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On Ticklish Tides, Part 1: :icononeortheother:oneortheother 23 2
Mature content
The Tickling Games :icononeortheother:oneortheother 36 6
Mature content
Morgana's Mansion: A Tickle Horror-Comedy, Part 3 :icononeortheother:oneortheother 23 4
Mature content
Morgana's Mansion: A Tickle Horror-Comedy, Part 2 :icononeortheother:oneortheother 21 6
Mature content
Dany and Missandei Tickled (Season 4) :icononeortheother:oneortheother 29 16
Mature content
The Newest Harem Slave :icononeortheother:oneortheother 25 13
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Percy Jackson TK: Testing the Tough Girl II :icononeortheother:oneortheother 26 5
Mature content
Morgana's Mansion: A Tickle Horror-Comedy, Part 1 :icononeortheother:oneortheother 28 10
Mature content
Sansa and Margaery Tickled (Season 4) :icononeortheother:oneortheother 32 12
Mature content
Ygritte Tickled (Season 3) :icononeortheother:oneortheother 20 9
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Margaery Tickled (Season 2) :icononeortheother:oneortheother 21 13
You're Cruisin for a Ticklin'! by oneortheother
Mature content
You're Cruisin for a Ticklin'! :icononeortheother:oneortheother 266 15
Mature content
Tickles of Olympus :icononeortheother:oneortheother 51 28
Literature
Arya Tickled (Season 2)
ARYA
She found that she disliked her new companion at first glance, being reminded so much of her sister, Sansa. Pia, or Pretty Pia as she was known around Harrenhal, was long-legged and full-breasted, with clean straight teeth and chestnut brown hair. She had the kind of easy effortless beauty that made Arya feel so very self-conscious about her own boyish appearance.
Yet the tears in Pia’s big brown eyes triggered something in her, and two of them were in this together, trapped in small cell in the Harrenhal dungeons. She was sitting on the straw pallet. She was fidgety with her hands, constantly running her hands through her hair, or hugging herself with her arms.
 Arya walked over and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “You okay? How did you end up here?”
“Ser Amory was making some speech in Harrenhal’s Great Hall.” the young girl’s voice was shaky with anxiety. “And this Lannister man-at-arms whispered a jape in my ear and
:icononeortheother:oneortheother
:icononeortheother:oneortheother 30 28
Mature content
The Inker Part 4 :icononeortheother:oneortheother 16 9
Literature
Percy Jackson TK: Testing the Tough Girl
Percy Jackson TK: Annabeth and Percy
O-O-O
Not for the first time, Percy Jackson found himself staring at his girlfriend, Annabeth Chase. You would think that after being together for so long, the awe would have worn off, but he had learned that in every relationship, no matter how long it had endured (or dragged on for, in some cases), there were moments that took you straight back to those budding first moments of attraction.
This was one of them. She was lying on his bed, focusing on a thick leather-bound book. Resting on her stomach, her tanned legs would slowly sway up and down. There was something about her studious cuteness with the way her mouth moved silently as she read, the way her bed-head blonde curls crested across her forehead, and the way she would turn those pages so eagerly,. Even clad only in an orange t-shirt and short grey shorts, she was still stunning. The book in Percy’s lap was no contest for his attentions. He abandoned it and sidled up to her.
“Re
:icononeortheother:oneortheother
:icononeortheother:oneortheother 42 20

Opening Commissions Officially.

Journal Entry: Thu Jul 17, 2014, 6:47 PM
Update: More summer availability!

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, though that is liable to change if I don't know the character and need to do research. If you want to commission me for multiple stories, then maybe we can talk about a package deal. In terms of payment, you pay half up front, and half when it is finished. Unfortunately, I don't accept points. 

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Oh, another thing about the payment. I usually ask the commissioner for clips, comics, giftcards or to help me with Patreon donations for me that add up to the agreed price. 

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

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


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On Ticklish Tides, Part 1:

Princess Li Wu had spent six months on board The Mistress Ambivalence, and when she glimpsed herself in a bit of glass or a column of shimmering metal, she wasn’t sure she recognised herself. She wasn’t even sure if she could call herself a princess anymore. The silken cheongsam she had worn when she first come aboard had rotted on her skin from prolonged use and exposure to the sun and salt of the sea, so now she wore brown breeches and a grey woollen tunic. Her sandals were the only thing that had survived her time on the ship, though they were a different shade of white than they had been at first. With her sleek black hair pulled back into a ponytail and chopped much shorter than it was—it barely made its way past her shoulders now, she was certain aside from her high cheekbones and regal features, she looked nothing like a princess. Even her pale skin was darker from the time spent in the sun, a serious faux pas to any true lady of China. She looked like some peasant who toiled in the fields.

Much of her time here had been hard. The women who ruled this ship were pirates, though they might dress themselves up and call themselves liberators of women. They stole, they killed, and they bamboozled fools. At a glance, their ship might have seemed like something between a courtesan’s ship and a ship full of slaves destined for the pillow house, but that was why they were so effective. That was why they had been able to break into her palace and seize her in the hopes of a great ransom from her father, the Emperor.

But that had been months ago, and it was only through Li’s quick thinking that she had been able to spare herself from a most ignominious fate. She still remembered keenly that conversation she had suffered through with Captain Ruby.

“Oh, dear, dear, dear, what am I to do with you?” the Captain of Intrigues had said. There were three captains on the ship, an arrangement that confused Li to no end, but it wasn’t the best time to voice such complaints. Captain Ruby stood as straight as a sword, with her shoulder-length auburn hair tousled, and the rubies in her ears glinting in the lamplight.

Li was on her back, her limbs stretched out across the table and bound with hempen rope. She wore nothing but her brown britches. Ruby had a hand on Li’s small feet, which were tied together. Her long fingers could almost cover the entirety of both soles with just one stretching hand.

“Do you have any suggestions?” Ruby said, a grin stretched across her pale, comely face as she spidered her nails along Li’s bare feet. “If you can’t think of anything, maybe I’ll just keep doing this till I can think of something…”

“Let me hehelp!” Li said in between gasps.

“Help with what? Your father won’t pay for you. He’s not a very loving man, is he?”

“No!” Li said, grinding her teeth together. Ruby wasn’t wrong, and in which case, maybe she could use her father’s connections in another way. “I, I can help you!”

“As my personal tickle slave?” Ruby used both hands to really scratch into Li’s soft, wrinkly arches to make her point. “Can’t you do better than that? I’m sure the Nips or the Koreans would love to have a Chinese Princess at their beck and call. Or perhaps the West would want you. Decisions, decisions, decisions…”

Li knew the only difference would be what kind of prostitute she would end up as. “I know my father’s seal! His signature! I’ve seen it a thousand times! I can forge documents for you. Please, let me join your crew.”

And five months had passed since. It was frightening how she had acclimatised to things since then. The ship was in the Sea of Japan, and they had come across a small fishing vessel. The fisherman had thrown a harpoon at them and had eaten a musket for his troubles, leaving only his daughter behind.

The girl could not have been much older than Li, and she wasn’t too ugly for a Jap, even Li had to admit that much as she hated that foul race that constantly waged war across China. The fisherman’s daughter had a slim face, big dark eyes, a lithe body, and short black hair, and if not for the rough hands and tanned skin, she might even have been considered pretty. They had taken her below decks to Tink the Tinkerer’s workshop, where a rack awaited her. The sight alone was enough to get the girl to blubbering.

“Let’s start with your name,” Ruby said as they finished strapping her in—Captain Ruby, Captain Kyra, Tink, Li, and a few others who had a smattering of Japanese.

“Hana,” spoke the girl, blinking back tears.

“Why don’t you tell us everything, Hana, or we might do something like this!” Ruby plunged her fingers into Hana’s toned sides without even waiting for the translator to speak. The thin fisherman’s shrift she wore provided little protection against Ruby’s varnished red nails.

Hana squeaked and squealed, and she quickly decided she wished to tell the crew a great deal of interesting information. There was a rich lord close to here, where the girl had once sold fresh fish to. He was wealthy and lived with many slaves and servants.

“Sounds like our next target,” said Captain Kyra in a flat voice, scrubbed of all emotion. She looked as sombre as a funeral, especially as she was clad all in black as ever in her embroidered tunic and black slacks that when paired with her black hair and black eyes made her look almost like some dark spirit. 

“Aye,” Ruby said, “but we’d be fools to just take her at her word.”

“Indeed,” Kyra agreed. “Let’s question her sharply, and see if this story of hers changes at all.”

Hana blubbered and began to shake in the rack, but the shackles that held her limbs tightly to the elevated structure were made for strength and did not move.

Tink, a spectacled young woman in grimy overalls, took this as her cue to start handing out some of the new toys she had been tinkering with. Li took what looked like a tiny miniature scrub brush about the size of her finger which was then attached to a wooden handle and positioned herself by Hana’s right foot. Unfortunately, the feet didn’t look too soft nor sensitive on this girl, but some of the choicer locations, like the girl’s trim stomach or armpits had been already claimed.

Despite this, Li got some good reactions when she brought the brush around Hana’s tanned toes and in between them, though it wasn’t hard to tell with how much the Japanese girl was screeching as half a dozen of these brushes tormented her all over. Ruby and Kyra had an armpit each, and they were asking her more questions even as they scrubbed away at those twitching underarms. Tink and Maya, a burly, dark-skinned girl, had the stomach and sides taken care of, and Rose had charge of the other foot.

Rose, who was all freckles and coy mischief, soon began nibbling and licking the toes in front of her, winking suggestively at Li as she did so. Rose was all right, though perhaps Li simply liked that she was one of the few on the ship who was perfectly content with being tied down and tickled for hours at a time—for most aboard, it was the other way around.

As the dark-haired Jap wailed and spluttered, Li felt a prickle of empathy. Li would have shown this fishing girl mercy if they had been alone, but she couldn’t risk that with so many others watching—she had only recently been promoted to tickling instead of being tickled, after all.

Eventually, the two captains deemed that the interrogation had gone long enough to verify the information, and they sent the girl down to the brig for now. Li made a point to go visit this girl later—partially out of kindness, and partially because this girl would likely be conscripted into the crew, and Li could use every potential ally. She still dreamed of escape.

A few hours later, Captain Natasha, the Captain of War set out with a small party to launch a sneak attack on this Lord’s keep. Natasha was taller than most men, and she looked like she could outdrink and outfight most of them as well.  Her short blonde hair blew in the air as she waved at the crew, her grey eyes sparkling in the twilight.

Li waved back. Not so long ago, one dusky evening, Li had found herself spirited out of bed and taken to Captain Natasha’s cabin. Inside, she saw landscape paintings of snowy mountains across the walls, a golden candelabra, and racks of weapons from a dozen faraway lands. She had a good view of this tied to Natasha’s bed, completely naked.

Captain Natasha herself soon came in, her face flushed and her hair tousled. She wore a short-sleeved blue tunic with golden thread work that matched well with her dirty gold hair and dark britches. Li did not fail to note the impressive arms that were rippling with muscle.

She grinned when she came in and saw the sight of Li on her bed. “Ah, how thoughtful,” she said in a Russian accent, making her way over to the bed. From her shaky, lumbering steps, she must have drunk her fair share of booze. “My dear crewmates have left me a fine little present indeed.”

“What a sweet, objectifying thing to say,” Li muttered.

“Oh, don’t say that!” Natasha apparently had very sharp ears. “The crew know I have a… fondness for the cute little ones. I try not to show it when on duty, but it is what it is” She gave Li a pat on the head, smiling. “We just completed a very good raid, so I imagine this is their idea of doing me a favour.”

“Great.”

“Don’t look so glum, little one!” Natasha reached her big hands to Li’s sides and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You have a lovely smile, forgive me for wishing to see it.” She reached over and pulled away the ropes binding Li’s limbs, and it was difficult to see clearly in the dim candlelight, but it seemed to Li that the large, powerfully built woman was blushing.

“I see… well, thanks for letting me go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Natasha said. “If you leave my cabin, it would seem ungrateful to the crew. Why don’t you stay the night? My bed is certainly big enough for two, little one.”

Li chewed on it, then decided she wanted to push her luck. “I’ll stay… but I’ll need to charge a pillow tax.”

“A what?”

“I get to tickle you too!” Li said, reaching under Natasha’s tunic to skitter her fingers across the other woman’s stomach. She could feel the firm muscles on her abdomen clenching as she spidered her small, nimble fingers along Natasha’s toned belly.

“Ohohohokay!” Natasha had a husky, rumbling laugh, and although she could easily have pushed the much smaller girl off her with those tree trunk arms of hers, she kept them straight up in the air, wobbling. Taking the hint at those outstretched arms, Li went for those armpits next, but this did prove to be too much for the Russian to take, and she surged upward. Li fell backwards and Natasha promptly snatched up Li’s feet, put them in a powerful headlock that must have incapacitated many a fighter, and ran her rough fingers all over the pampered princess’s petite feet.

That night, they had slumbered together, with Li’s head resting on Natasha’s shoulders. Li liked her, and there weren’t many members of the crew she could honestly say she liked very much.

Snapping back to the present, Li hoped the Captain of War would be okay. Her former best friend, Christina Patten, the British girl who had been captured by the pirates at the same time as her, had balked at Li’s early talk of escape, and although they were still friends of sorts, their relationship had been strained ever since.

All their years of friendship in Guangzhou had meant less to Christina than the affections of the pirate girl Sapphire, a former whore, Li was certain. But Li had tried to push that from her mind and be cordial when she ran into Christina, who was now a cartographer for the crew. Christina was one of the ones going off with Natasha right now, in fact, though the dainty fair-haired girl didn’t look too enthused about going off into a war situation.

When she returned several hours later after coming back from the raid, she looked even worse. The whole crew was worse for wear, in fact. Unlike the jubilant whoops, the broad smiles, the joyous songs that accompanied victory, Li saw sombre faces, clothes ripped, bloodstained, and grimy. And there was the undeniable fact that fewer of them had returned, and there was one newcomer, a warrior dressed in the armour of a samurai from the Japanese isles. His face was hidden by the fearsome kabuto helmet he had on, but his hogtie made him appear significantly less intimidating. He said something then Maya smacked him in the head so hard his helmet was knocked off to reveal a handsome, clean-shaven face with thin black eyebrows, a faint white scar under her ear, and a birthmark under the right eye.

“What happened?” Li asked, noticing the katana that lay in a pile on the ground amongst other assortments of loot like carvings, scrolls, and other cloth bundles. “Where’s Natasha?”

“Gone,” Christina mumbled.

“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“Dead? Captured? She fell behind.”

“And anyone who falls behind is left behind,” said a woman Li didn’t know with bloodstained bandages across her arm. She sounded miserable.

By then, Captains Ruby and Kyra had returned to the scene, and Li heard the announcement at dinner which helped piece together the fragments of the story she had heard. The raid at the Japanese Lord’s house had been unsuccessful, though they had managed to come away with a few trinkets for their trouble. Captain Natasha had turned an ankle on an awkward landing, and when the Lord’s reinforcements had come… it was too much. An arrow from Maya’s bow had caught the Lord in the neck, just under his helmet, but vengeance was a small solace when it seemed your friend might be gone forever.

Many of the women aboard the ship seemed to feel the same way, and they were determined to take out their grief and anger on the samurai, who was paraded in front of the crew. The samurai had been one of the lord’s guards and had slain several of the pirates. He wore robes of green and crimson beneath the strange Japanese armour that was a combination of bamboo and boiled leather, and he struggled mightily as they stripped off his armour, shouting at them, calling them foreign dogs and other fouler things. It soon became clear why the samurai had been struggling so much when Li took a closer look.

The samurai was a woman. The inky-black hair bound in a masculine topknot and the long, willowy frame had tricked her at first, but Li saw chest wraps the samurai had worn to hide her breasts, not that she has much in the way of breasts, and it soon made perfect sense that the slim, comely youth with thin, toned arms and shoulders was merely a woman masquerading as a man.

Of course, this was very bad for her, as if Li had learned nothing from her time on the Mistress Ambivalence, it was that women were very capable of cruelty to their own sex.

“I offer a jewelled dagger from my personal collection to the first woman who makes her wet her smallclothes,” Captain Ruby vowed.

“And I offer a golden brooch to the first one to make her cry,” Captain Kyra declared, not to be undone.

They stripped the squirming and shouting samurai and tied her down to a table in the dining hall where everyone could have a shot at her. There were so many vying to have a turn at this villain that they had to draw lots.

Li sat in the back of the canteen, watching the others vent their anguish on this samurai girl. She wondered why a woman would be so displeased by the sex she had been born with that she would need to pretend to be a man. What decisions would drive you do such a thing?

The samurai girl had decent muscles, and she could see them straining, her face contorted in frustration as no less than four of the pirate overwhelmed her with tickling, quickly forcing the defiance out of her in the form of gusting mirth. Her laughter was boisterous, yet amusing high-pitched, not unlike Li’s own.

They had removed the bandages across her chest so they could torment the poor girl’s chest—an enemy or no, Li found it disrespectful to do that to a warrior who had done nothing but tried to serve with valour in protecting her liege. They were pinching and playing with the girl’s nipples, mocking her all the while as they began to stiffen from the sheer constant stimulation. She didn’t have very large bosoms to speak off, but they certainly seemed sensitive enough.

Samurai girl was starting to sweat and get more dishevelled after each pirate took their pleasure, and each pirate brought their own contributions to this particular conquest, and they left them behind so their comrades could use them to ply their trade next. Currently, in addition to the pirate at the samurai’s chest, another one had two feathers and was twirling in each armpit while the arms strained at the ropes to no avail.

The samurai’s feet were feet were long and slender-looking, especially for one of Asian descent, with high, pink arches. They were proportional to her tallish height, which had likely been a major factor contributing to her ability to pretend to be a man for all those years. They looked toughened from a lifestyle of training and standing guard, so it seemed they weren’t as sensitive as some of the more famously ticklish on board, like Li herself, but they held a few spots that could incite a bit of honest laughter with some earnest work. Christina was demonstrating that fact right now—she wielded a scrub brush in one hand as she yanked back the samurai’s strong toes with the other hand. Christina’s face was still, though tears streamed as she scrubbed harder and harder till the samurai girl’s white flesh was turning pinker and pinker.

The final pirate girl, Captain Ruby herself, was on the remaining untickled foot, and she had a different technique entirely. Instead of trying to brute force tickling those tough small soles, she went for a different target—the tops of the foot. From the way the foot twisted and flexed, with the toes a constant flurry of splaying movement, it certainly worked. Ruby’s long red fingernails scratched along the ankles, the sides, all the way to the tips of the samurai’s toes, and it seemed like Ruby might have been more effective even than Christina’s ferocious brushing. The strong-willed warrior hadn’t cried nor wet herself yet, but she looked like she was well on the path to both.

At the other end of the room, the fisherman’s daughter was in a similar situation, with a handful of pirates punishing this poor girl as well for the sins of her countryman, though there were only three compared to the dozens that clustered around the proud samurai. The Chinese princess watched for a few moments, wondering if it had been a Chinese lord that had eliminated one of the captains if her loyalty would suddenly be questioned. After a while, the ones on Hana walked away, chortling, and Li walked over.

She filled up her tankard with ale and brought it over to the girl’s lips. Hana’s brown eyes were narrow and doubtful, but she drank, making a face at the strange flavours.

“Taste okay?”

“It’s a bit stronger than sake,” Hana admitted, her face twisted in bitterness, “but I thank you for your kindness, no matter how small it is.”

“Do you know who she is?” Li asked, looking over to the samurai.

Hana glanced at the screeching girl, hesitated, but then said nothing.

Li thought about what to say. Should she threaten this girl? Point over to the samurai and say that if Hana didn’t speak this was what awaited her? “If you cooperate, maybe you won’t be tied down here any longer. I can tell the others you helped.”

“And then what?” Hana looked at her with big trusting eyes. “What happens?”

“Why don’t you join the crew? I know they killed your father, but it’s a life… some kind of life, anyway.”

Hana looked away.

Li checked no one was within earshot, and whispered, “I was like you before. They captured me. But a day may come when I can escape from this ship. But to do that, I need to show them I’m valuable. I need them to trust me. Help me, Hana, please. I won’t forget it.”

Hana sighed, and looking like she felt she might regret her words, said, “The samurai girl is Shiro Shirogane, the right hand of Lord Akira. She’s from my village, though we’ve never spoken much before. The Shiroganes are a proud family of soldiers and fighters, but their first two children were daughters. The village though it was a cruel fate of the kami to give a fighting family nothing but daughters. But their third child was a son, and the village rejoiced. But I guess the truth is that they had a third daughter, after all. You can really want something but never get it.”

“Thank you, I’ll remember that.” Li waited till the crowd of pirates had thinned out, and the dining hall was empty. She walked over to Shiro. By this point, the samurai looked all but beaten. Her raven-black hair was a mess, her eyes were bleary and red, and much of her skin was pinkened from where sharp nails and cruel tools had pressed hard into her flesh. Li tried not to pay attention to the faint smell of urine. Even despite all that, Shiro’s body was all wiry muscle, and Li did not doubt she must have been as quick as lightning with her katana.

“You monsters,” spat Shiro, her pitch-black eyes were slanted in anger, “why won’t you just kill me? Does it bring you joy to humiliate a warrior like this?”

“Not particularly, Shiro.” Li saw the samurai’s eyes widen. “Yes, I know who you are, Shiro Shirogane, and I want to say that although your Lord is dead, redemption is possible. You can still live with honour.”

“What are you saying? How do you know who I am? Are you here to free me?”

“Slow down, slow down. I’m Li, a former princess of China.”

“China?” Shiro made that word sound like a curse. “Your people know nothing of honour.”

Li sighed. This was not the place to have an argument fuelled by jingoism. “Do you want to leave this ship?”

She gave a reluctant nod.

“Then we have that in common, at least. It’s not much, but maybe that’ll do for now. I know it’s not easy to trust me, but things are changing around here. And if you can support me like you did your lord… maybe you, we, can all go home.” With Captain Natasha gone, there would soon be an election for a new Captain. There always had to be tree, to keep each other in check. And if Li could be one of them...

