question…” Grayce said, a finger on her chin. She had never really considered the question, the same way she had never really considered what she would do upon her capture of the duo. She had always assumed it would happen, of course, but she hadn’t exactly planned out what she would do when it happened… she had always been more of a make it up as you go along sort of person.

“How much are you being paid?” the senator asked, testing her bonds. “Whatever it is, we can pay more.”

“Credits?” Grayce repeated. She didn’t even remember how much she was being paid for this. She had gotten so wrapped up with everything that little tidbits of information like that flew over her head.

“You must want something,” Senator Amidala said, with an exasperated sigh. “Let’s be civilized and talk this out.”

Now that Grayce thought about it, there was something she did want… she remembered the condescending, patronizing look the Jedi had given her. She remembered the mockery. Her back was still sore from when the Jedi had pushed her back using one of her Force tricks.

What did Grayce really want?

“I know what I want…” Grayce said slowly. The Senator almost looked happy at that, till Grayce began pulling off the high, tan boots to get at the ticklish soles underneath.

Then Amidala just looked shocked.

“W-what are you doing!” Senator Amidala said, fighting even harder in her bonds as she seemed to sense what was happening.

“There’s this thing Jarba the hutt, my boss, would do to me sometimes,” Grayce said, grunting as she unstrapped and tugged off Amidala’s right boot, revealing a slender, pale, nyloned foot underneath. “He would strap me up to a pole in his club, and make me dance for him.”

Amidala let out a little squeak as her second boot plopped free. “Can you guess how?” Grayce asked, her fingers positioned directly underneath the pair of squirming, senator feet.

“They tickled you,” Amidala said, in a quiet voice that was full of certainty.

“Aren’t you smart!” Grayce said, her speech peppered with chuckles. Amidala soon did the same, as Grayce’s gloved hands began exploring the vulnerable, nylon-clad soles. She stroked an exploratory finger down the arch of the Senator's right foot, and then the left, marvelling at how this motion was enough to crack the senator's frown into a ticklish smirk.

“Gahahaha, nohohohoho!” the senator wailed, wiggling her feet right and left, but Grayce tracked the feet with laser-like precision, making sure her fingers never broke contact for a second.

“I know what it feels like, Senator,” Grayce said, as her finges scratched deeper, right at the very centre of the sole, under the balls of the feet. “I wouldn’t dance for Jarba, so he would tickle me all over till I would. Feathers on my stomach, brushes on my nylon feet… it was unbearable.”

Amidala shook her head wildly from side to side, as if denying the sensations that were swarming her body, but Grayce was far from finished. “I would be just like you now!” Grayce laughed, spidering her fingers along the sides of Amidala’s scrunching, spasming soles.

“Jarba hated my scowl… he would always burble about how I should smile more… that disgusting Hutt,” Grayce shook her head, tickling even harder as if Amidala’s wild laughter were bullets she could fire at the smug Hutt boss of hers. “But I must say, Senator, you look a lot prettier now that you’re smiling!” Grayce said with a giggle, as she then switched to tickling each of Amidala's pedicured, pretty toes, pinching them and scraping her fingernails along the top of them. The senator would give an unsenatorial yelp with each pinch and bounce up and down as she tried to evade the tickling touches on her sensitive digits.

“Though I must confess… I’m starting to see the appeal!” Grayce tittered, as she started to flick her fingernails across Amidala's tender toes, tickling each one with a careful flick of a fingernail. Grayce had always been curious about tickling, what with being on the relieving end of it so often, but this was her first time to be fully in control, and she liked it.

“Nohohoho! Nahahaha!” were all the words distinguished, dignified Padme Amidala could say, as her immaculately done hair became more ragged and dishevelled by the ticklish moment. “Ahahahasoka! Hehehelp me! You’re my only hohohohope!”

“Oh, your Jedi friend?” Grayce started sliding her fingers under Amidala’s toes, and in between them, rummaging ruthlessly all over the sensitive flesh within. “She’ll get her turn soon enough, don’t you worry… say… where do you think she’s ticklish?”


Stirred by her friend’s pleas, Ahsoka’s eyes slowly began to flutter open, her Jedi training rapidly filtering the body-numbing sensations of the bounty hunter’s trickery from her system.  As Ahsoka’s bright blue eyes opened, they were exposed to the sight of the dishevelled Senator. Senator Amidala certainly looked the worse for wear, with watery make-up running down her sweat-streaked face. Her tidy chestnut-brown hair had also become a wild mess, as if she had been wading through a cyclone. To complete this strange picture, a rough gag had been shoved in her dainty mouth.

Clearly, the poor Senator had undergone some kind of horrific, unspeakable trauma. With a noble, righteous fury burning away in her chest, Ahsoka’s body sprang to action! ...or she would have, if she hadn’t discovered the firm bonds shackling her to some heavy plastisteel chair.

“Gah!” she grunted, heaving her whole body forward, but only succeeding in moving the chair an inch. ”Are you okay, Senator Amidala?”

With the gag in her mouth, Amidala was in no condition to answer, and Ahsoka mentally berated herself for asking such a redundant question.