“I don’t believe you. How can I? I don’t know a thing about you!”

Li shrugged. “The tops of your feet are really ticklish, aren’t they? I saw how they were tickling you there. I’ve been under Captain Ruby’s nails before, so I know what they’re like.”

Shiro bit her lip and said nothing, though a flush crept across her cheeks.

“My feet are crazy ticklish as well, and not just on the tops,” Li admitted. “You’re luckier than me. There, now you know something about me. Happy?”

“Not really.”

“The moon is too high in the sky, Shiro Shirogane,” Li said, yawning widely. “It’s too late for this. Good night.”

O-O-O

“Everyone knows the code,” Captain Kyra said over the clamour of voices. The dining hall had become like the council meetings Li had once attended with generals, officials, nobles, and ministers. Everyone disagreed with each other, and everyone thought they were the only ones in the room with a lick of sense. “No one likes it, but what’s done is done. The treasure chest has fallen overboard—sending the whole crew into the water won’t change that it’s gone.”

“We don’t know that,” Captain Ruby said. “They might not be dead.”

“And what then?” Clem asked. “They must be in some kind of dungeon, being interrogated. We don’t have the numbers to storm such a fortified location, especially when we don’t even have surprise on our side.”

“Stick to your potions, Alchemist,” spat Maya, who had lost her best friend Rose in the failed raid. “You don’t know that there isn’t a way.”

“And you don’t know that there is one,” Kyra said, twirling a long of jet black hair around her long, spidery fingers. “Regrettable as it is, we must cut our losses and move on. If their torturers wrest the truth from our fallen friends, we have to accept our operations in this area have been jeopardised.” And uneasy silence fell across the hall as all imagined the unimaginable torments their comrades must be going through.

“They’re counting on us to save them,” Tink the tinkerer said in her German drawl. “Are you sure we vant to abandon them?”

“We don’t even know if they’re alive,” Kyra said in a firm voice. “If we get news on their whereabouts and condition, maybe we can coordinate some kind of rescue. But for now, we flee.”

“It seems we must…” Ruby allowed, “but the Mistress Ambivalence needs its three captains. Are you of one mind with me on this, Kyra?”

“I am.”

“Then while we have everyone here, we have a final declaration to make. The Mistress Ambivalence must have three captains to keep everything going as it should be. We will hold an election at the end of the month. All candidates are welcome.”

At this, the dining hall exploded with excited conversation. From what Li could gather, this hadn’t happened in a long time. Li remembered when appetising positions had opened up in her father’s council—uncooperative individuals had disappeared or turned up dead, hostages had been taken to ensure support, hefty bribes had been offered, and extravagant promises were made.

“Are you going to run for Captain?” Hana asked. She sat at Li’s table—the fisherman’s daughter had been released from her bonds after swearing a solemn oath to serve the crew, plus the fact remained that she was the epitome of the harmless yet useful crewmember. Hana was only a tiny bit taller than Li, and the Chinese Princess was a shade under five foot, and a head and a half shorter than just about everyone on board. In addition to her small stature, she lacked strength and martial skill, which made her all but harmless. There was also the fact that Hana’s skill with harpoon, fishing rod, nets, and sailing resulted in an exceptionally useful crewmember—you could never have enough food. Of course, Hana’s own mild temperament helped. Shiro the samurai still remained locked up—her anger had not been quenched, and her skill with a sword made her very dangerous.

“I have to,” Li replied. With captain privileges, Li would have a say in where the ship went. The only reason she hadn’t hopped off the ship every time they dropped anchor was the fact that in Malaysia, in the Philippines, in Korea, in Japan, in Indonesia, she was a nobody. She didn’t speak the language, she had few serviceable skills, and most importantly, she had no friends or allies. But as the captain, she could steer the ship right back home…

“What’s your plan?” Hana asked as they watched a group of drunken pirates proclaim each other as being the best candidate for captaincy. “Who do you trust?”

“I think Christina might back me,” Li said, thinking of her old friend from Guangzhou. “And she’s close with Sapphire, so with any luck, she could be persuaded to help as well.” Christina was respected for the language skills and her skills with navigation, but Sapphire was the truly influential one. The former pillowslave was well-liked, comely, and charming. She had once worked with Captain Ruby, though Christina being her bedmate might shift her allegiance. “Let’s pay them a visit.”

Li and Hana walked down to Sapphire’s cabin. At the wooden door, the aroma of sweet and spicy flavours were strong, and they also heard the muffled sound of laughter. The laughter in itself was not a surprise, but the fact it was muffled seemed to suggest something was amiss, at least to Li, who had heard hearty laughter more than once on her visits here. Hana reached for the doorknob, but Li stopped her. Side by side, they peered through the cracks in the door and the adjoining wall and strained their ears to hear what was happening inside:

“I vas really hoping I could count on your support,” said Tink the tinkerer in her German drawl. She was seated on a chair, wiping her spectacles with a handkerchief. On Sapphire’s plush and large bed, Sapphire and Christina were bound and gagged as two pirates worked over both of them. Their wrists were tired together and tied to the headpost while the same were true for their ankles. The pirates doing the business were a pair of twins with brown tans, short dark hair, and dry, windburnt faces that Li vaguely recognised.

Christina still wore her brown tunic with silver scrollwork—a luxury she had gotten from being Sapphire’s favourite. Her usually melodious laughter was stifled by the rag stuffed in her mouth, and her blonde hair was a wild mess from the constant head-tossing she was doing. The pirate perched over her bare feet wore some kind of strange gloves—doubtless one of Tink’s latest inventions. They were like the grasping hands of some great bird of prey, covered with fur and feathers.

Those hands fondled and stroked Christina’s small, pale feet. Christina’s feet had always been soft and pampered, with the toenails painted red in that queer western tradition. From the way those varnished toes splayed and spasmed as the feathery hands slid along them, they must have tickled ferociously. Li found her toes curling at the sight, especially when those fur-covered hands lodged in between her squirming toes. They wiggled and wiggled, so the wedged fingers scratched all over the highly sensitive skin between each digit. Li had experienced that particular technique before, and she imagined it must be worse with those light and feathery fingers.

Sapphire’s situation was the polar opposite—the only article of clothing that remained to her was her high brown leather boots. Her azure robes were tossed to the side in a pile as the other twin straddled her bare waist. Her honey-blonde hair cascaded across her shoulders and her blue painted fingernails constantly clenched and unclenched as she tried to free her arms. Her eyes were the colour of still water, and they opened and closed constantly in response to the furry fingers that brushed against her bare armpits.

The twin doing the tickling giggled as she stroked and stroked with gentle hands, reminding Li of a cat pawing for some reason. “These gloves work great, Tink!” she said, grinning as she drew slow circles around the hollows of Sapphire’s quivering armpits. “You’re a real genius!”

“I thank you for the kind words,” Tink said, smirking. “I simply hope they prove effective in persuading others how serious I am about my work. I vould make a fine captain, vould I not?”

“I certainly think so,” the twin tickling Christina piped up.

“You’ve got my vote!” said the other twin, who had just decided to trace and stroke her way down to Sapphire’s stomach. She slid the soft and fuzzy fingers and out of the bejewelled navel as Sapphire screeched into the rag balled into her mouth. After a while, those devilish fingers went up to torment Li’s chest, and from the visible stiffness of Sapphire’s nipples, they certainly seem to appreciate their touch, though from Sapphire’s pinched, flushed expression, it was causing her more than a little agony.

“Vell, the only problem is I don’t think I have their votes,” Tink said, using grease-stained fingers to gesture to the two bound women. “Let us continue, shall ve? Ladies, I hope you are vell on the vay to changing your minds! Or Captain Kyra and I vill be paying you two very regular visits…”

“We might have a problem,” Li said to Hana, shaking her head and moving away from the door with quick, rushed steps. “A big one.”

O-O-O

“Captain Ruby, I really thought you’d be more upset about this.”

Li stood with her arms crossed in Ruby’s perfumed cabin with all its jewels and silks, while a nervous Hana hovered behind her. Not only did Captain Ruby look positively indifferent to the news of coercion taking place right on her ship, she looked almost bored by it, choosing to focus on the more pressing matter of the foot massage she was receiving from Clem the Alchemist, who was applying some white, creamy, sweet-solution to the Captain of Intrigues’s feet with sure, practised strokes.

The Alchemist wore a coat stained with paints and chemicals, and she had hair that looked like a messy rainbow. Most of the hair was a dark purple, though there patches and locks of hair that were blue, green, red, and yellow.

“You’re new on this ship, Princess,” Ruby said in a soft, cooing voice. She sat stood with her feet up and her boots off, receiving what must have been a very soothing massage from the relaxed look on her finely featured face. Li’s gaze flitted from those tanned, long feet with crimson toenails to Ruby’s wide smile. “Maybe you don’t know that this is just the way things are.”

“I thought you and Sapphire were almost as close as sisters,” Li said, in a voice that was hard and close to a shout. “You’re going to let them get away with this?”

“It is the nature of democracy, of free voting!” Ruby said with a laugh. “I understand you know not of such queer western notions, but this is how things are done here. People will choose the leaders they want—some people want so-and-so for Captain because she is competent, wise, courageous, and prudent. Others do it because they like her butt. Some do it because they seek favour, or gold, or power. There are even those who do it out of fear. Sapphire knows the game—you think she hasn’t played it before? Many a moon ago, I became captain over her because of the fact I knew a secret spot she had somewhere on that terribly ticklish body of hers. Oh, and my skill with a blade.” Ruby’s voice suddenly turned darker and more sinister towards the end of her speech.

Li found herself taking an involuntary step back, bumping into the two guards at Ruby’s door that had suddenly entered behind them. The Chinese princess cleared her throat and prepared to say what she had come to say. “There’s a candidate you should throw your support behind—me. The reasons the three captains policy works is the power is spread out between three, so everyone has to agree and compromise. If Kyra gets one of her cronies in, she’s going to be the real captain, the bonafide supreme leader.”

“Say, do you like the smell of this?” Ruby extended her bare feet, which glistened from the strange substance that had been rubbed into it. “It’s my dear Clem’s latest creation, and perhaps her most brilliant one yet.”

“Too kind, Cap’n,” Clem said, pulling out a glass tub from her pocket. “I still got plenty more to share with guests, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Isn’t she lovely?” Captain Ruby said with a fond, thin-lipped smile that served to make Li incredibly uncomfortable. From the way Hana was shifting her weight from foot to foot, she was plenty fearful as well. “It’s like she’s reading my mind. It should be no surprise that she’s has my unanimous support for the next Captain. I can trust on your ladies to vote for her can I not?”

Li turned to try to make a break for it—Ruby probably wouldn’t really try to do something too crazy if there were a dozen over people to witness it, but she wasn’t fast enough as the two guards manhandled her and Hana to the ground.  

“We really should have seen this coming, shouldn’t we?” Hana groaned as she was hauled to the bed. They were both made to sit on their stomachs with their feet dandling off, and the two guards sat down on them to ensure they wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“My feet feel a lot softer since you put that stuff on,” Ruby said, reaching down to rub her foot. “I wonder if makes areas more ticklish?”

“Oh, that’s a certainty, cap,” Clem said, grinning.

“I trust you, of course,” Ruby said, “but wouldn’t it be much more fun to see it in action?” The Captain of Intrigues and the Alchemist both took liberal handfuls of the oily cream and began smearing at across the soles of both feet.

Li was already giggling when Ruby’s deft, skilled hands (and those long, varnished fingernails) manipulated her toes to make sure the thick potion got into every nook and cranny. Her feet were sensitive enough as they were… she wasn’t sure if she could take more… Ruby squeezed the tiny toes, rubbed spiralling swirls into the high, deep arches with her thumbs, and were firm in their rubbing when she reached the pillow-soft balls of the feet or the heels. It might have been almost pleasurable if not for the trepidation that roiled in her belly.

Hana’s feet weren’t nearly as soft as Li’s, but the lotion seemed to activate rather quickly based on the way the fisherman’s daughter was starting to squeak and gasp with every caress and stroke.

“You ladies certainly sound like you’re enjoying yourselves,” Ruby observed. “Do you see how wonderful things will be once Clem is your captain? Of course, you need to understand that if you displease her, things can also get quite nasty indeed…”

On that, the kind, friendly fingers suddenly turned cutthroat. Li pounded the mattress, her fingers scrabbling back to try to save her slick and damp feet from the sharp fingernails that were scything across them. But the burly guard did not respond to Li’s desperate hands except to slap them away with a snort of laughter. The creamy substance made it feel as if she wearing silk stockings that made everything seem to tickle all the more as Ruby’s fingers glided from shaking heel to trembling toe with ease. The only thing she was able to really do was turn her head back to see what was happening, which didn’t really help, though she couldn’t stop herself from doing it.

From the sounds of Hana’s frantic begging and explosive giggles, she was handling it even worse. The fishing girl had only been onboard for a few days, so she was still getting used to the tickling that seemed to seep into everything here. And she certainly didn’t seem used to having ticklish feet, a fact Clem was more than happy to take full, glorious advantage of by stroking her short, paint-stained fingernails all over the smooth soles.

Clem soon commented on how impressively sensitive Hana’s pink arches were, which prompted Ruby to claim that Li’s arches were far more ticklish. The two pirates spent a fair amount of time trying to prove each other wrong, while the two girls drooled and sweated into Ruby’s bedsheets, which was a moral victory if nothing more.

After an excruciatingly long time, Ruby allowed that she might have been wrong… only she would have to see for herself. At that, the two pirates swapped places deaf to the loud protestations of the two bound girls, applied a fresh lather of the white, creamy lotion, and Hana experienced the touch of Ruby’s fierce, ruby-coloured fingernails while Li had to endure Clem’s expert, measured touches.

All in all, the meeting was an unsuccessful one.

O-O-O

“Not a very good start,” Li said as she whisked her spoon around the carrot and potato broth that served as the crew’s dinner for the evening. She and Hana sat by themselves in a foul-smelling corner of the dining hall where they were unlikely to be interrupted. They had sat in the middle of the hall for a while, which was Li’s usual seat, but when her usual dinnermates sat elsewhere, Li had quickly gotten the hint—news had spread, and people were weary of associating with an overly ambitious crew member.

“Who’s next?” Hana said. “You have other people who can shout your name, right?”

Li hewed her lip. She wanted to say she did, but the truth was, why would those people risk anything for someone who right now stood zero chance of being successfully elected? They were risking the wrath of both Captain Ruby and Captain Kyra, and Li had nothing she could offer but words and promises she probably couldn’t keep.

“You think your buddy might support us?” Li used the wooden spoon to point to where Shiro the samurai was naked and tied to an unused table attended to by half a dozen pirates who had a bigger appetite for revenge than food, it seemed. Shiro hadn’t quite won the freedom to freely wander the ship, as she had stolen a butter knife a few hours ago and had almost cut someone’s throat. Li observed that Clem’s creamy concoction that had been so woefully effective on her own bare feet were being smeared all over the samurai’s lean and scarred body, till her pale body shimmered and shone in the lamplight. Many of the pirates tormenting Shiro at armpit, navel, breast, and feet had some of the small handled brushes Tink had used as well. It seemed that the one thing both sides agreed on how much they wanted to make this Japanese girl suffer. That was an interesting realisation, Li thought, but was there any way she could turn to her advantage? She wasn’t sure she could see how just yet.

“He, I mean, she, had a reputation for being stubborn. Was famous for it.” Hana shrugged. “I thought what happened to us earlier was bad, but wow, they’re really giving it to her.”

The slick, oily potion from the alchemist combined with the bristles had the effect of turning Shiro into a high-pitched squeaking mess, far from the powerful and stoic warrior she no doubt wished to be presented as. Li watched for a while those small, slender brushes swept over the tops of the girl’s pale feet to make the toes spasm and splay. Another brush was dipping in and out of the navel as her stomach shook and quivered. The ones in her slick armpits scrubbed and scrubbed like they were trying to remove the skin.   

“Captain Natasha was well-liked,” Li said, and for a moment, she wondered where her dear friend was, and if everything was okay if she still lived…

O-O-O

Natasha’s eyes slowly fluttered open. A groan passed her lips as the aches of half a hundred bruises and cuts made themselves known with her first attempt at movement. The boiled leather and oddments of plate mail that she had worn had been stripped away from her, leaving her in nothing but the snow-blue tunic she had worn underneath, and it was now torn and stained with dirt and bloodily fluids. Her muscles strained against the heavy metal links that shackled her to the wall were so short that she could not even stand. The last thing she remembered was tripping over something, her sprained ankle collapsing under her weight. Her sore ankle felt a bit better now, but that perhaps the only part of that felt okay. Her predicament was definitely nothing less than dire. She was in some kind of dungeon that smelled faintly of urine and excrement. Outside her jail cell—there was no doubt in her mind what this small barred room was—she heard the fast-paced gobbledegook that was the native language of these Japanese. One of them peered in, noticed Natasha was awake, and then scurried off. To fetch their lord, no doubt, though Natasha remembered cutting down a man in ornate robes during the start of the battle. Maybe he had survived?

The person who appeared in front of her jail cell, barked at the guard to open the door, and stepped inside had this lord’s look, but there was a notable difference.

The woman stood with her head tall and her black hair in a stern bun. Her face was plastered with white makeup and her lips were a blood red, which reminded Natasha almost of a flower for a moment, especially due to the floral theme had kimono had, but the malice in those dark eyes killed any such comparison in her mind. At her side, stood a spindly man with spectacles and nervous fidgeting hands.

She shouted something in Japanese at Natasha, which the translator hastily converted to English.

“You are the captain, correct?” 

Natasha didn’t answer. Every bone in Natasha’s body said this was a person to be weary of. The woman hovered over her, glaring. She laughed a cold, humourless laugh at Natasha’s silence.

“I have ripped every secret from your crew already. Oh, how they screamed and begged for mercy. Would you like to know which of them were cowards? Which of them gave the information willingly in the hopes they would be spared? Which of them lasted the longest? They gave me much, but you, Captain Natasha, I'm sure you can give me more. And you shall, even if I have to tear it out of you, one word at a time.”

Too cautious to say something in English with that translator there, Natasha muttered under her breathe in her native Russian, declaring how sweet her vengeance would be, what a gruesome fate awaited her, and her things would change once her crew came to spring her out. They would come, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t just leave her.

All the while, the woman smiled, and a few moments later, she said something to her guards and they hauled Natasha out.

The new cell had a wooden rack that was big enough even for Natasha’s large frame, and the leather cords at wrist and ankle kept her body tight and unable to go anywhere. A tray of tools and two smiling women awaited her there. They bowed to Natasha as the Captain of War was strapped in, murmuring soft and polite-sounding words in Japanese. Once Natasha was stripped down to her cloth smallclothes however, what they did was far from nice.

There was an arsenal of tools in this dungeon, and they wasted little time in breaking them out. Natasha had been expecting to be whipped and flayed, but it seemed this lordly woman had some kind of mercy in her in that she did not wish to physically damage her captives too much. This mercy did not amount to much when it came to the fine art of tickle torture, of course. She soon experienced feathers fluttering up and down her quivering sides, wide scrub brushes flying across her pale, large feet in a blur, metal forks ploughing into her armpits, and even wooden chopsticks poking along her sides.

Every half an hour or so, Natasha judged, the two dainty women tending to her ticklish spots would leave, a new duo would appear to assault her areas with fresh enthusiasm. Each of them did it a bit differently, though all made her scream before long. 

The women would talk to each other as they rotated, and every one of them seemed to be passing on the information they had so painstakingly gleamed from their exploits across Natasha’s trapped and exposed body. The fact forks worked wonders on the deep grooves of her arches and the fleshy balls of her feet sound became common fact, as every single pairing of women that entered into her cell seemed to spend a great deal of time there. Sometimes, it was one tormenting one foot at a time with two forks, other times it was one tickling each foot, and once it had been two of them going on all attack on just her arches, ignoring the entire rest of her body just to focus on that hellish spot. With her long toes tied firmly back, there was little she could do but tremble and twitch as those forks ploughed away into her arches till she was sure they were blushing a bright crimson.

One of them usually took care of Natasha’s sensitive feet, while the other had mastery over Natasha’s upper body. The midsection was always a fun spot along Natasha’s strong abdominal muscles. They always cooed and giggled over the muscles there as if it were some outlandish, amusing sight. Natasha might have felt flattered if those small, soft hands weren't so devilishly effective skittering across her bare belly and at slipping into her navel. They soon found out her effective a feather was when it was twirled into her navel, and she soon had to contend with that threat constantly.

Natasha’s muscular arms were another oddity to these Japanese women, so naturally fingers were forever darting into her armpits, tracing along the musculature of her biceps and triceps with feather-like touches. Every now and then, Natasha would get a girl with a mole on the right of her eye who simply adored licking away at her underarms, and every lap would make the Russian’s nerve tingle and make every subsequent tickling all the more worse.

And these small, delicate looking women rubbing their fingers all over her bare body... it was perverse, and it fed the growing fire between her legs, though before long, that was just another part of the torment, another sensation to agonise her. 

When the end of the day drew near—Natasha could glimpse sunlight from a tiny window in her cell the size of a loaf of bread—the woman returned with her haughty smirk and her translator. “Ready to talk, Captain?”

When Natasha refused to answer, the woman laughed again, picked up a fork, and with a casual, practised air, whisked it along the ball of her left foot in a figure-eight motion. The Captain of War found herself snorting with laughter despite her valiant attempts to contain herself. She stared hard at this cruel, cold woman.

“I can see from your look you are wondering who I am. My name is Aika, Captain, and I am the sister of the noble man you slew. I will not rest till everyone one of your friends are rotting in the ground or screaming in my dungeons. Every night, after my servants have finished preparing you, I will torment you myself. I will not stop till you feel a fraction of the grief and anguish I feel.” She picked up a feather and began twirling it between her sharp, long fingers. “Shall we begin, Captain? Feel free to tell me all your secrets, though it may not spare you.” 