“Ah, so our Jedi friend has awakened from her nap,” said a haughty voice, dripping with superciliousness. “About time you woke up,” said the joke of a bounty hunter they had encountered earlier, now looking significantly less of a joke. “Amidala and I had to… entertain ourselves while we were waiting,” she said, flashing Ahsoka a knowing smile.

“You’ll pay for this,” Ahsoka hissed, clenching her fist and urging The Force to come forth and wipe that slimy smile off this bounty hunter’s face.

The bounty hunter put her hands on her womanly hips and waited, her head tilted. She smiled. “Well? I’m waiting…”

After focusing for a few more moments without immediate effect, Ahsoka stopped and gasped, realizing she was closer to giving herself an aneurysm than do anything helpful.

“Wha-what?” was all she could say.

“Neural disruptor,” the bounty hunter said, with a maddeningly wide grin. “Oh, I really thought you Jedi were smarter than this.”

“We are!” Ahsoka snarled, thrashing at her bonds, but only succeeding in making her wrists and ankles sore. Or at least sorer.

“Now you asked me a question, so it’s only fair that you answer mine.”

“Let us go, you stupid nerf-herder!”

“Now, now!” the bounty hunter put a hand to her mouth as if shocked. “There’s no need for such language. The Senator was never this crude, even when I tickled her toes pink.”

The last sentence sent alarms ringing through Ahsoka’s mind, but she had little time to mull it over as the woman hovered over Ahsoka’s nylon-clad soles with a toothbrush in hand.


“My goodness,” Grayce said, clapping her hands to her face for dramatic effect. “Your feet got all dirty and sweaty from all your running around!” Grayce shook her head, right in front of Jedi. “Dear me, whatever will the Senator think of you?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The grim Togruta Jedi just glared at her, from over the tips of those nylon-covered toes. “Don’t you worry, I’ll wash right through the material, no problem…” Grayce had a feeling the Jedi would be every bit as ticklish as that pampered and powdered royal.

“This is your last chance to beg me for mercy…” Grayce offered, feeling magnanimous, yet the foolhardy Jedi just grit her teeth and stared, defiance in those big blue eyes of hers.

The façade of toughness was quickly shattered as a pail of soapy water appeared in front of the orange soles. Grayce laughed at the blossoming fear the Jedi’s eyes. She dipped the toothbrush in the soapy water and shrugged, swirling it around, clicking it against the metal sides.

It was clear that the Jedi had been surprised by how much it would tickle. Grayce shook her head, almost sorry for the girl as the Jedi shrieked and bucked, foot thrashing wildly when the soapy toothbrush bristles scraped against her dirty soles. After being remiss on one of her debts, Grayce had once been hauled out into the streets, with all the passerbys given free rein to ‘clean’ her soles in order to pay her debts, with the Hutts charging money for each person who wanted a shot at the mighty bounty hunter’s sensitive soles. There had been many people jealous of her in that neighbourhood, so they took a particular malevolent glee in scrubbing her pretty pink feet till they were spotless.

Yet it seemed the Jedi might be even more responsive to the brush than Grayce had ever been. That was almost funny, Grayce thoughts, as she meandered down to scrub at Ahsoka’s heel. With the nylons in the way, the cleaning was just pretence, but who was Grayce to complain, as her brush moved up to stroke across the ball of her foot. She knew intimately how maddening it felt to be tickled there, with every tiny, little prickle sliding down the side of the arch…

More than once, Grayce caught the Torgruta glancing at the bound-up Senator. “Your friend can’t save you,” Grayce said, with a chuckle, her fingers still tickling as she spoke. “The odds would be astronomical of some spoiled brat like her working her way through those binds!”

Deciding to give the Jedi something more to think about, Grayce glanced down at those at the Jedi’s juicy, orange toes, still clad in those stockings. Mesmerized, Grayce slowly brushed the trembling big toe, then across the tip, weaving to the sides, lapping along the pads, before delving under the fleshy underside. Grayce was keenly focused on her task. And why not? Her target couldn't even move, after all. The screeches of Ahsoka’s loud, loud laughter bounced across the small room, an eerie sort of soundtrack as she began to work in between Ahsoka’s toes, delighting as the music began to rise, feeling like quite the conductor… only the laughter suddenly stopped.

Grayce turned to scratch her head, but found she could not move.

“Never tell me the odds,” came the cool voice of Senator Padme Amidala, and as Grayce toppled to the floor, she saw the blaster in the Senator’s dainty hand…

Membership Extension

Journal Entry: Sun Dec 20, 2015, 7:37 AM
Facebook l Gallery l dA Portfolio l Watch Me l Note Me

Wow... right when my membership expires, a kind, anonymous fellow decides to extend it for me. All I can say is a big thank you for the generous person doing this for me! 

I shall take this as further motivation to continue writing wonderful stories for you all!

CSS made by TwiggyTeeluck
Texture by Princess-of-Shadows




Do you prefer upperbody or lowerbody (feet) tickling? 

78 deviants said Lowerbody
33 deviants said Upperbody


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Karuzem Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2015
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Hope you have a fantastic day today man. :D
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