                                                                                                                                                                         

 

On Ticklish Tides, Part 1:
Didn't think I would do a sequel to 'The Newest Harem Slave', but life is strange, I guess. All credit to :iconnecromansara: for bouncing ideas off and continual support. Enjoy.
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The Tickling Games

One month before the annual Hunger Games, curious fliers appeared all over District 12. They were stamped with the Capitol’s official seal, and they promised riches and renown for those “brave souls” willing to volunteer for an ordeal of will, strength, and endurance.

Katniss had initially disregarded it as a new spin on the Hunger Games—the Capitol were continually rebranding and reselling their grotesque traditions to the populace. However, when she asked the guards about it, they claimed it was something completely different. This would not be some deathmatch with other challengers, but a solo event. Not to mention that the flier specifically stated that all participants in the event would be physically unharmed. Katniss wasn’t sure how much she could trust the Capitol’s word when it came to anything, anything at all, but they wouldn’t tell such a bald-faced lie if they were planning on broadcasting such an event to all the districts, would they? People would surely complain if there was such a blatant bait and switch.

She rolled it over in her head, spoke to Gale, spoke to Prim, spoke to her mother. But when she looked at the dwindling food supplies in her home, she knew that she had to give it a try. Besides, if it really wouldn’t leave her without a mark on her skin like the poster promised… it would probably be some tacky new gameshow type thing for Capitol television. Maybe Katniss would have to wear revealing clothing and pick up objects with her elbows or something. Surely a bit of embarrassment was worth not starving in anyone’s book—the poster boasted of food supplies being a reward for those who performed well, and Katniss was certain that if she put her mind to it, she could excel at whatever challenge was offered. After all, she was nimble and strong for her size, and with her long dark brown hair, olive skin and grey eyes, she knew she wasn’t unattractive, and that could only be for the better for her status as an applicant for this competition.

When Gale heard she had put her name forth for this ordeal, he entered as well, though it seemed he had not been accepted as guards came to collect Katniss and Katniss alone for the trip towards the Capitol. As she went on the train, with District 12 fading away in the distance, her heart pounded in her chest as she wondered if this would be the last time she saw the dreary, grimy land that had been her home all her life. Just how far could she trust the Capitol? About as far as she could throw them, Katniss knew.

At the bright lights, shimmering surfaces, and queer fashions of the Capitol, Katniss Everdeen was escorted to some kind of strange booth where a variety of creams, massagers, and distressingly enough, shavers awaited her. Katniss almost punched the technicoloured woman who approached her with the intentional of shaving the hairs down her lady spot, but after she struggled for a bit, she felt a pinch in her neck, and she woke up without a hair on her body aside from her long dark locks. She groaned as she examined herself in the waiting room of the contest hall.

Her hands were softer, and her nails were clean and shiny, including her toenails which were now painted a glossy black. All the dirt from under her fingernails had gone, too. Her feet had always been tough with callus on the heel and the balls of her feet from her frequent forays into the forest for hunting, but they were pinker, smoother, and pillow-soft. The same was true for the soft, hairless flesh under her toned arms. Her hair was sleek and brushed out, and it was absent of any tangles in what felt like the first time in years. One long brown braid was across her left shoulder. The skin on her face seemed smoother and healthier, and the blackheads on her nose had cleared up overnight as had the blemishes on her skin. 

The change from the tougher and able huntress to this pretty, soft-looking and sweet-smelling, girl who would look good on Capitol cameras was not one Katniss could say she honestly liked. At least the outfit they had given her was not too embarrassing. Thick-soled black boots that looked like they would be good for hiking up mountains. She wore a black and white tight jumpsuit with hexagonal patterning that covered her from the neck to the palms of her hands. Whatever happened next, it was comforting to know that she was dressed for athletic endeavours.

Soon enough, it was her time to go on stage. She entered into a white featureless room with nothing inside but a white chair. She was a little relieved that there wasn’t a live audience gawking at her, but she was sure there were cameras hidden around her somewhere. She sat down in the chair where metal and leather straps bound her down to the chair at the ankles, just under the knees, the waist, the neck, and the forehead. They were a bit like the ones she saw on automobiles on the way over here when she had been flown in via airplane. Further binds at her biceps and wrists bent her arms behind her head so her elbows were pointed up at the ceiling. The Capitol was nothing if not thorough. She could wriggle her hands and ankles a bit, but that was about all the movement given to her.

“Welcome, contestant!” said a cheery female voice. It had to be some kind of recording, Katniss realized, as there was certainly no one in the room with her. “Contestant must endure sixty minutes of tickling in four phrases. She may give up at any time, but failure to last sixty minutes will result in a reduced food reward. The more tickling she can bear, and the less laughter she produces, will yield more food for her district. Good luck!”

Tickling? That’s what this ordeal was about?

Katniss searched her memories for when she had ever tickled or been tickled. Tickling was juvenile, tickling was childish, and tickling was silly, she knew. Overall, District 12 was not the kind of place where people spent a lot of time laughing, but there had been a moment once with her younger sister, Prim. Katniss’s dear sister was a sweet girl, almost too sweet for the cruel and unforgiving world they found themselves in—especially such a world where such entertainment as this and the Hunger Games existed—but she did have one flaw. Early in the mornings, she was a notoriously heavy sleeper. You could shake her shoulder, shout at her, pinch her, but either that would have no effect, or she would rise up only to fall back into bed the second you turned your back. Throwing water on her was an option, but it was often quite a waste of a precious commodity, so Katniss had found a new way to ensure her dear sister woke up promptly. Katniss had tossed back her sister’s covers, found her petite feet, sat on them, and ran her rough fingers all over those pale feet till Prim started squeaking and giggling so hard half the district might have heard. After a while, Prim would always sit up with her blonde hair a wild, untamed mess and her blue eyes bright with mirth, giggling. One day, Prim had vowed a giggly revenge, and the next morning, Katniss was amused to be woken up by fingers on her bare feet. Katniss had chuckled good-naturedly, letting her sister bask in her success for a while before the older girl struck out with her foot, pushed Prim to the ground, straddled her midsection, and tickled her armpits and sides till the rom had rang with her raucous laughter.

There was another time as well, and this one was with her best friend, Gale. They had gone hunting together into the forest for game, but Katniss had accidentally tripped on a low branch and had tumbled headfirst into a rotten log. She had gotten well and truly stuck, with only her boots sticking out of the wooden prison. After checking that she was unharmed aside from her pride, Gale had chuckled and told her that she was too stressed, and she needed to lighten up on occasion. Katniss had shot back that they didn’t really live in the kind of situation that allowed her to just blow off steam all willy-nilly—she had duties, responsibilities, and far too people counting on her. Gale had replied with a laugh, saying that was exactly why she needed some time to herself to relax, to laugh, to smile. Katniss had not worked out what he meant till he started unlacing her boots. She had squirmed and shouted that she would kill him, but he had kept going till her stripped off her thick socks, and he danced his finger all over her damp and musky feet. He had even picked up and twig and tried running it through her toes a few times, and he had guffawed with laughter when it had such explosive results. After a while, he had pulled Katniss out of the log, where she had promptly slugged him hard in the arm.

They were fond memories, memories which spurred Katniss on. She had to win this for Prim, for her friends, for everyone.

But one full hour of this? Katniss had no idea of she could take it, no idea at all. If the challenge had been to survive in the wilderness for a week, Katniss at least had some measurement of her capabilities but for this, she had nothing.

But she supposed how difficult could it be? The Capitol hadn’t lied, at least not in this, and she wouldn’t die as a result of this, which couldn’t be said for the annual Hunger Games. With her smooth and soft skin, she might even go back to District 12 looking better than when she had come in, though she now realised all the treatments they had given her earlier was to amplify her sensitivity. Well, she supposed that was their prerogative. They had to ensure they had a good and entertaining product to sell to the mindless masses. It wouldn’t work if they had a contestant who wasn’t ticklish. Well, it didn’t matter even if they had multiplied Katniss’s sensitivity by a thousand. It didn’t matter a lick. She would endure, she would persevere, and she would take their best shot and then some.

She noticed a blue, glowing timer on the wall opposite here. It read:

Phase: 1

Time Remaining: 60:00

Food Prize: 100%

Sixty minutes was all she had to take. She took a deep breath as the time began to tick. Well, here we go, she thought.

A pair of wired robotic hands protruding from the sides of the chassis of her metal chair, and at the ends of these hands were lasers. They began to tear holes in her suit—their first target was at her armpits. She didn’t think it made very much sense that the Capitol would have given her this attire just so they could tear holes in it, but she supposed they were the kind of people who had no qualms about wastage. The lasers quickly shredded through the thin, tight fabric of her suit, but it didn’t hurt her softened skin aside from a slightly warm tingling.

As the cool, refrigerated air of the room blew on her bare underarms, she waited. She watched as two more robotic arms appeared, and they equipped with soft-looking brushes, the kind she had seen some of her attendants use for dusting on makeup. She bit her lip as they hovered closer and closer to the exposed skin of her armpits.

At the first stroke of those several inch-long bristly brushes, she felt her face tighten into a tight, ticklish grin. A light groan passed her lips as the second brush began its machinations. It tickled ridiculously. Those mechanised brushes were highly methodical, sweeping from left to right as they went up and down her armpits, yet somehow, these thorough, meticulous approach was driving her crazy. They were zero chance of them missing any spots on Katniss’s surprisingly ticklish armpits as they diligently swept up and down them.

After a while, just when Katniss was starting to get her shuddering, flinching reactions under control, the brushes began to alter their approaches. Had these robots somehow picked up her reactions and adjusted accordingly? Or were they simply programmed to do a variety of patterns? It was beyond Katniss’s comprehension, especially while her underarms were being so expertly brushed. The one in her left armpit was spiralling clockwise from the edges into the hollows then back out again, but at an agonisingly slow pace that seemed to draw out the suffering of every spot. The right armpit was spiralling anticlockwise in a similar fashion, but it moved ten times as quickly, the swirling bristles of the brush feeling like her whole smooth, soft armpit was being tickled at the same time.

She gnashed her teeth together, wanting to do so much more. She wanted to scream, wanted to toss her hide from side to side, wanting to pull her arms away from those accused brushes whizzing along them, but she couldn’t do any of those things. All she could do was grind her teeth together, clench her fingers into fists, and shut her eyes to try to take her mind off everything. She opened an eye and took a peek at the timer. It had only been a little over six minutes! How could that possibly be? Katniss was certain it had been at least fifteen. The injustice of all the energy being required to keep her body’s reactions under control after five odd minutes was outrageous. Maybe this wouldn’t be quite so easy after all…

And the soft bristles in her underarms were changing patterns again—this time, they were tracing letters and symbols in there, she felt a star in her right armpit while the letter Z was drawn again and again in her left. It was fast growing too much to take. Katniss’s lower lip trembled, she scrunched her eyes shut, and a little whimpering giggle escaped her throat. Her eyes opened to glance at the timer. It had already dropped by a percent. No! Surely, that didn’t count! She wanted to say, but talking was a mistake for as soon as her lips parted the laughter came shooting out of her.

Phase: 1

Time Remaining: 53:47

Food Prize: 98%

Ugh, she hadn’t lasted long at all! She wanted to shout at herself, wanting to slap herself in the cheeks to tell her to get her head in the game, but laughter continued to spill from her weak lips. The brushes were moving faster now, constantly changing patterns. Her right armpit had gone back to the spiralling clockwise scrubbing while the left armpit kept getting crossed drawn across the centre of her quivering hollows.

When the brushes finally, finally stopped to give her a breather, she frowned as she saw the food prize had dwindled to 88%, and she still had fifty or so minutes left. She could feel her cheeks were red and flushed, so she took deep inhalations to try to settle herself down, try to get her pounding heart under control. Her underarms were still tingling. But she couldn’t let that happen again, couldn’t let herself lose control like that. She tried not to imagine her disgrace if she had to return to District 12 all made-up and pretty but without a single morsel of food for her efforts. They would think she had just gone out joyriding… 

The lasers returned again, this time cutting away her boots. The robots wielding the lasers slashed around her ankles and plucked off the sole covering that protected her feet. They had not provided her with socks, so her feet were now bare and exposed to whatever insidious design the Capitol gameshow people had in store for them. But before they began, Katniss’s metal chair clanked and whirled as it shifted to give the viewers a better look at the next area to be targeted for tickling torture. Her arms were brought down and pinned to her sides, which was a relief of sorts, albeit a small one. At least they wouldn’t be tickling her there anymore. The chair elevated so her legs were at about a forty-five-degree angle into the air. The final change was cool metal bars protruded from the chair about to about where her toe knuckles were, which would mean her feet wouldn’t really be able to wriggle back to escape what every torment awaited them, though at least they could still wiggle and scrunch and move around a bit.

Katniss looked down. She had always been a short girl, though her feet had been fairly large for her size, especially her toes. She stared at the black nail polish that now lined her toes. She couldn’t say she liked the look of her new feet, though she had to admit the colour went well with her olive skin tone and dark hair. But the nail polish reminded her of how her feet had been pampered, been rubbed in all kinds of strange oils, and had become soft and vulnerable.  And as the same bristly brushes that had done such unspeakable things to her armpits appeared over her feet, Katniss’s grey eyes grew wide with trepidation at the ticklish fate that awaited her immaculate soles.

The timer blinked to indicate Phase 2 had begun, and the brushes moved in right away. The one on her left foot focused on her wrinkled, soft arch, with unhurried up and down motions along it, while the one of her right swept horizontally across the fleshy ball of the foot. Her hands shook and her toes clenched. Thankfully they hadn’t been restrained, so she was able to evade the brushes a little bit by flexing her feet to and fro, though she would never be able to elude those brushes for too long, as they were clearly programmed to deal with such squirmy feet.

After a near miss when a brush had stroked between a toe and had nearly made Katniss let loose a shrill scream that she had only been able to hold it at the very last moment, her long toes scrunched up whenever those soft brushes dusted anywhere near them. Her hunter’s reflexes were put to get use here, unlike that anguishing ordeal at her armpits.

She wasn’t able to do much when the brushes tracing along her deep arches, which she had fast learned were an especially tender and weak spot for her, but she tried to keep her soles wrinkled up for as much as she could, though it tired her feet after she held them like that for a while. By clenching her soles up, the wrinkles would make the skin a bit thicker so the tickling couldn’t get in quick as easily. It was an imperfect strategy, but when pressed with the decision between a wooden shield and no shield at all, you had to make the most of what you had. 

Despite her efforts, the foot tickling was awful, awful, awful, but somehow, she managed to keep her reactions under control aside from some fierce teeth clenching—she clenched so hard she was worried she might crack a tooth.

When those godawful brushes finally stopping their probing. Katniss saw the timer:

Phase: 2

Time Remaining: 33:77

Food Prize: 88%

She hadn’t lost a single percentage of the food prizes in twenty whole minutes! She wanted to whoop for joy and cheer, but she felt far too tired for such behaviour. She was sucking air in in through her throat, like she had just been running in the forest near her home for hours. Her brow was damp with sweat. Not to mention the fact was that there was still over half an hour left to endure. And they were still only at phase 2… things were surely going to get worse before they got better.

 She gasped in shock as she saw tiny metallic tendrils come out of the metal bars to latch around her black-painted toes. They wound several times at each one before pulling back. Now Katniss’s bare feet were utterly helpless. She couldn’t even scrunch them, which had been an invaluable defence mechanism as her feet were under siege from those brushes. The brushes took full advantage of her soft feet’s new immobility, sweeping up and down the high arches which now held taut and still for their terrible touch, with Katniss only just being able to hold on, by the very skin of her teeth. She was only just able to keep her reactions in check.

She felt relief when she saw the familiar 88% on the timer, but then she saw those brushes going away, and her twisted into a big, open-mouthed frown when it looked like they were being replaced by something far nastier. They were three times as long as the makeup brushes had been, and the bristles looked much tougher and bristlier on them.

Katniss wasn’t sure what they were. They sort of looked like a bit like toilet brushes, though not nearly as big. They’re probably toe brushes, Katniss thought, looking at these new brushes that looked like they would be perfect for poking their way through ticklish toes to clean the sensitive flesh in between them. And with Katniss’s long toes tied back and spread like this, they could go wherever they damn well pleased.

As soon as these new brushes make contact, Katniss couldn’t stop herself from letting loose a squealing laugh. More chuckling followed when she came to the unfortunate revelation was that these brushes were not stationary, unlike the makeup brushes from before. They rotated around as they were applied to Katniss’s feet, which intensified the ticklish sensations tenfold.

Those brushes slowly began to roll across her soles, starting from her rosy heels up, with Katniss’s composure taking a battering after each inch it went up. With those wires around her toes keeping her feet firmly in place, all she could do as quiver as the brushes spun and spun.

The brushes made their way from the heels, up through her deep and structured arches, across the balls of her feet till they reached the pads of her painted toes. Then, it was back down again, all the while Katniss wondered why people in the Capitol possibly found this entertaining. Her feet were shaking, sweat was tricking down her cheeks, and her nails were leaving marks in her palms when she clenched them tightly to try to take her mind off what was being done to her poor feet. Yet those brushes continued to roll up and down.

Katniss’s giggling was steady now, and every attempt to stifle it was like trying push the morning tide back with your bare heads. She blinked and saw 79%, another blink and it was 71%, another blink and it was 62%. When the brushes started exploring her toes, running from the highly sensitive base of her long toes to their tips, Katniss’s laughter reached a high shriek she hadn’t known she could even make. It was such a girlish, humiliating noise for a tough girl like to make The same could be said for the squeaking and squealing noises she made afterwards, when those damn brushes pushed through the gaps of her toes, one at a time, to spend a good long while spinning away at the undersides. Before long, they quickly found out which nooks and crannies were the most sensitive (the gap between first and second toe on each foot) and simply took up residence there, only occasionally pulling out to run along her arches and the balls of her feet when her sensitivity seemed to be waning from being tickled in the same spot continuously for so long.

Katniss kept her eyes shut for most of this, as it was far preferable than watching the sight of such diabolical devices positioned over her feet, but when her bleary eyes opened again as the brushes stopped, what she saw on the timer was not pleasant:

Phase: 3

Time Remaining: 20:00

Food Prize: 48%

She wanted to slam her head back into something hard. She would have, had her neck not been strapped down. She had lost half her prize already! There were only twenty minutes left, and she had to do her utmost to ensure as much of that invaluable food remained for her to take back to District 12. But could she keep her body under control? They knew the spots on her armpits and her feet now, didn’t they… Katniss took a deep breath, shook a stray lock of dark hair out of her face and decided it didn’t matter if they knew. With the lives of everyone on the line, she would not fail.

Her resolve was immediately tested as the mechanical chair started its clanking transformation again. This new position left her more exposed than ever—her legs were spread as were her arms, and her toes remained bound by that infernal wire. The straps around her neck, forehead, stomach, knee, thigh, ankle, elbow, and wrist remained stubbornly intact, so again, the only part of her body she could really move was her fingers, and they weren’t much use at all right now.

The lasers appeared again, and they seared off the fabric around her… breasts? Katniss should have guessed. Was there no limit to the depravities of the Capitol? Watching a young girl getting tickle tortured wasn’t enough for them? They needed such lewdness as well? She supposed she really ought not to be surprised as the lasers cut around her jumpsuit to expose her white bra. That was next to go to, courtesy of a pair of three-pronged robot pincers.

Katniss grit her teeth and tried to think of Prim as those cold, silver claws came around poking at her breasts, which were now bared and nude. She shivered as they brushed across her skin as goosebumps came prickling along her olive skin. By themselves, they might have been semi-tolerable, but as those claws poked and pinched at her breasts, the whirling the brushes at her feet never stopped. Her body was too tense to play at resistance with those ungodly things rampaging across her super soft soles, so she laughed and laughed, shivering as the cold claws teased her heaving chest, paying particular attention to her rapidly stiffening nipples. It disgusted her that her body was getting aroused by this, but physical stimulation was physically stimulating, and her body had been dealing with far too much of that over the past forty minutes.

Every now and then, the claws would dispense with tickling and simply caress and stroke her breasts. Those cold claw tips of these would take special care to stroke her along her areolas, pinching and flicking as best as those cumbersome things could handle. One wouldn’t have thought those cold, pincers would be effective in drawing such a lover’s reaction from her, yet her perky nipples were erect all the same, not to mention that growing ache in her loins. Were they pumping something into the room to make her more lustful? Some kind of airborne aphrodisiac? Katniss wouldn’t put anything past those freaks from the Capitol.

And the worst part was meanwhile as those claws groped across her chest, the savage scrubbing at her feet never ceased. And the electric tingles that emanated from her breasts as they were teased seemed to do queer things to the rest of the body, for Katniss found herself jumping and gasping to spots on her feet that she had been able to handle before. Was the tickling up there somehow making her more sensitive all over? Was that the effect of the liquid arousal dripping from between her legs? Or had the Capitol people pumped in some other insidious substance to heighten her sensitivity? She didn’t know, nor did she truly have the brain capacity to work it out as the brushes continued to sweep across her feet and toes and as the pincers continue to poke and prod her bosom.

Yet she couldn’t help but watch it all happen—watching probably made it worse, yet she couldn’t take her eyes off it as stared at her pretty, black-painted toes being tormented, or her breasts being scraped. She had to keep an eye on the danger. Everyone knew that was the first rule of the jungle, yet here, she had a feeling this habit was doing her more harm than could. When she tore her eyes away to look at the timer, this was what she saw:

Phase: 3

Time Remaining: 14:56

Food Prize: 39%

Scarcely over a third of her total food prize remained. How could she have squandered so much of it already? She would have resolved to clamp her jaw shut and not make a noise for the rest of the fifteen minutes, had she not known that vow would be broken in seconds.

And the tickling was changing again. Did the robots themselves recognising that her body was starting to react favourably to the pincer’s cool touches on her breasts? Or had they simply been programmed to change at the fifteen-minute mark? Did the people running this farcical show implement the change?

Katniss didn’t know, but she knew that the three-pronged claws had relocated to her sides and ribcage, and it was not a change she welcomed. She felt sweat beading all over her flushed body. Her stiff nipples were suddenly aching, tingling, because of how they had suddenly been left alone after all that stimulation.

And the constant stimulation at her bare feet hardly made up for it. Her long toes strained hard against the wire, but it remained as strong as steel as the brushes continued to sweep in their patterns. Again, it was either the robot’s programming or directed by the Capitol directors of this mad programme, but it seemed Katniss’s secret spot on her arches, the one right under the balls of the foot, were not so secret anymore. Both feet were being ruthlessly tormented in that spot, with the brushes only occasionally meandering up to tease her toes for a while or down to brush at her heel to keep her off-guard.

There was some new stimulation as well, though perhaps it could have been thought of as old. The smaller, wider makeup brushes had return to their old haunts in her bare armpits, and they were happily twirling away in all their old favourite spots. Katniss’s hands opened and closed, her arms straining to free themselves, but she made no more progress than she had ever had. Tears of laughter crept out of the corner of her eyes as the tickling overwhelmed her, overwhelmed her plays at resistance. How could anyone possibly take this? The Katniss of District 12, perhaps, but not the Katniss that had been made soft by all the evil devices of the Capitol—she couldn’t believe people possibly went to such places voluntarily and even paid money to be make weaker and more sensitive! It went against all the laws of nature. But then again, when had the Capitol ever tried to do things that made sense? This bizarre game of theirs was a prime example of just how backward they were.

To try to occupy her mind, she tried to focus on other things, on Prim’s smile, Gale’s laughter, but no, that was wrong, smiles and laughter were tickling, and tickling was here, trapped in this chair. Her mind just couldn’t think of anything, and Katniss’s tattered consciousness was driven by the ticklish train of thought to a topic station she really wasn’t sure she wanted to be at—what tickled worse?

The claws grabbed at her ribs and slim sides for a while as she writhed about in ticklish frustration, all the while all too aware of her stiff and aching nipples. The ribs were bad, definitely. They triggered her animal reaction to get her vitals away from dangerous sharp things like claws and pincers—that was the evolutionary imperative that tickling had grown out of, she knew. Every pinch and prod made her flinch and twitch. It also drew the breath from her lungs, every single time.

The armpits were bad, definitely very bad. It felt like half a lifetime ago when she had been tickled there, back in the golden days of Phase 1 when she had been able to keep her rabid laughter contained, but she was fast remembering just how excruciating it was. Those bristles were soft, her armpits were softer, and she laughed and laughed.

The feet almost didn’t warrant mention. They were a special kind of awful. Katniss was starting to figure out why the foot people had obsessed over her feet so much at that strange clinic she had needed to go to before participating in this contest. They had spent twice as long on her feet as they had anywhere else, and the reason was because her feet were now as soft as sensitive as they had ever been in her entire life. And that was exactly how it felt as those brushes scrubbed slow and scrubbed in her endless trove of ticklish soft spots on her feet.

The breasts, well, they still tingled and seemed to long for touch, any touch, but they were spared for now. But Katniss held serious reservations they would be left in peace for long. That most certainly wasn’t the Capitol’s way.

Just as Katniss felt she was leaning one way for answer, she felt something whirl on her chair, and she glanced down through blurry, bleary eyes and saw that the timer had reached the final stage.

Phase: 4

Time Remaining: 5:00

Food Prize: 22%

There was five minutes left that she would have to remain here in this chair. Only five. She could keep it together for five minutes, couldn’t she? She tried not to focus on the 22%, tried not to focus on the fact that it was only a fifth of the foodstuffs she had hoped to take back to her friends and family. That kind of negative thinking would do her no good. A fifth was better than nothing, she told herself, at least you’ll have something to show for all your suffering, all your laughter, all your tears in this chair… Just keep yourself together for five measly minutes. Katniss Everdeen, you can do this, you can surely do this!

She closed her eyes and tried to think of home, tried to picture herself in her happy place, tried to imagine herself anywhere but here in this ghastly room, with her sensitive, intimate spots picked at by robots to the wanton delights of anonymous strangers…

The sound of the lasers buzzing away and cutting away more fabric could be heard, yet the other tickling implements did not stop as the lasers did their business, and Katniss didn’t even realise that she was suddenly unclothed from mid-thigh to her navel before it was done. You lost track of things under a hurricane of ticklish sensations. She strained against the straps that held her in. They wouldn’t even give her the modesty of not showing her more intimate of areas, it seemed. Katniss wished she could say she was surprised that the Capitol viewers would stoop so low, that they would want to see something like this, but she honestly hadn’t. As soon as she been shaved down there by the Capitol clinic people, she had known this was almost guaranteed to happen. She had hoped she might be wrong, but hope was a dangerous, misguided thing here.

A pair of feathers spawned from the chair. She thought they might go for her toned stomach, but she soon found out they had somewhere else in mind. They danced over her thighs and around her womanhood, two spots where she had never even known she might be ticklish. And only did those soft, soft feather tickle terribly, but their light touch felt almost good, a tantalisation that was fast driving Katniss to the end of her wits. Those feathers alone would have been enough to drive her crazy, but those feathers were far from alone. She had never imagined herself as being the kind of person who might be sensitive enough to being tickled by something as dainty and wispy as feathers—it seemed the sort of thing that only powdered and perfumed Capitol divas might possibly be vulnerable to—yet here she was, squeaking and squealing as those feathers twirled from knees to thighs, along with deft strokes right by her womanhood. The crook between thigh and hip proved to be an especially sensitive spot to the feathers as well.

At her throbbing breasts, two new devices had appeared. They looked like glass tubes at first, a bit similar to the vials of medicine that Katniss’s mother had stored away, but they soon proved to have a very different kind of application. They affixed themselves to her stiff, tingling nipples and as the red light on top of them flashed to indicated they were on, a new sensation shot through her chest. Katniss would have arched her back and howled if the multitude of straps had allowed it. They felt like some kind of suction cups, creating a pressure vacuum which tugged and teased at the bare skin of her trapped nipple constantly, causing them to lengthen and grow even harder. There was also something electrical about them, for she felt a tingly zapping feeling trickle through each one at regular intervals. Just what were those things? Had they been designed for the express purpose of tormenting ticklish little girls? Whatever the answer was, it sent prickles of pleasure through her, enough to set her womanhood to dripping at an even faster rate. She didn’t know what about those awful things her sensitive, panting chest seemed to adore, but as this and a thousand other questions rushed through her mind, she had more pressing concerns at the present, such as the growing fire in her belly.

And as if the thorough and relentless torment of her two most intimate of spots weren’t possibly enough, all the other implements and all the other spots continued the tickling frenzy.

Her long feet were too tired to ever fight against the wires that helped her pedicured toes back, too tired to twitch as those narrow, whirling brushes stroked up and down her arches that had reddened from such persistent scrubbing.

Her hands shook as the makeup brushes at her armpits dusted every single spot, dusting right, left, up, down, and everywhere.

The tri-pronged metal pincers that had played such a prominent a hand in teasing her nipples till they got into such an excited state where those weird suction cups could evoke such a reaction from her were busy with her midsection, scrabbling all along them and grabbing at her sides. They even wandered lower to torment her toned and muscular stomach, where Katniss quickly learned that her abs provided little protection against questing metal claws.

How was she supposed to endure all this? How was anyone supposed to? This contest was rigged in the Capitol’s favour, Katniss’s outraged mind realised. No one could possibly take this much stimulation without laughing. 100% of the food prize would forever be a dream for her, and every other poor, desperate soul who was suckered into this challenge.

The final nail in the ticklish coffin that reinforced this fact was a new device that slithered out of the chair and positioned itself around her legs. It looked a bit like a Capitol peacekeeper’s truncheon, though it was perhaps only a quarter of the length, and it a firm plastic head.

When Katniss saw it, her hazy, tickled-added mind’s first reaction was confusion. How could such a thing be used to tickle her? But like the suction cup devices that made it feel as though a lover were insistently kissing and tugging on her stiff nipples, not every device was intended for that purpose. Arousal was a weapon too, a weapon used to erode will and one’s mental defences. The device pressed against her weeping womanhood. It had a strong thrum that sent shivers through her body, as even as it pressed delicately across her exposed intimate parts, the two feathers alongside it never ceased their teasing along her thighs or behind. The feathers facilitated the hammering sensations with strokes just under or above her womanhood which amplified the feelings even more.

Her eyes kept threatened to roll back in her head as the pulsing sensations continued. She had never felt this way before, never even on her loneliest nights, and she could feel something crawling inside her that made her hips grind together as best she could even strapped down in dozen places. She felt her stomach churning inside her as a potent, powerful, tickle-fuelled orgasm reared its fearsome head.

Not here, Katniss thought, begging in her mind. Not now, please, not when she had to keep her body under control for the good of everyone back home… not in front of everyone who might be watching. She would have begged aloud to the showrunners had her throat not gone dry from so much laughter. Her spluttering laughter had scarcely stopped since Phase 3 had begun, and that was almost twenty minutes ago. Her laughter had started out so defiant, all stop and go as she tried to fight to contain every giggle or chuckle that had wanted to come out. She realised now that had been her mistake. It was like trying to keep in a cough—it wouldn’t work, for it had to come out. And the more you tried, the more you were simply making yourself uncomfortable and wearing yourself out. That was what Katniss had done. She had wasted all her energy in the onset, so that now that she really needed it, she had nothing to fall back on. So here she was, laughing and giggling like a silly little girl who had heard a good joke.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite true. That girl wouldn’t be huffing and moaning with every other breath. Such sounds were akin to laughter after all—they were all a body’s reaction to stimuli, powerful stimuli that could not be ignored.

She cracked open a bleary eye and glanced at the timer:

Phase: 4

Time Remaining: 1:16

Food Prize: 10%

Ten percent was pathetic. There was no sugar-coating it. Ten percent might not even last a week if she shared with all the people she cared about. And the worst fact of all was Katniss feared even ten percent might be unattainable.

What had started as a tingling in her breasts had grown to a maelstrom between her legs, a raging inferno that threatened to burn out her brain. The vibrating device was humming away at her womanhood, which dripped and drooled hungrily with every potent thrum.

The suction cups kept her round and firm breasts tingling and longing for touch, any touch, especially the stiff, swollen, and sensitive dark buds that stood out from her chest. Katniss never knew they could ache so much, but she was learning a lot from her time in this chair—many painful lessons she wished she could unlearn.

The only reason an orgasm had not come yet was because of the tickling, Katniss suddenly realised. The incessant scrubbing at her pampered feet, the brushing at her smooth armpits, the claws goosing her toned sides, even the feathers dancing at her soft thighs. They were all tearing her down even as the vibrator and the suction cups built her up. Katniss was stuck right in the middle, being pulled in two directions at once.

But the stalemate was breaking, the sexual teasing was fast becoming too much. Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks as orgasm neared. It was so close. She tried to ignore the long brushes working between her black-painted toes, though they tickled so bad. She tried to ignore the makeup brushes spinning away in the very centres of the hollows of her armpit, though they tickled so very bad. She tried to ignore the claws squeezing up and down her ribcage, though they tickled so so bad. She tried to ignore the light kiss of feathers at her thighs, though they tickled so unreasonably bad.

And it happened. A mighty groan passed her lips along with a shudder. An immense warmth surged through her body like the warmth of the midday sun but far better. She could have basked in its glow for hours, but it passed, far too quickly for her liking. If not for the straps still binding her to the chair, she would have curled up in the foetal position. She hoped that they wouldn’t count her great gasping moan as laughter.

When she came back down to earth, she suddenly realised every nerve was standing on end, like the orgasm had woken every sense receptor in her body. And the tickling hadn’t stopped—far from it, they were now tickling even faster! And Katniss was beginning to come to the dreadful revelation that the orgasm had made her much more sensitive. She could feel every bristly bristle’s scratch, every soft feather’s light flick, every metal pincer’s cold grab. It was like she had been wearing a full-body rubber jumpsuit the whole time, but only now she was naked.

And the suction cup was still sucking away, the vibrator between her legs was still buzzing away, and a fresh orgasm was starting to make its presence felt in her belly. Katniss glanced up at the timer and her mouth gaped open at what she saw:

Phase: 4

Time Remaining: 20:11

Food Prize: 7%

Katniss thrashed and twisted, shouting through strained laughter that the time was wrong, that was due to be released. After letting Katniss sit and laugh herself silly for a bit longer, the smooth female voice spoke again—the one Katniss had heard at the beginning that had explained the rules.

“Reminder to all contestants: unauthorised orgasms will result in twenty minutes being added to the timer.”

“Whahat do youhoho mehehean! Nohohooo one tohohold mehee thahahat!”

“All contestants are reminded to read closely the terms and conditions of the contest.”

Katniss whimpered. She wanted to weep, but all she could do was laugh and laugh. Her womanhood was starting to drip again as a second orgasm started to build up, like a rolling storm.

And the phases hadn’t even reset. Could she possibly take twenty full minutes at phase four, with those suction cups unleashing tantalising ecstasy to her nipples while that vibrator continued sending mind-melting shockwaves between her legs? It had only taken five minutes at phase four to bring her to orgasm the first time…

She had thought she would only be in here for an hour, and that thought had kept her going throughout—just a bit longer, she had thought, I’m almost done… I can keep the food prize if I can just hold on for a bit more…

But suddenly, Katniss realised she might be here for a long, long time indeed, especially with those damnable things at her breasts and ladyparts. 7% of the food prize was left, she thought, hoping against hoping that there was still a chance at some kind of minor victory. All she needed to do was to endure the long brushes whirling away in her arches, the makeup brushes sweeping in her armpits, the claws poking her sides, the feathers at her inner thighs, the suction cups at her breasts, and the vibrator between her legs. That was all.

All she had to do was last twenty minutes… 

The Tickling Games
Another fun commission for :iconazhrezil: 

This one was based on a series of pictures by the talented :iconyurihausen: Here's the first one.

Enjoy!

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The Laughing Games_pg0 by Yurihausen
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Morgana's Mansion: A Tickle Horror-Comedy, Part 3

The next door Taylor opened led her down a creaking wooden stairway to what must have been the basement of the house. The blonde knew that this would not bode well for her. Basements were always where murderers or captives lurked in horror movies. But would Taylor be able to buck the trend? She certainly hoped so.

More candles illuminated her path down the stairs, and when she walked off the final step, she felt the term basement could no longer apply to what this place was. It was a dungeon. She saw chains, a variety of bondage apparatuses, and trays and tray of utensils likely designed for the gruesome purpose of tickle torture.

“I was hoping you would be the one to stumble down here,” said the husky voice of Morgana Lafey. She was seated and bound in a wooden and steel stockade, though her expression was very much that of a woman at ease, not a prisoner. She stood up, passing through the heavy-looking shackles as if they were not even there. “You’re the one who spoke to one of my former guests here, no?”

It took a moment for Taylor to work out who Morgana was eluding to—Valerie. The woman whose boyfriend had died mysterious in this manor, the woman who must have undergone unimaginable tickle torment, the woman who had shown Taylor such kindness.

“What to know what she experienced?” Morgana said with a wide, thin smile. “But talking about it would be boring, so why don’t I just show you?” She snapped her fingers, and the world seemed to jolt underfoot.

“Omigawd, this is so not cool!” said a stocked girl who had not been there moments ago. She looked a bit like a hippie with her tie-dyed shirt, straw hat, short denim shorts, and brown gladiator sandals. Her silvery blonde hair curled around her shoulder, she wore round glasses, and her ears were full of piercings. When Taylor noticed the silver anklet and the brightly-painted yellow toenails, she saw the resemblance to the more mature woman she had met. This was the young Valerie. They must all be in some kind of memory.

“It’s also not cool for you and your boytoy to pee on my carpet,” Morgana said. “So just for you, I’ll put you in something a little special.”

Valerie whimpered as Morgana removed her sandals in a few deft movements. Her feet were lightly tanned at the tops, but the soles remained creamy. The large stockade could have seated two, which gave Taylor a sense of foreshadow-y trepidation as to what fate might await her next. With your ankles shackled in those holes and your arms tied above your head, you would be helpless to any ticklish ministrations in that thing.

“I picked this up from a pianist with the most delightfully receptive feet I ever saw,” Morgana said as she reached for several little wooden metronomes from a shelf. “Let’s see how you handle it.”

At the end of the metronome were a bundle of white, stiff feathers. Morgana positioned one of them under each armpit where they swept away in time to their clicking beats. The tie-dye shirt that Valerie wore was very fashionable, but the sleeves were very short and failed to provide more protection to her obviously sensitive armpits. Valerie was already shaking with giggles as the feathers struck again and again. The colourful shirt also cut off a few inches before it reached her waist, so another metronome was put to work brushing back and forth across her pierced navel.

“Now, I think you need to learn how to keep the noise down,” Morgana said in a stern voice as Valerie spluttered and twitched. “I’ll have you know you very inconsiderately interrupted my beauty sleep. So, here’s how this is going to work.” Morgana snapped her fingers and two more metronomes positioned themselves at Valerie’s scrunching feet, though these two seemed to not be on. “If you laugh, these two are going to join in. So, do yourself a favour and STFU.”

Morgana walked away, leaving Valerie to grit her teeth and chew on her lower lip as she tried to get her body under control. It was a thing easier said than done when three feathers were dancing along one’s sensitive skin, however.

Taylor watched as Valerie’s eyes closed with the effort of suppressing her body’s natural reaction to such ticklish pressure. Poor her, Taylor thought, and even if Valerie could hold back her snorts and giggles for a while, it was a battle she was inevitably going to lose.

“Enjoying the show?” Morgana said, putting an arm around Taylor’s shoulder. “It sure looks like you are. I never knew you were such a voyeur, sweetie.”

“I am not!”

Morgana tilted her head—her face was a mask of innocence. “Oh, so you’re not content just watching? Well, I understand that… you’d much rather be participating. I imagine you’re thinking what a weakling dear Valerie is, and you’re saying to yourself ‘oh, I bet I could handle that no problem, easy peasy lemon squeezy!’ Am I right or am I right? Say no more!”

Taylor took a step back as realisation dawned on her once more. And in a flash, she found herself seated beside Valerie with her arms raised, ankles in the stocks, flip flops gone, and tickling metronomes starting their regular sweeps along underarms and belly.

“Oh, and just for you, I’ll give you something a bit special.” Morgana pointed a finger at a tray of utensils, and a series of guitar picks floated. “Thought we might as well keep with the musical theme,” she explained. “I obtained these from some wannabe rock star with a belly button to die for… If you start making too much noises, these picks are gonna starting strumming along those pretty tootsies of yours, so best you try to keep silent.”

Tossing her head back, Taylor sucked in breath desperately through her nose as those feathers stroke under her spots with the monotony of a pendulum. Yet somehow, knowing it was coming made it no less bearable. Beside her, she could feel Valerie fighting the same battle. Those feathers were soft, and their bristles swished madly as they came again and again and again. No sooner had the nerves settled down from their previous slash would another arrive. Over and over and over again those feathers came as the girls’ panting breaths grew more and more ragged.

Taylor couldn’t say which feather was the worst. The feather swiping at the edges of her toned biceps brushed against the centre of her armpit hollows was awful, but it was her stomach that was driving her mad. The feather seemed to be placed at the perfect location. It just skirted along the rim of her navel, and with every motion seemed destined to dip into that terribly ticklish little spot, yet it didn’t. The fear of that moment coming kept Taylor fixated on that feather, and she was probably making it tickle her even more than it should have because of the way she was psyching herself out.

Maybe it was because Taylor had leaned forward a bit too far, or she had tensed her abs a bit too much, but either way, the feather at her stomach came whisking towards her navel at just the right angle to give the inside of her belly button a quick ticklish lick, and the floodgates opened. Laughter poured out of her, and then it gushed out of her when those guitar picks came to life at her feet.

Perhaps it was because Valerie had somehow heard her companion’s resistance crumble to nothing, or perhaps it was simply curious timing, but the hippie-esque girl burst into laughter a moment later. And with her laughter, the metronomes at her feet sprang to life to ensure she could make no more further attempts to get her laughter under control. And in much the same way, Taylor’s laughter had become a runaway train she had no hope of catching. Those guitar picks plaguing her feet were like fingernails—but the idealised perfect fingernail for tickle torture. They were long and sharp, and they could be used to pluck away at sensitive spots with abandon, unlike a normal fingernail of that length which had to use a bit of caution lest she risk breaking that nail. Not to mention their size made them perfect for darting around squirming and scrunching toes, and Taylor’s long, gold-painted toes were definitely vulnerable to their vile presence.

Together, their laughter made a strange symphony of hysterical giggles and spluttering guffaws, and they laughed and laughed till the dungeon rang with sound of their musical mirth.

O-O-O

Lee walked through the corridor, her feet padding across the dusty floor. Her shoes had long ago been stolen away, and for now, still had one foot in her nylon stockings while the other foot was bare. She considered remove the stocking on that foot as well for symmetry, but it seemed foolhardy to remove one of the few protections that remained to her.

As she pushed her way through the next door, a polished, painted door of faded purple, she expected to find herself in another ghastly torture chamber, probably with a rack or stockade just waiting for her. But this room was different. The rest thing that hit her was the smell of sweet perfume—it smelled of wild flowers, of herbs, of cinnamon. In contrast to the other filthy rooms and grimy corridors, this room seemed relatively free of dust. There was an open window letting in rays of bright sunlight. It must have been midday, for the sun was still high in the air. Lee tried to push the window open, but it held firm, and she didn’t dare try to break it open to escape. Part of it was because she was somehow on the third floor, despite the fact she didn’t really remember going up any stairs, and also because of what Morgana Lafey had said on that foyer hours ago. This would only end when that witch had enjoyed her fill.

Sighing to herself, Lee tried to work out how this room planned to torment her. There was another side door at the opposite end of the room, but it refused to budge either. Lee was familiar enough with the bizarre expectations of this manor that she recognised something would need to happen before the entrance to her next challenge would open, and that something would probably involve copious amounts of tickling.

But what was there in this room that could lead to that? By the looks of things, this was Morgana’s dressing room or something. Lee examined the floor in case there were rotten floorboards like before, but this room has plush carpets that felt wonderfully soft on her feet. There was an ornate closet in the corner that looked like contained clothes, but Lee wasn’t sure she wanted to open that door lest shirts and trousers suddenly fly out to tie her up or something. She was starting to get an inkling of how this manor worked…

The only other feature of note in the room was a series of stained and cracked mirrors that lined one wall. Perhaps time and nature had warped them, but the reflection they showed resembled that of a carnival hall of mirrors. None of them quite looked like Lee—a bit too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, or etc. Though Lee herself could hardly say she looked like herself right now. She had always hoped to dress to impress with a neat, professional style, but she looked like a right mess at the moment. Her long black hair looked like she had just crawled out of bed following a frantic love-making session. Her white blouse was ruffled and stained with dirt, and of course, she was shoeless and had that stocking torn off so she looked like she had just survived some kind of shipwreck.

As she stared at herself in the mirror, she thought she saw one of her reflections wave at her. She blinked and no, she was just looking at herself, albeit a version of herself twisted in that ugly mirror.

It was then Morgana finally made her appearance, the way she did for every room. She appeared in front of the mirror, though the ghost made no reflection. “You know that phrase that you’re your own worst enemy? Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

Lee took a step back as the reflections of her in the mirror all took a step forward and suddenly became three-dimensional. There were six of them: too tall, too short, too thin, too fat, too pretty, and too ugly. They all looked just like her, but she knew they must be reflections for they all had bare left foot while her own right foot was bare.

They pounced and overwhelmed her, dogpiling her to the ground. They were all giggling as they did so, a noise which Lee found so familiar yet so foreign. She had never really ‘heard’ herself laugh before like this, after all. But before long, she was hearing herself laugh heartily. Trapped on her back, she twisted and bucked as bed she could, but she had no chance when she was being sextupled teamed.

Two of them, too tall and too short, were sitting on her arms, which were pinned above her head, and they were spidering all ten of their fingernails in each underarm. They would graze along the edges of the armpits and then dive back into the hollows, shifting gears every few seconds or so. The right armpit was especially awful as too tall had longer fingernails than Lee herself, as they scraped and raked the soft flesh there viciously. 

“Plehehehehease stahahahp! Don’t do thihihihis to meheehehe! You are meheheheeee!”

“What are you going to offer me to stop, huh?” asked too pretty, sneering at her. “Let me guess—anything? Well, what if I told you what I wanted was to tickle you even more? What are you gonna do about that?”

Too pretty had a slimmer face but a larger bust, and Lee had a good view of both of them while she was perched on Lee’s midsection. Her nails focusing on the prominent collarbones and neck that Lee’s white blouse left exposed.  Worst of all was her lips, fuller than Lee’s own. They mocked and teased Lee in both English and her native Putonghua, telling her what a weak little ticklish girl she was, how she couldn’t even stand a few tickles, how she probably was a little slut who was enjoying every second of this. Lee never knew she could hate herself so much.

Too fat was sitting on her thighs, putting her weight to good use to keep Lee’s legs from going anywhere as she traced and squeezed her fingers along Lee’s knees.

Too thin and too ugly had spread Lee’s legs and sat down across her ankles. With her feet pinned beneath them, they had free rein to scamper their small, nimble finger all over Lee’s soles. Just as before, the bare foot and the foot still in stockings felt different, and although they were being tickled by the same mischievous fingers, it seemed vastly different on each foot, which of course meant that it tickled more.

“Let’s really get her feet,” said too pretty suddenly at Lee’s neck, and in a flash, as if all the reflections shared but one mind, they stood up and piled around her feet. Lee’s arms were suddenly free, but she couldn’t wrench her feet from the six reflections that had clustered around her tiny ticklish feet.

They wriggled their adroit fingers under her clenched, red-painted toes and pried them back till the Lee’s petite feet were taut and immobile.  And then sixty (give or take the hands holding her quivering feet in place) wicked fingers engulfed her soles in a wave of sensations. And they knew every sensitive spot on Lee’s small feet well, from her arches, to between her toes, to the soft balls of the feet—they were her, after all.

Lee tried slapping at the backs of her reflections or tugging on their shoulders, but there were too many of them, and the all-powering foot tickling was quickly driving the resistance out of her, one gushing guffaw at a time.

“You know,” Morgana said as she watched Lee pound her palm on the carpeted floor, “I always thought it was impossible to tickle yourself. Thanks for proving me wrong, dearie.”

O-O-O

Janis had learned not to expect too much in terms of realism when it came to the malleable laws of space and time in this manor, but somehow, she still found what she saw in the next room to look incredibly odd, even though it probably wasn’t really that remarkable. It was so mundane that it might not have even been magic, yet there was something jarring and perplexing about the sight, like when you saw an old friend with a crazy new hairstyle.

The candlelit room was small, sparse, and spartan. There were a few paintings on the wall, an armchair covered with dust, and a copper hat rack in the corner. The only truly remarkable feature was the door, and not the door that Janis had just entered through, which naturally had slammed and locked itself shut as soon as the blue-haired girl had stepped inside.

This oaken door was a bold whorehouse red, and where the door knob should have been, a pair of pale, slender bare feet protruded from the wood. It looking like the door had grown around the feet, as the fit seemed so snug. The feet wiggled at the sound of Janis’s approach, like a rabbit twitching its ears at the sound of potential danger.

Just above the feet, Janis could make out a little dial. The faded writing on it said ‘close’, but it had another setting that said ‘open’. She tried to twist the dial, but it seemed stuck.

“You’ll need to tickle those feet to get out,” said the voice of Morgana Lafey, though the witch herself didn’t seem to be in the area. “I wonder if you can dish out what you can take. Good luck…”

Janis brushed an experimental finger down the foot in closest to her. It wrinkled up immediately, and it certainly felt real and warm enough to be a real foot. The feet before her were long, though not as long and large as Taylor’s. They were pale, dainty things, a bit similar to her own but thinner, and when Janis pushed the foot down to examine them a bit better, she saw that the tidily-trimmed toenails had a smooth shine to them and black nail varnish. From their creamy pinkish tan, Janis guessed they probably belonged to a Caucasian girl, perhaps some kind of goth girl, though from how unbelievably soft and pampered these feet were, it wouldn’t have surprised Janis at all if they belonged to some snotty prima donna alpha bitch type. Janis solemnly hoped they did, as that would make it make easier to tickle these pretty things guilt-free.

As Janis rubbed her fingers into those immaculate feet, she could hear a steady stream of slow giggles from the other side of the thick wooden door. Well, there was no kindness in teasing the girl by keeping her waiting in suspense any longer, Janis decided, and she started right away by digging her fingers firmly into the silky flesh of the arches of both feet. Those deep, high arches proved to be an immediate goldmine of sweet spots, as Janis’s blue nails focused over the area between heel and ball of feet, relishing in the squeals and gasps that could be heard from beyond. Whoever this girl was, she seemed as ticklish as any girl Janis had ever seen. It was a crying shame that Morgana had not thought to supply her with any tools. A hairbrush in particular looked like it would have tremendously fun to treat these buttery-soft arches too, or perhaps maybe a backscratcher for a more precise touch. Oh well, she digressed. She would just have to make do with what she had. At least she got to tickle for once in this place.

And as she tickled, the dial on the door was beginning to turn. It was about one third of the way to open now. Good, Janis thought, she was making progress. But now she had to find the spots that really make this girl tick…

After playing with the wrinkles of those arches for a while, Janis refocused her attacks on one foot at a time—the left foot first. She started at the heel, scurrying up the foot with all ten of her long fingernails like a ravaging horde of ticklish mayhem. Her nails would swarm up the sole, then swarm down, up and down, up and down. The girl beyond the door would also shriek when the skittering fingers would dash past her arch, and she would always let loose machine-gun laughter when the motion reached her toes. It was cute how like clockwork her reactions seemed to be. Janis supposed she respected how consistent her reactions were. There was nothing bad about being reliable, was there?

While Janis had her way with that left foot, the other foot began to clench and unclench its toes, wiggling and flexing as if trying to wave to get Janis’s attention. The trapped feet were a bit too far away from each other for the foot to reach over and take a few ticklish blows for its twin, but that didn’t seem to stop it from trying. It was an adorably futile gesture, and every now and then Janis couldn’t resist brushing her nails along the black-painted toes as they desperately strained to protect the besieged left foot. Those slender toes would also splay open and flex back, as if shocked by the sudden touch, but they could never stay away for long. And Janis would greet those grasping toes with another swipe to get them to recoil once more, and then the cycle would repeat itself.

After Janis did the same with the right foot, which prompted the same cutesy toe defence, she noticed the dial was nearly at open. Well, it was time to bust out the big guns and find out where those fun arches of hers were really ticklish. Using just her index fingers, she focused her efforts on the centres of them, probing slowly and listening for the girl’s wild whoops of laughter. It didn’t take long to find that the base of the arches was a particular delightful spot to tease. Janis dug two fingers into that spot on the arch, moving back and forth to hit the same place on one foot then the other, and luckily for Janis but unluckily for the girl, that tender spot seemed present and equally ticklish on both pampered feet.

Janis couldn’t have said how long she kept this up for, though the pale feet were certainly a shade pinker at this point—she was all too familiar with the adage that time flew when you were having fun. And Janis was having all kinds of fun. Tickling was her fetish, after all, and she was undecided on whether she enjoyed being more on the delivering end or the receiving end. And although this girl’s slim feet looked nothing like her chunky, wider ones, as her fingers flew over the soft, succulent, pliable flesh of her soles, Janis’s toes curled as she empathised with the girl and imagined cruel, vicious fingernails ravaging across her own feet as well. It was the sort of thinking that made her heart beat a little faster, made her bite her lower lip, and turned on the tap downstairs.

After a while, the girl’s laughter beyond the door started to fade, but Janis knew the girl must have simply gone into silent laughter, because both feet were still twitching and thrashing as if they had all the energy in the world. And them the dial clicked in place, and door unlocked and swung open.

Janis gaped as she realised who she had been tickling. Morgana Lafey herself pulled her long, shapely legs from the wall still giggling to herself. “Not bad,” she said. “Not bad at all. You tickle pretty well.”

“It is kinda my hobby.”

“Well, it heartens me to see a strong young woman following her passions,” Morgana said with a chuckle, her eyes glowed yellow, and they sparkled with mischief. “Follow me. It’s time for the grand finale.”

O-O-O

To call where that door led a ‘room’ would give it serious injustice, Janis thought. It was more a great hall, a large, majestic place which seemed almost too big to fit into the manor. It was definitely bigger than any of Taylor’s tennis courts, that was for sure. The centre of the room was elevated with stone steps, and the steps led to a great throne carved of jutting metal. Seated cross-legged on the throne was Morgana Lafey.

“How very Game of Thrones,” Janis said by way of greeting.

“Why thank you,” Morgana said, her voice booming from the throne as Janis slowly walked towards her. “Do you like my chair? I added a few personal touches to it.”

On the right armrest of the throne, Janis saw a pair of tanned bare feet protruding within easy reach of Morgana’s long, black fingernails. Janis recognised those silver toerings, so it must have been poor Taylor trapped under the throne. When her eyes followed those lone feet down, she saw the metal of the throne had engulfed the feet’s owner entirely, binding them in the base of the chair so that only their feet was the only part of their body that was visible. As Morgana spoke, in a casual, relaxed motion, she would brush her nails lightly across the feet to make them squirm and struggle. Muffled echoes of laughter were audible. And on the other side, on the other armrest, the small feet that were curled up in anticipation of the ticklish fate that was due to befall them had to be Lee—there was no mistaking those tiny toes and those black stockings, though she only had one foot with the stocking still on.

Morgana laughed when she saw where Janis was looking. “No need to glare at me! Don’t you worry, I was just keeping your friends entertained why they wait for you.” She gave Lee’s petite feet a quick parting scratch, then clapped her hands together, and Taylor and Lee appeared beside Janis in a puff of black smoke, gasping and coughing. It was good to see her friends again, Janis thought, and although all three of them were undoubtedly a bit worse for wear, at least they were all fairly unharmed.

“Thanks,” Lee said. “If we get out of here, I swear I’m changing my name. It really is tempting fate.”

Taylor said, “What’s happening now? Are you finally going to let us do that interview unmolested?”

“What a curious choice of words there,” Morgana said with a wry smile on her face, “but I digress. Anyway, here we all are, at the final frontier, as a reward for all your efforts you get the ultimate blessing of all. You get to tickle me.”

The three girls all looked at each other. After all they had been through, the chance at ticklish comeuppance and revenge was a sweet tonic indeed.

“But how?” Taylor asked. “Aren’t you like a ghost?”

“I am, but ghosts have bodies.” Morgana snapped her fingers and a coffin burst from the ground—it sent dirt and dust flying everywhere. There was a harsh scraping sound the air as the heavy black coffin slowly slid open. When the girls finally got a look at the thing inside the coffin, they were surprised to see it was almost identical to the Morgana Lafey who sat on her throne, only minus the ominous blue glow that clung to her. The ‘real’ Morgana smiled up at them. She was also only wearing a black lace bra and panties which certainly did not look like they had been around in the 18th century.

“Wow, why aren’t you a skeleton?” Lee asked. “It’s been three hundred years, hasn’t it? I expected some… well, decay and overall grossness, to be honest.”

“I’m surprised that’s the first thing you noticed. Anyway, I was very well preserved.”

“And hold on,” Janis said. “Weren’t you drowning? If that’s how you died, shouldn’t you look, I don’t know, a bit more like a Pirates of the Caribbean villain?”

“Yeah, why aren’t you wet and slimy or gross?” Taylor added.

“You’re talking to a ghost with vaguely-defined powers and you’re complaining about realism?” Morgana shook her head and chuckled. “GTFO.”

Another flash of light and the black coffin had transformed into a black table. The real Morgana was bound across it with fur-lined chains at her wrists and ankles to pull her eagle-spread. A black ball-gag in her mouth muffled her. At the corner of the table was a tray of tickle implements.

“Wow, you’re going to let the three of us tickle you all at once?” Lee said. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“Well, about that,” Morgana said, “I think you may have noticed I love to tickle—almost as much as I enjoy being on the receiving end, so why not get the best of both words?” She snapped her fingers and an identical table popped up opposite the one that held her physical form. “And I think I’ll start with you, though don’t worry, all of you will get a turn.” She pointed at Lee, and the Chinese girl suddenly found herself bound to the table in the exact same way the real Morgana was. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Taylor and Janis didn’t need telling twice. With Morgana’s body exposed and bound, they had their pick of spots to attack, not to mention their pick of which implement to use thanks to the tray of tickle tools the witch had so thoughtfully provided. Janis picked a comb while Taylor decided she wanted to adopt a more hands-on approach.

Janis took a quick peek at Morgana’s pale feet. They feet were very wrinkled, the way they got after swimming in the pool for a while, and they were also very soft to a touch. Janis set to work exploring those wrinkles with the fine-toothed wooden comb right away. She was delighted by the way Morgana reared up, her black-painted toes flexing and scrunching as best as those tight binds would allow. It was good to know those gorgeous feet were every bit as sensitive and ticklish as they looked.

Taylor was having a ball of the time with Morgana’s armpits as well. She wasn’t exactly sure how big a thing personal grooming was at the time of Morgana’s death, but she wasn’t about to complain with her finger attacked those smooth, hairless hollows. Morgana’s biceps were thing and lightly muscled, unlike Taylor’s arms strengthened from years of playing tennis, but those arms were straining all the same as Taylor fluttered her nails all around them. Morgana’s green eyes were closed as the gag continued to eat up and muffle her frantic laughter.

“Now, you, my darling, are way too uptight,” the other Morgana said to Lee, who was gagged. She seemed unaffected by the potent tickled being inflicted on her true form by the other two girls, aside from the fact her grin seemed to be wider than before. “Let’s see if we can’t get you to loosen up a bit.”

Her fingers crept into short sleeves of Lee’s blouse to tease along the armpits as she began to softly kiss and lick along her neck and collarbones. Lee scrunched her eyes shut and tried to twist her head away. That tongue… it felt like it was half a feather and half a tongue. It sent tingly tendrils of sensation crawling through her body with every tender lap.

“Does that feel nice, sweetheart?” Morgana giggled and began to unbutton Lee’s blouse, causing the Asian girl to struggle even harder.

Her friends saw what was happening and quickly tried to move to her rescue. Janis began sawing the comb between Morgana’s long toes, the wooden teeth of the comb scratching and stimulating the hypersensitive flesh of the undersides along the toe webbing. Taylor was spidering all five of her fingers in each armpit, sometimes scratching hard and other times teasing slowly. The bound Morgana’s eyes bulged and tears began to trickle down her cheeks, yet the other Morgana continued unimpeded. Morgana’s tongue began to slide across Lee’s slim stomach.

Lee was going mad from this light touch alone, though the fact Morgana’s fingers had begun to brush along her pale sides probably didn’t help. Lee tried to twist to the side, tried to suck in her stomach, but that devastating tongue continued to follow her. The tongue began to skitter slow, clockwise circles around her navel, spiralling closer to her belly button each time with every lap around that quivering, spasming stomach, with Lee’s giggles growing more intense once her hyper analytical mind realised where that tongue was due.

“You’ve got such a tasty tummy,” Morgana said in a husky purr before she finally slipped her tongue into her navel. It wiggled around as Lee exploded with laughter. “Let’s see if your feet are the same.” Morgana traced that crazy feather-soft tongue of hers down Lee’s inner thigh and shin as she made her way down to the feet.

She quickly took up shop at the right foot, which was bare. As her tongue licked up and down the foot and attacked those red-painted toes, pushing through the gaps to drive Lee to more hysterics, her other hand raked up and down Lee’s left foot, which was still clad in the stocking.

Meanwhile, Taylor had relocated to Morgana’s feet as well, launching a furious ten fingered assault on her right foot while Janis and her comb continued to attack the left. But again, the effect it had on the other Morgana’s was minimal, though Morgana’s body seemed like she was suffering spectacularly.

“Yum, yum, yum,” Morgana said. “I wonder how you taste up there as well…” She licked her way back to the inner thighs, which we still covered in Lee’s nylon tights, though they still provided a feeble amount of protection from such a powerful tongue as the one Morgana possessed. And she licked and licked, one thigh and then the other, while her fingers continued to play with Lee’s trim stomach or her tiny feet. After there was a while, there was no mistaking the way conservative Lee’s hips were grinding together. That devilish tongue was close to coaxing an orgasm out of her. “Hmm, I’m not sure you deserve this, though.”

Lee glanced down at her, her expression twisted in lust and confusion and in a flash, Lee and Janis had swapped places. Janis was strapped down, Lee was free and beside the trapped body of Morgana Lafey. Lee put her hands on her knees. She was panting, with her legs weak from the teasing she had just undergone.

“Oh, you bitch,” she said and picked up a pair of feathers. She instantly set them to work on Morgana’s inner thighs, in particular the point where they met the hip. She hugged her heaving chest. “Grab some feathers and get her nipples, Taylor.”

“Dayum, girl, she really did a number on you, huh?” Taylor said, her eyebrows raised. “but I gotta say, I like pissed off Lee. You go, girl! Let’s do this!” She picked up a pair of feather dusters, tugged down Morgana’s black bra, and set to dusting those pink, erect nipples right away.

“Ooooh, your girls now how to spoil a girl,” Morgana said, rubbing her neck. She grinned at the gagged blue-haired girl in front of her. “I guess you’re feeling a little jealous of your friend getting the taste of my talented tongue? Well, I don’t plan on depriving you of anything. But I do find doing the same thing over and over again a bit boring… so let’s how you handle this?”

Morgana waggled her tongue, and suddenly it grew to ten times its normal length. Morgana smiled, resembling some massive great snake, and she went down towards Jani’s chunky, white feet. The long tongue wound around the right foot several times before pushing its way through several toes as Janis howled with laughter.

And Janis could already feel herself shuddering as the throbbing between her legs grew stronger and stronger. Janis had been having a wonderful time tickling the bound Morgana—there was something about sweet revenge that was so powerfully arousing, and not to mention the fact that Morgana was a very alluring woman with that dark hair and those captivating eyes of hers. And shit, that tongue of hers… it was like the craziest, most ticklish foot worship session she had ever had multiple by a thousand. And there was more. Everywhere that the saliva touched, Janis’s skin seemed to grow warmer as it trickled across her bare feet. And the saliva seemed thicker than normal spit would be.

“You’re noticing, aren’t you?” Morgana said as she switched feet. “My ‘venom’ is making you even more sensitive…” When Morgana stroked a finger down the foot she had just finished licking, the truth of her words hit Janis like a train. As Janis’s other foot was set aflame by that long, roving tongue, Morgana over fingers danced across the hypersensitive foot. She didn’t need to concentrate her efforts too much on that that foot—a simple scrabbling of nails up and down the slick, soft foot was enough to drive Janis wild with laughter. It was clear Morgana’s attention was clearly focused on using her mind-numbingly effective tongue to its full utility. She took care to slide her long tongue through the gaps of every single one of Janis’s blue-painted toed so not a spot would be spared from being slathered in her sizzling saliva. And when she was finally finished, she licked her lips, then quickly spidered her fingers up and down both feet at once.

“I know you’re loving this, you little tickleslut,” Morgana said with a giggle, “so I wonder, can you get an orgasm just from? I don’t know if it’s possible, but let’s make an honest attempt at it, shall we?” On that, she dug her fingers fiercely into both feet. She scratched her nails deep into Janis’s arches, wriggled her nails through the gaps between those pedicured toes, and raked her nails across the fleshy balls of her foot.

The other girls were doing their best to drive Morgana mad with such sensual tickling as well. Lee was demonstrating her tremendous capacity to multitask with a three-pronged attack—her mouth was nibbling and licking away on the big toe of Morgana’s right foot, one hand with sliding a feather against the thighs, and the other hand was squeezing along the knee cap. Taylor had picked up a pair of toothbrushes and was scrubbing away with gusto. Those perky nipples were an obvious target, though Taylor made sure to brush circles around them as well. She had her pick of sensitive spots on the torso, so every now and then, she would send a toothbrush to Morgana’s stomach or an armpit as well, which from the witch’s tear-stained cheeks must have been effective.

After a while, as Janis’s pale feet began to redden from insistent scratching, Morgana realised her goal would likely forever remain out of reach. “Wouldn’t be fair to just leave those sensitive tootsies all alone, though,” Morgana said with a giggle and she pointed at some feathers on the tray of tickle tools on the table. Those feathers floated open in the air and made a beeline for Janis’s feet while Morgana strutted her way to Janis’s torso.

Janis’s feet were still hypersensitive from the stimulating effect of that saliva, so the feathers were more than enough to keep her laughing steadily. And there were half a dozen of them eagerly feathering away. Some were fluffy, some were stiff, some were white and some were grey, but all of them tickled madly on Janis’s spots. They could dust all over her feet with light swiping touches, twirl through wiggling blue-painted toes, or slide up and down those damp arches with quick strokes. It all worked, and the soft, light kiss of those feathers felt like a giggly massage to the punky girl, a massage which did some turbulent things to her tingling womanhood.

Her womanhood was further agitated when Morgana’s tongue starting slipping under Janis’s sleeves to get her armpits. Like before, where the tongue went felt feverish, the skin heating up and becoming more sensitive to subsequent touches. And Janis had never felt anything like Morgana’s long tongue circling and stroking away in one armpit then the other. She jumped and bounced on the table as much as her bonds allowed while the longing in her legs grew and grew. She wanted to scream when Morgana’s long fingernails began tracing along her breasts, her fingers someone reaching through the fabric so she could acutely feel every single flick and stroke.

Morgana leaned in close, her tongue brushing against Janis’s ear for a moment, “Having fun, dear?” As she spoke, her fingers phased through Morgana leaned in close, her tongue brushing against Janis’s ear for a moment, “Having fun, dear?” As she spoke, her fingers phased through Janis’s undergarments once more so she could give her hard dark nipples a quick teasing pinch.

Janis was torn between admitting yes and shaking her head because of how it wasn’t nearly enough. She eventually went with the latter, which prompted Morgana to chuckle. “Not enough for you, huh?” And on that note, her fingers started raking hard into Janis’s slick and smooth armpits while the feathers at her feet sped up their attack, almost like she was being attacked by a plague of tiny birds. Again and again they ran between her toes or through her arches. Again and again Morgana pressed her fingers deep into the soft, silky flesh of Janis’s underarms and dug. And just when the tickling was finally driving her to the point of pure bliss… it stopped.

Taylor found herself gagged and in Janis’s spot from before. Janis wailed and looked like she wanted to punch someone. Lee gave her an understanding pat on the shoulder and passed her a hairbrush, with one already in the Asian girl’s hand. The real Morgana shook her head, pleading comprehensible syllables into the gag, but those two girls had been teased far too much for mercy. They both took a foot each, pulled those long, black-painted toenails back, and began brushing those ferocious bristles fiercely across each sole.

“Hey, cutie,” the other Morgana said the bound blonde in front of her. The ghost shifted her weight from foot to foot, but that seemed to her only physical concession to the speedy scrubbing that was being inflicted on her ticklish bare feet. What was her secret? Taylor wondered. Her sharp eyes shifted over to where Janis and Lee were diligently working away with the plastic-tipped hairbrushes—well, it was more than diligence spurring them on.  Was there some way that Morgana was repressing the sensations in that body to prevent from transferring to her ghostly form? Unfortunately, it became difficult to focus on metaphysical matters of souls and spirits when the other Morgana grinned at her and lifted up a hand. Morgana’s black fingernails were about half an inch long, but she wiggled her fingers and those nails suddenly lengthened till they were several inches long—long talons which would be harrowing for any ticklish girl like Taylor to endure. And Morgana wasted no time getting started right away on her long, tanned feet with these new nails of hers. They slashed and scythed up and down Taylor’s feet in long, unhurried motions. She knew she had all the time in the world to torment Taylor’s slender, flawless feet.

She was wrong, however, Taylor realised as she spied movement out of the corner of her eye. She willed herself not to respond, not to react, even when those long, evil fingernails began scratching under her sparkling gold toes, right along her silver toe rings.

In a surprising feat of athleticism that Taylor would never have expected from her more sedentary friends, Janis and Lee suddenly tackled Morgana—they had completely ignored the ‘real’ Morgana who was gasping on the table in favour of a newer target. Morgana seemed as taken aback as she was quickly tickled to the floor. Janis had jumped onto her back with two hands plunging wildly into each armpit as Morgana tried to rise. After a few attempts, Morgana’s arms shook, wobbled and crashed down. Lee sat across Morgana’s bare calves to further secure the squirming and shouting witch in place, and her fingers were soon flying across Morgana’s pale, shapely feet to try to distract her from any attempts at escape with more fierce tickling.

As Morgana shrieked and squealed, Taylor found the shackles that bound her to that black table starting to fade away—they were smoking, almost like they were the last vestiges of a cigarette fast being consumed. And before long, she was free and very eager for revenge.

“Nice work, girls,” Taylor said over the shouting whoops of Morgana’s laughter. “I brought you guys some gifts for all your hard work.” She showed them the tray of tickle tools, and they both exchanged quick high fees. Lee scooted up to sit on Morgana’s ankles with a wooden fork in hand that she eagerly out to work under and between Morgana’s black painted toes. Taking advantage of the new spot that was open to her, Taylor took a few feathers to see if Morgana’s bare behind and thighs were sensitive to them—the answer was yes.

Janis, whom Taylor believed had been most slighted but the sensual tickling, was scrubbing away in those armpits with a toothbrush, and she was saying something to Morgana as she did so. Janis’s voice was too low and Morgana’s laughter was too loud, but Taylor had seen enough trash talking on the tennis courts to recognise the smug look of a victor on her friend’s face.

Morgana writhed beneath them, slapped her hands on the stony ground or tried to make attempts to tickle them with her hands, but Taylor noticed that not once did she beg them to stop. When she did talk, it was that of the observational variety, a “thahahahat tihihickles sohoho much!”, a “wohohow, my tohohohohoes!” or “hohoholy shit thahaht bruhuhsh!”

All these reactions plus the fact that Morgana had displayed an abundance of otherworldly powers sent a shiver down Taylor’s spine. Sure, they were winning right now. But was this a true victory or a feigned one? Were they only winning because Morgana was letting them?

Taylor got her answer when suddenly Morgana was no longer there—they were sitting on the ground, tickling nothing but air with their tools. Morgana floated above them, smiling.

“Well, that was a fun change of pace,” Morgana said, her eyes glowing green and then a feral yellow. “What, you guys didn’t really think you had me beaten, did you? Oops, psych.”

Fear blossomed on the faces of Lee, Janis, and Taylor. They took a step back as Morgana hovered above them.

“I never got finished with you,” Morgana pointed at Taylor and a stone crucifix sprouted from the ground with the blonde girl bound to it. Stone hands grew and began wriggling at armpit, ribs, and feet.

“Shihihihit!” Taylor wailed.

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” Morgana nodded at Janis. “I like the way you think.” Stony hands shot out from the ground and grabbed Janis by the ankles. The hands lifted her up in the air till she was dangling upside down. “Of course, I like the way you laugh more.” Vines and vegetation sprouted from the cracks in the stones to swarm over Janis’s feet till she was laughing as hard as Taylor. Some of those naughty tendrils wandered along her thighs and belly and armpits as well.

“Yohohoho’re such a tehehehease!” Janis shouted as her shook from the ticklish stimulation.

“And don’t worry, I ahven’t forgotten you, honey,” Morgana said as a fresh batch of stony hands grabbed Lee by the ankles and spread them till she was almost doing the splits. Smaller hands about the size of pennies swarmed over her feet, knees and thighs. “Anyway, I promised you guys anad interview, so feel free to ask me any questions you like.”

When the only sound that greeted her was more raucous laughter, Morgana shrugged with an aloof smile on her face. “Come, come, my dearies, don’t be shy! If you have anything you want to know at all, ask away! I’m happy to answer any queries you may have. Want to know how I became a ghost? What powers I have? How many celebrities of course I’ve tickled? Ask and ye shall receive!”

Taylor tried to ask, but the big hands at her smooth, sensitive armpits scrabbled harder to choke off her words.

Janis tried to ask, but the vines at her bare, creamy thighs teased her and teased till she was close to drooling.

Lee tried to ask, but the tiny hands had lodged themselves in her stocking-clad feet, and they refused to leave her toes alone.

“Nothing? Really?” Morgana’s eyes went from girl to girl as she grinned. “I thought your newspaper people would be very curious. Well, then I’ll have to tickle you till you can think of something! Cootchie cootchie coo, my darlings!"

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Morgana's Mansion: A Tickle Horror-Comedy, Part 2

At the edge of dawn, a ringing phone alarm blared in the girls’ hotel room. Two of the girls stirred, while one continued to appear dead to the world. Janis yawned, swept a fringe of bright blue hair out of her face and turned off her phone alarm. Lee was blinking herself awake. Her petite frame wandered to the bathroom where the Chinese girl quickly made herself presentable.

“Taylor isn’t up yet, huh?” Lee said as she came out a few moments later with wet tousled hair and a toothbrush in her mouth.

“Let’s give her another few minutes till we bust out the big guns.”

The two girls quickly changed into their accustomed attire. Lee was perennially prim and professional, and she wore a white short-sleeved blouse, a navy-blue skirt, black nylon stockings, and her brown oxfords, with her long black hair bound back in a studious bun. Janis preferred a more laidback, goth look, so she wore a black t-shirt to go with ripped black jeans and her black boots—as always, her blue hair and blue nails were the only things that were not monochromatic on her.

Even after both girls had finished straightening their hair and lacing up their boots, Taylor continued to slumber in bed in the oversized t-shirt that served as her pyjamas. Janis shook the blonde girl roughly by the shoulders, yet she still slept on, dead to the world.

“You wanna bet she’s just faking it?” Lee said.

“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Janis has a mischievous glint in her eye. She went over to the foot of the bed where Taylor’s feet were hidden beneath the snug duvet. The university tennis team captain slept without socks, so when Janis pulled back the covers they saw the pair of tanned, long bare feet, adorned with sparking gold toenail polish and a pair of silver toe rings on the second toes of both feet. Taylor slept on her back, so the feet were upright and ready. The two feet were huddled together, with the left foot covering the right foot, almost as if in protection for what it subconsciously must have sensed was coming.

“Wakey wakey, Taylor,” Janis said in a sing-song voice as she used her index finger to skate from heel to toe. Taylor had only just gotten a pedicure the other day, so her feet were as pampered as they had ever been, so soft Janis almost felt like they were tickling her fingers as she brushed up and down them. “Give me a hand, Lee.”

With Lee adding her finger to the mix, the two teasing fingers were starting to make the sleeping girl giggle in her sleep. Her toes were starting to wiggle and flex as the girls’ long fingernails brushed past them. A smile was starting to form on Taylor’s voice. “Tired of pretending to sleep yet, Taylor?” Janis asked, but the blonde girl made no response.

“Guess she must want us to tickle her more,” Lee said in a voice that was all innocent.

“Must be that.”

Taylor’s feet had spread apart during their last bout of wiggling, so Janis and Lee repositioned themselves around one foot each. They both used only their index fingers to see how much they could do before Taylor either woke up or decided the end this charade of being such a heavy sleeper.

Lee positioned her fingers at Taylor’s high arch. She stroked them up and down the arch like a pendulum, with one fingernail dragging up the foot as the other nail went down it. The arch kept wrinkling and unwrinkling in response to this constant up down motion teasing her sensitive soft arch.

Janis decided she wanted to play with Taylor’s flexing toes. She knew from extensive personal experience that the gap between the toes was so often a sweet spot because of how protected it tended to be, so her goal was to tease that spot on Taylor’s long, immaculate feet as much as possible. Her tickling was much less steady and constant as Lee’s persistent, tireless attack on the arch. She was much more stop and go, poke and leave. The toes would constantly be curling and wiggling from the onslaught on her other foot, so Janis would simply would till the toes opened for her to sneak a few quick finger strokes along those fleshy undersides. Then, she would wait for that spot to open again, and hit another spot around the toes. And if she ever grew too impatient, she knew all she had to do was flick her fingers across the soft pads to get those toes to burst open like ripe, ticklish fruit.

Taylor was breathing heavily now, chortling with soft laughter.

“Fun as this is, I think we really need to go soon,” Lee said. She shifted up and sat on Taylor’s ankle.

“Agreed.” Janis did the same. They looked at each other and at the same time, scribbled all ten of their fingernails across Taylor’s trapped feet. Twenty fingers ravaging across her hypersensitive feet were far more than a girl as ticklish as Taylor could stand, and she flew upright, wailing with laughter.

“Good morning, Taylor!” Lee and Taylor said in unison as their fingers continued to scrabble across her wiggling and flapping bare feet. “Ready to wake up?”

The two girls kept it up for a while longer before Taylor managed to twist her feet from under them. Taylor curled up on her body in the foetal position, still laughing as she rubbed away the lingering sensations on her soles. “Better than an alarm clock, huh? C’mon, let’s get moving.”

“I hope you girls know… this means war,” Taylor said, with her hair a dishevelled mess. “Revenge will be mine!”

“If you can wake up on earlier than us tomorrow, I say you perfectly deserve to tickle the shit out of us,” Janis said.

“What do you mean ‘us’?” Lee said, frowning. “I didn’t agree to this!”

All three girls laughed, Taylor headed to the washroom, and in twenty minutes, the girls set off for the manor of Morgana Lafey.

O-O-O

After they took a bus and trekked up a hill for about twenty minutes, Taylor complaining all the while about wearing her flip flops instead of her tennis trainers, the three university students had arrived. Lee manned the camera as they went for a nice wide shot of Morgana Lafey’s manor. Outside the manor there was a sign which read, “NO TRESPAPSSING, TRESPASSERS WILL GET THE SHIT TICKLED OUT OF THEM IF THEY’RE CUTE OR PELTED WITH DUNG IF THEY ARE NOT. WITH THE EXCEPTION OF GIRL SCOUTS. I LOVE COOKIES. THIS IS NOT A TRAP. SIGNED, MORGANA LAFEY.”

That strange sign aside, the manor was not exactly what came to mind when one thought of a haunted house. In fact, it looked so jarring that Lee was almost worried it would not be taken seriously if they were to publish it in their article. The manor was massive and sprawling, and it looked like it might contain half a hundred rooms, but it was painted a gaudy pink, for instance, though much of it had faded over time so it was more a faint peach pink that the hot pink it must have been at its inception. Vines and moss splattered some of it, but it looks worryingly like a sorority house. The rusted gates were open and welcoming, though the statues of naked women being tickled by stony fingers built into the main pillars of the gate were considerably more ominous.

“Pretty tacky,” Lee said, patting on of the women on the head as they walked past.

“You take that right back,” said a mysterious voice from behind them. “Those statues cost me an arm and leg to commission.”

“Morgana Lafey,” Janis said with a gasp.

The witch was far prettier in person than in the faded old portraits they had found, though perhaps it wasn’t that fair to use the phrase ‘in person’ when you were looking at a ghost. She had dark brown hair that tumbled to her shoulders, powerful green eyes, and pale skin, though they have just appeared pale because everything about her was tinged in a faint blue glow. Morgana wore long-sleeved black robes which cut off mid-thigh, and she was barefoot with long, black-painted nails. From the lack of sound her footsteps made on the leaves at their feet, she was floating instead of walking. 

“Sup,” she said, “so you three are the university girls, here to write an article on me. I’m awfully flattered.”

“You, you are?” Janis said, a reluctant smile spreading across her face. “That’s great. We’d love an interview with you. What’s it like being a ghost?”

“Not too bad. There’s some prejudice, some discrimination, but it has its perks. You’re Janis, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“I know everything that happens in my town. Did you guys enjoy the little obstacles I threw at your little quest?”

“That was you?” Lee said, gasping. “I know there was something spooky going on!”

“Oh, don’t be so gauche, Lee. I know you’re pissy because of how much I teased you in that library, but you must agree, it makes things much more rewarding if you have to work a bit harder to get what you want.”

“So, what now?” Taylor said. “Are you going to try to steal our souls?”

Morgana shook her head. “I’m much more interested in ticklish soles, as you’ve probably gathered. I’ll let you three enter my humble home, write some notes, take a few souvenirs, snap a few selfies, do whatever you like. But you’ll remain my guests until you can complete this challenge I set for you—revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“I’m the one responsible for your tickling earlier. You naturally want revenge, no? My real body is somewhere in that house—perfectly preserved of course, as it’d be no fun to tickle skeleton. Show me a good tickling, and you can walk out of here.”

“What’s stopping us from walking out now?” Lee demanded, and as soon as she had finished talking, the metal gates clanged shut.

“Trust me, I have the power to fuck you up in a thousand different ways, so try not to tempt me.” Morgana gave them all a sweet smile. “Alright, good luck.”

She disappeared as the doors of the manor opened wide and invitingly.

Lee groaned. “What’ve we gotten ourselves into...”

“The scoop of our lives?” Taylor said. “Seriously, we just spoke to a ghost!”

“She didn’t sound like someone from the 18th Century,” Janis observed.

“Well, maybe she’s one of those hip old ladies who keeps up to date with the times,” Taylor said.

“Did you just fucking call me old?” screeched Morgana’s voice out of nowhere, and suddenly Taylor disappeared in a puff of blue smoke.

“Dude, what the fuck!” Janis exclaimed. She swatted at the smoke where her friend had been, but Taylor was gone. “She called you hip as well! Come on!”

“Don’t sass me, girl!” said the disembodied voice once more, and Janis too disappeared.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Lee said, suddenly finding herself all alone. “Did you kill them? Where are they?”

“Chillax, girl. I just sent them to different rooms in the manor. Be kinda boring if they all stuck together, anyway. Goes against the spirit of the whole haunted house thing. Have you never seen any horror movies?”

“You’re joking! That’s so cheating!”

“Fo’ shure. Now you better a movie on. Maybe you’ll get lucky and you’ll run into them inside after a few rooms.”

With nothing else that could be done, Lee trudged inside, her shoes clacking on the wooden floorboard. The heavy pink door swung shut behind her.

O-O-O

Janis had never felt more like a suckling pig in her life.

She had woken up in some dim corridor, with only faint sunlight drifting through the edges of the curtains to light her way. She pushed open the varnished wooden door to the next room, and in a flash, a blindfold had been whisked over her eyes, and she had been grabbed, spun around, bound up, and carted away elsewhere. It didn’t make a lick of sense, but nothing in this manor seemed to make much sense.

And now, here she was with an apple roughly shoved into her mouth, her wrists bound behind her back, and her ankles propped up through some kind of chute. She was flat on her back on something soft and fuzzy with her legs straight up into something firm and unyielding—she couldn’t pull her feet out nor shift them around at all. And with the blindfold on, she saw nothing, but she heard a persistent clink and clang of metal on some kind of hard surface, the low murmur and laughter of conversation, and there was an unmistakably aromatic smell wafting throughout the room. Her toes were tied together by something silky, possibly a ribbon, but she couldn’t work out anything more about her bizarre situation. It sounded like she was at some kind of dinner party, but that didn’t make any sense! Who were the people talking in the room? More ghosts?

Luckily, Morgana Lafey came to clue her in on what was going on before long.

“And how is my pièce de résistance?”  Morgana said as she sidled up beside the bound and gagged girl. “Comfortable?” She gave a little giggle. “Your tasty little feet are going to be the star attraction at my party tonight, dear. Thanks so much for volunteering!”

There was the sound of a cover before removed from a dish, and suddenly Janis felt cool air and warm light bearing down on her pale, bare soles, a second before metal prongs began tracing across her feet. She wailed in her gag a one, two, three, five, seven, she lost count soon after as too many forks began scraping their cold metal tines across her feet. She felt like some kind of morsel being poked and prodded at, like a cheeky child playing with her food.

And those forks were teasing, their mysterious wielders using them with consummate skill as they glided all over Janis’s captive feet. Forks were the kind of tools that needed to be used with care, Janis knew from her own in-depth experimentations, if you applied too much force, they ceased to tickle and began to hurt, which might be what some people were after, but that wasn’t really her fetish.

These mysterious dinner guests of Morgana’s seemed to understand stand that, and they would drag the fork lightly across the expanse of her bare feet, occasionally adding in little wrist turns so there was a bit of kneading of flesh in addition to the scratching. Her tender arches always had forks stroking away at them, as did her plump blue-painted toes, which must have looked like ripe blueberries to them, as they kept poking away at them as if they wanted to spear them. These spots were well-covered, but the other forks were equally devastating in her less-frequented tickling areas. She would never have imagined the tops of her feet were so vulnerable to the light touches like this, nor the sides of her wide feet, even her yellowish heel, which by all accounts was the least sensitive spot on her feet.

All these spots were plumbed for every scrap of ticklish laughter, like the most diligent of eaters devouring every inch of food on their plate till it was spotless.  And thanks to the ribbon binding her toes together, Janis’s feet weren’t going anywhere.

Janis shrieked, but the apple in her mouth was forced in with tape, and she could do nothing but wiggle her body about on the carpeted floor as forks picked away at their favourite spots on her chunky feet to make her squeal.

“Why do you keep wiggling towards me, huh?” Morgana said with a giggle. “I’ll have you know I’m usually not that kind of lady… but maybe I’ll make an exception just this once.” As the forks continued to dance across her bare feet, Morgana sent her long fingernails scurrying on the back of Janis’s knees, tickling through the thin fabric of her black jeans. She went all the way along the thighs till she got at the point where they met the hips, dangerously close to Janis’s womanhood.

A chuckling Morgana kept this up till Janis felt an ominous tingle between her legs, and then, pandemonium. Janis surged forward, shaking her head so wildly her blue hair slapped backed and forth like a whip. All the forks had suddenly disappeared and were replaced by marauding hands. Some hands were gloved in velvet, some hands were bare, some hands had long cruel fingernails, some hands were rough and callused, but what they all had in common is they tickled like hell, and they had been paying close attention to all the spots on her poor feet. There had been about ten or so forks teasing her feet, and it became apparent that each fork had been wielded by one person, as Janis felt close to a hundred fingers now on her bare feet.

They had pulled the stringy ribbon binding her big toes away, and that should have been a cause for celebration, but no, it just meant they could her feet away from each other so they had more space to operate. Certain spots had been spared because of how her feet had been tied to each other, like the inner sides of her feet, for instance, but no longer.

Strong hands pulled her toes back to keep her twitching foot in place—not to mention to make it easier to feast on the bounty of sensitive spots around her stubby toes, and all the other fingers fought over the choice dishes of ticklishness on her quivering feet. Sometimes they would hit the same spot and cancel each other out, but even if a hand or two was ineffectual, there were still plenty of others to pick up the slack.

The swarm of fingers scampering all over her feet was far too much for Janis to stand. There wasn’t a spot on her foot that those fingers weren’t tormenting—not one.

“My guests are so uncouth, aren’t they?” Morgana whispered in her ear. “It’s so uncivilised to eat with your hands. I’ll go have a word with them.”

Morgana stood up, leaving Janis to suck air frantically through her nose as she tried to get her breathing under control, as well as ease the throbbing between her legs. After a few seconds, the hands disappeared, and Janis managed a sigh of relief.

It turned out to be a premature one, though, as moments later, tongues began lapping along her feet. Her feet twisted in alarm, but there was nowhere to go. Janis had experience the joy of foot worship on occasion, and she had always adored how the ticklishness of her own feet coupled with the innate sensuality of it made it such an enjoyable experience. But that was too much! The ten or so tongues crawling over her feet, not caring if they touched each other, was overpowering. And the insistent tingle of her womanhood was getting strong and stronger as the tongues slathered her feet in saliva. Her feet flapped and wiggled as best they could, sometimes brushing against a bristly beard or a few strands of hair, but the tongues were tireless. And after letting her feet squirm around for a bit, a pair of mouths claimed her big toes to not only unleash a shuddering groan from the girl, but keep her feet trapped in place for the other tongues to do their business.

Janis’s eyes were starting to roll back as she felt a pair of talented tongues suckle her littlest toes as well. That was when Morgana suddenly returned to her side once more, giggling.  

“There, now isn’t that much better? My guests wish to pass their compliments to your delicious feet, by the way… and they say they can’t wait for their second course!”

Janis gasped at the tongues suddenly disappeared all at once. A lock of blue hair was clinging to her damp forehead as she panted and panted. She only had a moment to brace herself before the forks returned.

“And they’re very eager to get started!” Morgana said as Janis wailed in ticklish frustration.

O-O-O

The next room smelled surprisingly clean for a musty, grimy old manor.

Taylor has woken up in some dark, foreboding corridor. She could hear the steady trickle of water, so she followed it a room nearby, turning a brass door knob to gain entry. As she took her first step in the dimly-lit room, Taylor’s flip flops stepped right into a puddle, the cold water sloshing over her bare feet. She wasn’t sure what she would call a room like this—it was the manor’s bathroom, that was apparent from the sinks, the half-empty bottles of perfume, and the white tiles everywhere.

But to call it a bathroom gave no credit to its scale. The grand tub in the centre of the room was sunk into the ground, and it was almost a small swimming pool, with a dozen brass taps pumping water into it. The taps seemed to be working, somehow, as the room was quickly filling with steam. It was more a bathhouse of sort, Taylor decided. She spied fresh towels lying on a hook beside the door, and she suddenly become very aware of how sweaty she was from her exertions. She was sure she had picked up some of the dirt and dust from the place just by being in it.

“This is a trap, isn’t it?” Taylor said aloud, not truly expecting a reply.

“Totally, yo,” said a voice from the far corner of the tub. And to her surprise, Morgana Lafey was there, naked and bathed in a ghostly blue glow. She had her pale, slender arms propped up against the edge as her legs make cycling motions in the water. “The only question is if you’re going to jump in, or if you’re going to need to be thrown in.”

Taylor mulled over those words and kicked off her flip flops before beginning to strip off her clothing. Well, if it was going to happen anyway, she might as well try to make the most of it. She dunked her head in the warm waters and sighed. It was the perfect tonic after all her hardships.

“When’s the last time you had a bubble bath?” Morgana said as she tossed some bath salts into the tub. “They really are quite nice.”

“I didn’t know bubble baths were around in the 18th century,” Taylor said as she allowed her entire body to submerged in the soothing waters. “I always thought they were a rather modern invention.”

“How dare you!” Morgana scowled with mock outrage. “Are you accusing me of being anachronistic?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure what that means. Something to do with time?”

“It means you’re being a cheeky girl,” Morgana said with a wide smile, “and cheeky girls get punished in Lafey Manor.”

“You were just waiting for any excuse to tickle me, weren’t you?”

“Possibly.” Morgana snapped her fingers. “And the brass taps at the sides of the tub suddenly reared wrapped around Taylor’s wrists and ankles like handcuffs. They slowly pulled her body until everything taut and spread. She ended up in a position where she was half in the water and half out. Her bum and womanhood remained in the water along with most of her legs, though her bare ended up sticking out, as well as most of her upper torso, from the middle of her ribcage to her shoulders.

Morgana came swimming over, with a bar of soap in her hand. “Don’t worry, I plan on tickling you. I just wouldn’t want to dirty my lovely nails on anything dirty.”

“Aren’t you a ghost? How would the dirt cling to you? Aren’t you, like, transparent?”

“For your insolence, I’m gonna give you an extra thorough scrubbing.” Morgana gave the bottom of Taylor’s nearest foot a slap. The sole was a noticeably paler than the tanned tops and legs that preceded it. “Especially on those cute toe rings of yours.  Don’t worry, I won’t stop till the metal is gleaming!”

Taylor groaned. “No fair.”

“Get used to it, honey. Even the laws of physics don’t play fair in my house.” She rubbed the soap around in her hands for a while as good thick lather built up before rubbing it across Taylor’s bare feet.

As she rubbed the soap into her feet, Taylor sat back and sighed with contentment. It felt rather like a foot massage, and those were always appreciated. Things would not stay this pleasant for long, she knew. Once the long, tanned feet were covered with the thick, soapy bubbles and smelling like daisies, Morgana held up a single, long, sharp fingernail and began stroking at the center of Taylor’s arches, the left foot for a stroke, then the right foot for a stroke, back and forth, back and forth. The metal taps that had wrapped around Taylor’s toned limbs like vines clanked and creaked as the university tennis star tried to break free, but they proved sturdy as Taylor quivered with burbling laughter.

“Hmm.” Morgana changed up her approach, using all ten of those long, pointed nails to rake up and down Taylor’s tanned feet. With her feet trapped in place, all Taylor could do was try to clench her toes shut to defend the soapy onslaught on her soles, but before long, it would always become too much to take, and her digits would spring open to allow those wicked nails to scratch under and between the toes with ease. “not a bad reaction, but we can do better, can’t we?”

She stared coating Taylor’s squirming feet in a fresh layer of suds as the university girl panted like she had just finished a five-set thriller.

Morgana swam forward till she was beside Taylor, who was starting to sweat all over again. “Hey, do you see those things over there?” She put an arm around Taylor’s tense shoulders as if they were buddies. When Taylor saw the pair of wooden scrub brushes, she shook her head.

“No, no, no!”

“Oh, so you don’t see them? I’ll bring ‘em closer.” Morgana beckoned and the scrub brushes flew through the air to hover an inch away from the slick and soaped-up soles of the super-ticklish Taylor. The brushes were big, chunky things, about the size of Taylor’s hand, and they looked like they would be very capable of inflicting a high amount of ticklish damage. And Taylor was right as the brushes picked up speed as they skated up and down her feet, making the blonde girl throw her head back and howl with laughter.

Whistling an infuriating casual tone, Morgana picked the soap back up and swam back to Taylor’s midsection. “You look like you do a lot of sports, eh? Your armpits must reek of BO afterwards. But don’t worry, I got the perfect thing for you, honey.”

A pair of wooden-handled, thick shaving brushes appeared behind her. Taylor’s eyes grew wide.

“Let's see how you like these brushes, sweetie. Last boy I had in here, oh, we had such fun with these brushes and his ticklish little cock.” Morgana shivered then smiled. “Let's see how you like them in your armpits. After we get the surface nice and soapy, of course.” Even rubbing that soapy lather into her armpits proved to be a ticklish affair, to the extent Taylor wasn't sure how she would possibly handle the shaving brushes when they started 'cleaning' her underarms. The answer was that she didn't handle them. She screamed and shook with wild abandon as the wet bristles slid across slick and oh so sensitive skin. They weren't as large as the scrub brushes rampaging across her soles, but that was the only good thing that could be said about them. 

Her body must have been tormented by hundreds if not thousands of these tiny bristles, each one eliciting their own harrowing ticklish response on her slippery, soaped-up skin. The only consolation was her sensitive navel was submerged in the warm, bubbly bathwater, so she should escape a cleaning of her belly button, but that was it.

“What are you thinking, darling?” Morgana asked with a finger on her chin, “clean enough?”

“Yehehehes! Yehes, yes, yehehehehes!”

“You know, I get the feeling you’re lying. You don’t really think that. You’re just trying to be nice to spare my feelings.” Morgana gave Taylor a belittling pat on the head. “I appreciate that, but I am a perfectionist! We’re gonna do this right! For instance, I just don't think I'm doing a good enough job over here.” Morgana swam over to where the scrub brushes were working tirelessly away at Taylor’s feet. Much of the arches were already tickled pink. “I promised I’d get those lovely rings of yours squeaky clean! These big brushes just aren’t capable of giving your toes a good enough service, are they?”

Taylor squeaked at the sight of two more of those accursed shaving brushes flying towards her toes, where they immediately set to worth swirling over the tips and tops of those shiny gold-painted toenails. She begged and pleaded with the witch that she was doing a fine job, that her feet were definitely clean enough, but the witch just tutted as she went to work. The brushes would do the cleaning by themselves as they floated in the air propelled by some mysterious magic, but Morgana would pluck a pair of them out of the air and opt for a hands-on approach.

“Awww, you’re looking a bit worn-out. One more cleaning spot, and I’ll leave you to it, I promise.” Morgana gave Taylor a wink as she reached for the soap once more.

Great, Taylor thought. Knowing her luck, it would be those hellish brushes in her navel. She was wrong however, when Morgana began lathering up her bountiful breasts and nipples. She gaped in shock—or she would have, if she weren’t laughing so hard.

A bit of sensual rubbing of the soap lather later, Taylor arched her back as the soft bristles of the shaving brush flicked across her rapidly hardening nipples. The blonde girl gnashed her teeth as those brushes swirled circles all over her highly sensitive orbs, especially those prominent pink points of her nipples.

Before long, Taylor was grinding her hips and more than a little grateful her submerged womanhood must be concealing her wetness. And yet the all-abating tickling continued undaunted, any hopes of an orgasm impossible from her ticklish distress.

Morgana must have known, the consummate tease, Taylor thought. The cruel witch was just pretending not to notice as she flitted from spot to spot, re-applying soapy lather on those fun cleaning spots. Only after Taylor was so flushed and hot she felt like her body was aflame did the witch stop, with orgasm a hair’s breadth away.

“Clean enough, I say. Gtg. Have fun with your shower.” Morgana disappeared with a parting wave, and the taps that held her limbs shrank away. Taylor panted and gasped, her hand hovering over her throbbing womanhood. Well, there was only one sane thing to do now…

O-O-O

Lee’s brown oxford shoes clacked on the creaking floorboards as she made her way along the narrow corridor, her heart beating hard in her chest. There was a crystal chandelier above her head with candles that provided a dim light, yet the small Asian girl still found herself jumping and flinching at every sound. At any other team, she might have been drawn to the fine oil paintings of landscapes, at the dusty busts of long-dead figures, or at the moth-eaten tapestries hanging from the walls.

What was going on here? The hyperrational Chinese girl was struggling to corroborate the strange occurrences at this manor with the world of logic she had known so well. And now she was alone, alone in the queer place. She hoped her friends were doing better than she was…

It was as all these doubts and fears were sweeping through her mind that Lee’s right foot must have stepped on a rotten plank of wood, as her right leg suddenly swept through. She yelped, and for a half a heartbeat, she feared she might tumble through to an untimely death. But it soon became clear that the hole was only large enough for one small foot to fall through, not her entire body.

She would have breathed a huge sigh of relief, if not for the fact something strong and pincer-like had just gripped her by the ankle. She tugged and tugged using her hands for leverage, but her trapped right foot would not budge.

“Yeah, you know what they say about old houses,” said a voice from behind her. She spun and suddenly the witch herself, Morgana Lafey was behind her. The witch shone with a ghostly blue translucence as she sat with her back propped against the wall, barefoot and smiling. “You know, I’ve called people to try to come and take a look at the house, but no one seems to want to take the job. Whatever happened to professionalism, eh? They must have stopped making honest workers in my time.”

“My foot…”

“What’s that?” Morgana smiled. “You really must watch your step, my dear. After all, I might have some critters dwelling in my humble home.”

Lee gasped and bit on her lower lip as she felt something playing with her trapped foot. It felt like a scaled, clawed hand. She felt her shoe plop out and fall away, leaving her foot alone with only the thin fabric of her black stockings for protection. And they proved capable of very little protection at all.

Rough fingers began to wriggle against her soft sole, which caused Lee to try to kick her feet free, but the wooden hole had somehow closed around her knee, leaving her foot trapped from the shin down. She pursed her lips together, giggles already starting to spurt free as she felt something smaller, about the size of a shoelace snake up her foot to slide in between her toes to tickle them through her nylon stockings. Lee balled her finger into fists as she felt the tickling start to increase. Just what was down there? There was definitely more than one, and she could hear a low rumble that must have been them talking to each other.

“Yeah, you can probably tell I have a bit of a reptile problem,” Morgana said. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. It’s on my to-do list after world peace, abolish all pornography, and get a commission from oneortheother.”

That was one riddle unravelled, which might have been good for Lee’s mind, but it did no favours for her body, which was at the mercy of whatever Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were tickling the shit out of her feet with what must have been their fingers and tails.

There were five fingers spidering away at her heels and arches, but the real damage was being done by the tail that was tormenting her petite, red-painted toes. That nimble, quick, slender thing proved to be especially bothersome. Lee tried to use her toes to grab the rough thing with her toes, but it always evaded her clumsy attempts at capture, and it would always launch a fierce counter attack, darting around the other way to stroke the base of her toes or along their quivering tips.

After a while, one of the hands tugged at the toe of the stockings and pulled them down towards the ground to force her foot straight. Lee would never have imagined her own nylons could be used against her. It was so cruel to be betrayed by her own socks. Her own stocking was being used to imprison her right foot to keep it in place for the brutal tickling that was inflicted upon it, as bad as ropes around each toe. Her foot twisted and strained and tried to get free, but she didn’t dare try too hard lest she end up ripping her stockings—her feet were ludicrously ticklish even in stockings, but bare foot? She wouldn’t have a chance at all at keeping composure, she feared…

Yet before long, as Lee shrieked and squealed, it became apparent that the tail was trying especially hard to worm between her toes, which would mean that the fabric of her nylons would… rip. There was a small hole at the gap between big toe and second toe at first, but the tail went scurrying inside straight away to get at the creamy flesh of her bare foot, without even the scant resistance her stockings had offers her.

Fingers quickly joined the tail, and before long, Lee’s stocking was reduced to shreds, and her foot was bare and completely exposed as the creatures ravished it with tough fingers and rough scratchy tails.  She pounded and slammed the wooden floorboards as Morgana sat there smirking at her.

As fingers began questing through the gaps between all her terribly ticklish toes at once, Lee found a fresh reserve of strength to squirm and struggle against her bonds.  She slammed her palms down at the floor again and again, till she heard the cracking splinter of wood. She looked down and saw that she might have been a bit too successful—the floorboards all around her were breaking!

Morgana chuckled. “I guess you don’t know your own strength. I expect to be reimbursed for damages, by the way.” The floorboard fell apart, and Lee was falling, falling down into the deep unknown.

O-O-O

The next room was dusty and dark. Well, dustier and darker than the other ones in this old, creaky manor. As the door swung shut behind her like it always did, Janis found herself struggling to make light of what was even a few inches in front of her. She blinked steadily, waiting for her eyes to acclimatise to the darkness, it was then that something bit her on the neck, and everything started to blur…

“Come, come, my dear, I haven’t got all day,” said a familiar, mocking voice. “I have places to be, people to tickle, TV shows to watch…”

Janis opened her eyes to see the sight of Morgana Lafey standing on the ceiling, illuminated by candles. It took her groggy, drugged-out mind a moment to realise that it was only because she herself was upside down with her long brightly-coloured hair in her face. She squirmed a bit, but the cocoon had her firmly encased in the strong silken material.

Morgana smiled at her. The ghost witch still had the same spectral blue glow to her, but her attire had undergone some transformation. She was barefoot as always, her toenails shimmering in the faint light, but she now wore grey silken stockings and a white evening dress that would not have looked out of place at any dinner party in the world. “Admiring my stockings?” Morgana said, having noticed where Janis was looking. “My guests helped make them for me.”

“Guests?” The drug-addled mind worked slowly, and Janis only figured out what the witch meant when she felt a dozen or three tiny, hairy, quite ticklish legs scramble across her feet—the only part of her aside from her neck that had neglected to wrap up in their webs, evidently was her right foot, though her left one remained bound, in a curious case of asymmetrical bondage.

The transgressive girl found herself instantly breaking into laughter. Each spider couldn’t have been larger an inch or two, but that seemed to be the perfect size of their purpose. They were large enough that their presence would be unignorable, and they were small enough that plenty of them were able to roam all over the sensitive spots on Janis’s chunky, wide feet. The silken webbing that bound Janis’s right foot like a sock was made of thin, gossamer that did little to block out the sensations, so both feet managed to tickle terribly.

And it was not for nothing that so many of the tickle erotica that Janis had enjoyed spoke of fingers ‘spidering’ across ticklish stomachs or feet. The spiders were maddeningly effective as they scurried wherever they wanted. They clustered along her arches, especially the deep crevice in the centre of them, but plenty of them had migrated to other spots. Their light, ethereal touches itched terribly along the tops of her feet along the insteps, as well as the ankles and sides of the foot.

“Tell me, which foot seems to tickle more?” Morgana was lying on a settee, her stocking-clad feet propped up on one of the armrests. Janis tried to focus on that pale foot with those high, soft-looking arches. Focusing on tickling the bejeezus out of those soles helped make her situation infinitely more bearable. “Do stockings make the tickling worse? I was hoping we could do a rather empirical study on the manner?” She wiggled her toes. “Answer me helpfully, and I may even let you get a quick tickle on these feet you so apparently lusting over.”

Janis scrunched her eyes shut to try to focus on the sensations. The nylon-esque covering on her right foot did block out some of the tickling, albeit not much, and it smoothed out the crinkles and wrinkles of her sole as if they were lathered in baby oil, so she hypothesised that they would be more vulnerable to long strokes up and down the soles. These small spiders, as effective as they were tormenting her ticklish soles in unison, weren’t really able to do that, however.

“Thehehehy both tihihickle a lohohohot! Cahahahan’t say!”

“You can do better, dearie,” Morgana floated up into the air, and the spiders parted like the red sea to allow the witch’s long fingernails a chance to dance across Janis’s bare feet. And this, oh, this tickled like hell. Morgana drew her nails in a firm line from heel to toes, before changing course to zigzag her way back down again, always starting with a stroke across those pedicured toes. With her foot pulled back in Morgana’s grip, her foot was taut and perfectly vulnerable.

“You tihihhickle beheheheter than the spihihiderrs! On wehehehehebbed foohoohoot!”

“Well, of course I tickle better than the spiders, dear,” Morgana said with a laugh, her fingers never breaking contact with Janis’s flapping feet for a moment. “I mean, that surely goes without saying. But it would be wrong to deprive them of practice, wouldn’t it?”

Morgana shifted both hands to the right foot—the one with the silken stockings intensified every sensation from her long, raking nails, and the spiders flooded back over left foot, which was bare and perfectly exposed to the fuzzy touch of their legs. As the spiders crawled along and between Janis’s toes, she tried to grab some of the spiders with them and squash them, but somehow it never seemed to quite be successful. Of course, it was hard to focus too much on something like that when you had Morgana’s expert fingers stroking up and down her foot as if it was a fine fabric to be caressed.

 “But I’m a woman of my word,” Morgana said, and she removed her fingers from Janis’s right foot. The spiders were quick to reclaim that spot as she floated back down and extended her foot in front of Janis’s face. “Go on, before I change my point. Biting on the ball of my feet drives me crazy, as do licks on my arches. Those are my two most awful spots.”

Janis tried to shift her head forward towards that alluring, immaculate foot, but tickling at her own feet was just too intense! It was impossible to get any kind of oral tickling going on when her jaw kept clamping shut to laugh. And then, just like that, the moment was gone.

“Well, would you look at the time?” Morgana said and moved away. “Afraid I’m a very busy lady, and I don’t have time for you to muster up the courage to tickle me. A shame—my feet are really quite sensitive. I’ll have the spiders let you out before tooooooooooo long.” She gave Janis a wink and disappeared, leaving the punk girl with only regrets, anger at being cheated on her vengeance, and a pair of very ticklish feet at the mercy of a cluster of spiders.

O-O-O

Lee’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the harsh light.  In a sharp contrast to the dark and dreary room she had expected, this room was bright and well-lit. The windows were thrown open and the curtains were drawn back to allow in the midday sun.

She soon realised why—she was in the manor’s infirmary, though perhaps experimentation room might have been a more apt descriptor. All around her were glass jars of unknown, strange-looking substance. Herbs hung from the ceiling. She saw rolls of bandages, stacks of wooden splints, strange implements she did not recognise. Lee found herself tied down to a metal surgical bed, with lengths of high-tensile straps binding her firmly in place. They were especially thick around her wrists, which were tied above her head, and her ankles. One foot was bare from her earlier encounter and the other remained sheathed in the black stocking.

“Ah, my favourite patient is up,” said a familiar voice from the other side of the room. Morgana Lafey had changed her garb to resemble that of a nurse. She had the white nurse’s hat with a red cross, a short white dress, and white stockings. The smug look on her face was not that of a benevolent healer, however. “How are you feeling?”

“Um, not great,” Lee said as she tested her bonds. They were implacable.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Morgana said, not sounding very sorry at all. “but while you’re here, how about we do a little examination?” She reached for a utensil with a shining metal wheel of serrated teeth on its end. She rolled it along her fingers, smiling.

“That’s a bit anachronistic, isn’t it?” Lee said in the airy voice of the know-it-all. “Wartenberg Wheels definitely weren’t around in the 18th century when you were supposed to have lived.”

“That’s a tracing wheel actually. They’re used to transfer markings from patterns onto fabric.” Morgana’s face scrunched up into a frown. “Also, has anyone said you’re a real killjoy?”

“You know no one even uses pinwheels anymore?”

“What are you taking about it? It’s all scientific and shit. This wheel will systematically test your nerve reactions and sensitivity… an essential part of any medical examination!” Morgana reached out and grabbed Lee’s right foot, the one that was bare. She held the tiny toes firm so the pinwheel could run a line across the pads of all her toes at once.

Lee jerked up, repressed laughter coming out a shaky grunt. “People don’t even use these things anymore! They’re outdated! They’re unsanitary! You know how many germs you get from using one of those things in a medical setting?”

“Well, thank goodness this isn’t a medical setting, then. Thanks for ruining the illusion.” Morgana sighed and shook her head. “And I even dressed up for this. Gosh, I’m mighty tempted to break out some hairbrushes and oil and just tickle you till you cry. But you’re lucky I’m such a professional.”

Still holding Lee’s bare foot straight with one hand, Morgana ran the pinwheel lightly over the surface of that small foot. Lee gritted her teeth as laughter came whooshing through the gaps in her teeth. It was outrageous how much it tickled, and her keen analytical mind was having difficulty with comprehending how tiny metal prongs were capable of inducing such a response from her sensitive soles. Fingers and feathers made sense—they resembled scampering insects, and tickle reflex had evolved as a method of detection of critters that might damage the body. But those sharp spikes?

It didn’t make a whiff of sense, yet ticklish sensations continued to surge up her legs as the pinwheel drew lines vertically up and down the sole.

“You’re responding very well here,” Morgana observed with a giggle as the pinwheel forced a squeal from Lee’s pouty lips when they zipped along her pale, soft arch. “I’ll have to compare and contrast with that other foot in a moment. I wonder if it’ll be worse with the nylons on.”

It was hard to imagine things being much worse than they were already, Lee thought, as Morgana changed to horizontal lines across her soles. This was especially true as Morgana seemed to be starting with Lee’s petite toes. From her instant squeaking hysterics, they were were almost as bad as her arch when it came to the pinwheel’s cold, prickly touch.

 After Morgana was finished with her vertical lines, Lee’s milky white feet were started to redden, and they reddened even further when Morgana decided that she needed to run a few more tests before moving onto the other foot.

“Feel free to tell me which spot tickles more, dearie,” Morgana said as she alternating between teasing the pink arch and the bubble-like toes with that dreaded pinwheel of hers. Lee was shaking and shuddering in her binds, but Morgana’s grip was iron, and the pinwheel continued to roll up and down across her foot.

After another eternity of this, Morgana walked over to the other foot which had so far been spared. The nylon-covered foot immediately curled up and scrunched, but Morgana yanked by her red-painted toes with ease. “Now, now, dear, for science!”

As the pinwheel ran over and over her helpless foot, paying particular attention to her arch and those small toes of hers, Lee’s scientific mind was starting to come to the rather unhelpful conclusion that nylon-clad feet really didn’t mix well with pinwheels. In fact, they might double the sensations. Lee’s frantic squeals and thrashing probably made this clear, though that wasn’t enough for Morgana.

“Which foot tickles more? Tell me! Tell me!” Morgana kept asking as tears of laughter rolled down Lee’s face. “I must know!”

The evil witch then found a new spot—the base of the toes, that little ridge just beneath those small digits that proved exceptionally vulnerable to the pinwheels. She went at that spot on the right foot and then the left, stroke here, stroke there, let the wheels run along them slowly, slowly, slowly.

“Thehehehe leheheheft! The stohohohockings!” Lee finally burbled out after Morgana changed foot for the umpteenth time. Regardless to how monotonous and predictable the action was, the change in targets catching her off-guard like it had every time before. Why did she feel like she was becoming increasingly ticklish as opposed to becoming accustomed to the sensation? Lee wished she knew. It didn’t make sense that her nerves should scream in surprise to a change that she knew was coming, yet they did, and it tickled so much. 

“Aww, was that so hard?” Morgana said, focusing her pinwheeling efforts entirely on the left foot. Base of toes, arch, and toe-pads. She went back and forth around this unholy trinity of ticklish agony till Lee was a breathing mess.

“Thank you for your contributions to science, honey,” Morgana said, leaning down to kiss the panting girl on the forehead. “I’ll leave you to recuperate. Ciao, baby!”

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Dany and Missandei Tickled (Season 4)

DAENERYS

If the Great Masters of Meereen would surrender, she would be merciful, Dany had decided, but that was before all this. She remembered starting negotiations, talking for close to an hour while a sickly-sweet incense jar burned beside her, and then, everything had started to spin… and here she was, with a fierce aching in her knees and in her back. She blew a lock of blonde hair out of her face. She was in the most humiliating position for a Queen—kneeling. And she would have risen off her knees to strike her captors had the heavy manacles not kept her in place. The chains dangled from the ceiling to force her pale arms to remain upright while her ankles were trapped in some strange restraints behind her. Strangely, she could feel the air on her soles. The room was chilly, and Dany’s blue cloak had been stripped off her, as had her high leather boots. They had even removed her trousers, so her legs were bare with nothing protecting her womanhood aside from her woollen smallclothes. They had left her only her sleeveless blue gown.

As she blinked and her pale eyes grew used to the torchlight in this room, she feared she might wake in some dungeon, but the room was too ornate with carvings, statues, and fine Myrish carpets. It looked more like some audience receiving room, though that didn’t explain her bondage. Dany twisted and tried to look behind her in order to get the measure of her situation. She was secured by the ankle and knee to some kind of heavy bench of marble. Her bare feet dangled off it, secured in cuffs that prevented her from escaping and forced her to remain in the submissive position.

Missandei lay limp beside her with her head pitched forward in a similar state of undress—her sandals had been discarded on the floor alongside her cloak, leaving her only in the short, pale leather halter top that showed her bare stomach. Dany tried to whisper to her, but then the room’s heavy doors slid open.

“Ah, you have woken,” said Great Master Mazdhan, a white-bearded man in elegant purple robes with emeralds sown into the sleeves. Mazdhan had the pursed lips and squinting eyes of a lifelong miser. He was flanked by a younger man who had attended the same meeting. “Greetings, Daenerys Stormborn. I pray you suffer no after-effects from the toxins, but we wished to continue our discussions in a… different setting.”

“Is this your idea of Meereenese hospitality?” Dany thundered, her wrist manacles shaking. “You invited me to discuss your surrender!”

“Well, about that,” said the younger man, who had introduced himself as Great Master Zharaq. He was clothed in short robes of gold. During the meeting, he had stared at Dany with a pathological intensity. The look of lust was not an unknown one to Daenerys, whom so many called the most beautiful woman in the world. “You are a Targaryen, are you not? Your fight is in Westeros, not here, surely.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Dany said through gritted teeth.

“We are content to deal you the way we would any Dothraki horde,” Mazdhan said, stroking his long white beard. “We will offer you ships and gold if you go on your way and leave us be.”

“I’m not a Khal looking to sell you slaves.” It still rankled that Dany’s brave husband, Drogo, had condoned such behaviour. “I’m going to free them.”

“Yes, about that,” Zharaq scratched his chin. He had strangely long fingernails for a male. “Do you know what you’re doing? We care little for your wars westwards. What matters is the spice must flow.”

“Is that a threat? My dragons will burn your city to the ground if you kill me. I’m the only one who can control them.”

“And what makes us think we want to kill you? You’re not listening. We are simply trying to communicate a truth to you.”

“And what truth might that be?”

“Sometimes, the purest path to victory is the battle not fought,” Mazdhan said.

“Meereen is not worth it,” Zharaq said. “Trust us. Sail west with our blessing, rather than soil yourself here in the East.” He smiled a lecherous grin at her.

“You do not decide what matters to me.” Am I to ignore the children you massacred to point my way here? Dany thought.

As Missandei began to stir and rattle in her chains, Mazdhan said, “In fact, have you considered that not all the slaves want to be freed?” He whistled. “Girls, come in.”

Doors opened behind Dany, and there was the shuffle of footsteps. She tried to twist around to see who was coming in, but the shackles around her wrist prevented her from getting a good view. But she thought there about six of them, six young women scarcely older than her with brown skin and dark eyes. Some of them had the same frizzy dark hair as Missandei.    

“I know what you are thinking, Queen Daenerys. Do I bring you my pillowslaves to insult you? No! These girls were trained in the fine art of torture. Not only do they have an affinity for it, but it makes them as wet as the Rhoynar to set about their work!” Mazdhan burst into throaty laughter. "Why would you deprive them of their passions?”

“And what passions might these be? They sound an awful lot like crimes.”

“I can see by your face you may be wondering what this room is—too grand to be a dungeon, yet too… shall we say… restrictive to be a true audience chamber. This is where we negotiate with the more, shall we say, truculent.”

“Your grace, what is…” Missandei began to say, her head bobbing up and down. Then she shuddered and yelped. Dany had felt it too, a tingle down her left foot. She tried to push her foot back, to kick away whatever was touching her, but the shackles kept her from going anywhere.

“Now, there should be an hour or two before your captains wonder where you’ve gone—the original negotiations were only set for three hours, after all. So, till then, stay and enjoy the service of our girls. Consider our arguments.” Mazdhan turned to leave and as he was halfway out the door said, “Consider if you wish to become our enemies.”

“I shall stay and observe,” Zharaq declared. “Repeat a few of our points to our silver queen and her trusted advisor.” He gave them a grin that was not reassuring. Reclining on a bench at the far side of the room, he waved a hand at the female slaves. “Pleasure for Queen Daenerys I think, and something a bit more intense for her companion.”

“Yes, Great Master,” the women chimed in turn, and they took up their positions.

“You do not need to do this,” Dany said, though the persuasive effect of her words was reduced because of the nervous quaver in her voice. There was no denying the shiver that came up her neck as she felt hands begin to brush up and down her bare feet. Once upon a time, her feet had been tough, callused things, back when she walked the red wasteland in the aftermath of Drogo’s death. But nowadays, if she were not on dragonback, she would be on horseback, and all her plunder had won her a snug shadowcat carpet to sleep on, soft boots to walk in, and the finest oils to keep her looking Queenly. Dany’s small, pale feet were sensitive, a fact her late husband had actually taken account during their pillowplay—one of those otherworldly Dothraki traditions she had not quite understood.

There were two girls at each foot, and their small, skilled hands would have made Dany cry with pleasure if not for the situation. Their hands were tender as they rubbed and caressed her feet as if they were in love with them. But she could sense a dark undercurrent to this massaging—as they brushed their fingers up and down her scrunched up feet with the very tips of their fingers, there was more than a few undertones of nefarious intentions. The fingers would ‘accidentally’ brush into her sensitive feet with their nails, pressing into her high Targaryen arches, stroking that sensitive point at the base of her toes to make her want to squeak with girlish giggles.

The reason Dany was so sure of this was for poor Missandei, it seemed they had skipped a few stages. The former slave girl was well-past giggling already—she was roaring with laughter. Five fingers were wiggling hard into each armpit, while a black-haired slave girl whispered something too low for Dany to hear in Missandei’s ear. At her bare brown soles, the two slave girls were taking advantage of her long, receptive feet. Because of their length, it was easy to fit all ten fingers on the sole at once, and they were taking good advantage of that fact to jam as many cruel fingers as they could on all the soft spots they were discovering rapidly with every passing moment.  

“Don’t worry, your radiance,” whispered a voice by Dany’s right ear. It must have been the third slave girl assigned to her, the one that wasn’t being making Dany’s feet feel more tender and sensitive by the moment. This girl had embraced the dragon queen from behind like a lover and kissed on the neck. She smelled of spice and wild berries. 

“What are you do-ho-ing?” Dany’s voice shook as she felt something new on her right foot that made her shiver. It was something warm, soft, and wet, slowly dragging its way along her arches that made her face twitch. “Stop that right now! I am a Queen!”

“I know,” purred the slave girl whose hands were stroking slowly down armpits to hips, taking care that her feather-light touch brushed past Dany’s breasts through the fabric of her gown on the way. The insolence made her want to choke with rage, if not for the fact laughter and something else was starting to choke up her throat. Although she couldn’t look behind her because of the way she was tied down, she was pretty certain she recognised the sensuous touch on her feet now—she spread her toes then pointed them again. It was tongues, one on each foot, and they had quickly made their way to her toes. “How lucky am I that I get to do this to the Mother of Dragons herself…”

Over the sound of her friend’s snorts and cries, Dany heard the girls currently raking their sharp fingernails up and down Missandei’s bare feet shout something about being jealous that the other girls got to tickle such a famous figure, and how they demanded to be the ones to get that honour next time a Great Master’s wife or a Green Grace was brought to this chamber. 

“You thought we were joking, didn’t you, Queen Daenerys?” said Zharaq, who was smirking from his seat across the hall, which afforded him a superb view of all that was transpiring. “Slaves trained in the art of torture are our speciality in Meereen. And they all delight in our work.”

“Is this your idea of torture?” Dany said in a strained voice. Despite the growing tension in her loins, she wasn’t sure if this could be said to be that torturous, though she deeply resented being fondled by such strangers in front of this foul man. So far, the only real humiliation was how nice those tongues felt as they stroked up and down her flexing feet and lovingly sucked on her toes.  

Though she knew the same could not be said for Missandei, whose voice was starting to get hoarse from the three demonesses tormenting her trapped and exposed body.

“Torture that rots the mind yet leaves the body pure can be very useful.”

“When I take your city, I will outlaw such barbaric practices,” Dany said, willing herself to not let her voice tremble as the tongues wandered down to her arches, tracing their way through the wrinkles of the scrunching feet.

“If,” he said. “And perhaps once you’ve seen the power of our methods, you will change your view.” He snapped his fingers, and Dany jolted as her three tormentors promptly adopted a more aggressive approach. 

Soon, they were only licking her toes but nibbling on them as well, and their teeth proved to tickle terribly, especially when they began to relocate to other areas—the ball of her feet proved to be particularly vulnerable to such an approach, as Dany let loose a squeal and tossed her head back when she felt it for the first time.

Instead of the light caresses and gentle grazes she had come to expect, the fingers at her feet were soon decidedly less nice as well. They were scribbling across her bare feet now, pressing in deep with their fingernails. Their spittle meant the sole was nice and slick and sensitive for the fingers to skate along, and they seemed to have a keen understanding that all the spots that had made her gasp and grunt before would be good spots to torment now, like her arches. Dany tried to wiggle her feet together so one could protect the other, but they were too far away.

Out of the corner of her eye, Dany saw that the slave girls at Missandei’s feet had grabbed them by the toes, yanked them back, and started to scrub them mercilessly with some kind of brush, despite the poor girl’s wails and squeals. And before long, Dany’s husky laughter and her lighter one merged together into so sick symphony as tools, fingers, and tongues forced more mirth out of them.

At her upper body, she found herself pressed by the three-way attack. At her right armpit, she had a finger digging deep into that pale, soft hollow, her left had a marauding tongue to make her squirm, and the slave girl’s remaining hand had reached down between the queen’s legs to stroke along her inner thighs or squeeze her knees, more than once coming perilously close to her tingling womanhood. She tried to swing her body around to shake off the girl, but the shackles at her wrists and legs kept her pinned in place.

“What are you thinking, Queen Daenerys?” Zharaq said. “Is this giving you some perspective?”

Dany shook her head, partly in denial, partly in frustration from being trapped in such an awful scenario, and partly because of the growing bud of tension in her belly. It was difficult to come up with witty retorts when such distracting things were being done to her hypersensitive feet and toes.

“Let’s step things up a notch, girls,” he called, laughing. “I’ll even come help to give her radiance a personal touch.”

The girl hugging Dany from behind disappeared, which should have been a good thing had Zharaq not appeared in front of her. With his short brown hair, round dark eyes, neatly trimmed beard, and elegant robes, he was far from homely, but his look was a sinister one. He reached his hands for Dany’s armpits, those long devilish-looking things, but as Dany quivered at chomped down on her lip as she prepared for the moment of impact, he reached past her and kept on leaning closer till their faces were inches apart. He gave her a wink and pulled back and he suddenly had brightly coloured feathers in his hand. One of the slave girls must have handed it to him? But that meant…

“These belong the indigenous Meereenese Parrot,” he said, twirling a feather in each hand. It was stiff and longer, and it appeared to be varnished. “It’s said that they claim some relation to the great harpy, though I doubt it myself.”

Dany jumped and barely suppressed an unqueenly scream when two feathers suddenly licked up her knees and spun their way towards her bare thighs. Because of the way her legs and ankles were shackled, she couldn’t even close them as they wondered to her womanhood, which was more than a little moist on account of those damnable teasing tongues at her feet.

And before she could even get used to those feathers teasing down there, she had two more feathers to contend with, fluttering up and down bare armpits. Their points were sharp and bristly yet soft, and Dany could do naught but rattle the chains that pinned her arms to the ceiling as the Meereenese feathers brushed up and down the pinkening flesh. 

Those feathers danced where the slave girl’s mouth had been before, where blossoming sensitivity had sprouted from the sowing of an erotic tongue. The other feathers at her thighs—which was where that slave girl must have gone, Dany realised, for the tongues and fingers are her sensitive pale feet had most certainly not stopped—were tracing the skin where her thighs met her pelvis despite Dany’s legs tensing and struggling as best she could. More than once, these feathers brushed along Dany’s womanhood through the thin fabric of her smallclothes. She would have shouted in outrage if this hurricane of tickling had not already gusted away her words.

“Do you want us to stop, your radiance?” Zharaq’s grin was smug and wide. “Or is us continuing that which you desire?”

Dany recognised the look on his face—no matter what she said, he would not grant it to her. So, she abstained from answering, instead focusing her efforts on a tentative grasp on dignity, though it was not easy, especially as the two slave girls at her feet had discovered how sensitive her big toes were to a tongue and teeth combination. For the last few minutes, they had kept those toes trapped in their mouths, a watery, sensual prison. They swirled their tongues all over them the pads and the gaps between toes, occasionally nibbling and biting along the tips of them to keep things fresh.

Combined with the feathering at her thighs, there was no ignoring how the growing tingle between her legs was becoming more and more powerful with every lick and every flick of those feathers, even despite the ordeal at her armpits and the pesky nails scampering across her soles.

“I think Queen Daenerys is getting bored with her current treatment. Perhaps she even looks at her handmaid with a hint of envy.”

Dany glanced over to Missandei. There were flat brushes the size of her hand working over her soles in a blur, while smaller brushes around the size of her fingers wove across her armpits and bare stomach. The scratching of the bristles on her soft skin was audible even all her laughter. Her face was red and tear-streaked, and her voice had gone hoarse from the nonstop all-out assault on her worst spots.

 “Pleheehehehease, your grahahahace! Mahahahake thehehm stahap!” Missandei managed despite the overloading sensations.

Zharaq clapped his hands together. “So, it is agreed! Kindly switch places, my dears. It is known a man tires of the same meal day after day.”

Dany tried to ignore as the girls at her waist and feet grumbled and slid off, muttering how upset they were that they hadn’t gotten the “honour” of pushing her over the edge. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered that they consider her toes tasty and her reactions delicious. And the eagerness of the girls coming over from a panting Missandei was worrying. They were giggling and cheering and flexing those menacing-looking brushes in their hands. They were evidently delighted to get their hands on the Mother of Dragons herself.

“My pardons, your radiance,” Zharaq said to Dany with a flourish, “but perhaps I should have a word with your confidant. I ought to communicate to her how preferable it is to stay away from Meereenese feathers and those who wield them.” He stared at Missandei’s bare belly, smiling.

Dany did not even have a moment to prepare herself, as the slaver girls scurried over and set into her immediately. She felt a twinge of unfairness at the fact Missandei’s torment had not started yet, but she instantly felt bad about wishing her friend and comrade was suffering just so things were ‘equal’.

But there was no equal to the small brushes scrubbing away in her armpits. Dany never thought she would miss the feeling of feathers in her armpits, but the brushes were something different entirely. She was tugging and tugging at her arm shackles, pulling so hard her shoulders felt close to popping out, but there was no escaping those bristles as they worked little circles in her helpless underarms.

And down at her feet was hardly any better. Her feet had grown used to the tender kisses and caresses of the slaver girl’s tongues, and the rough bristles of the big scrub brushes were a completely different story. It was like her feet were being attacked by hundreds and hundreds of tiny sharp fingers, and these things overwhelmed her defences which had been softened by the slaver girls and their devastating touch. From the ferocity in which their strong, nimble hands worked, and from the tenacity they worked the brushes through every nook and cranny along the top, bottom and sides of her terribly ticklish feet, they treated her appendages as if they were dirty plates that needed to be cleaned.

Dany screamed and shouted commands at them to stop, but that would just make the girls giggle to themselves and make snide little comments like how they thought “dragons couldn’t laugh” and “oh, look, she can’t stand it there!”, so she soon chose to bite down on her lip and save her breath instead. They were more talkative than the girls who had ‘tended’ to her before, but perhaps they were all this way, and it was only because the others had been too busy with their tongues to talk amongst themselves.

She could hear Missandei moaning as the tongues and feathers did their work. Dany never thought she would miss those either, as the merciless, ceaseless brushing brought her from so close to ultimate relief to crashing all the way down to zero. Zharaq was kissing Missandei’s stomach, worming his tongue into her navel while his feathers wandering along her taut armpits. The foot girls were working hard on treating Missandei’s curling toes to a thorough tonguing.

Dany shrieked, her hands clenching uselessly into fists as her feet writhed and struggled, but the slave girls were stronger than they looked, and they pulled them back by the toes to force her foot straight to really punish her arches. And if they weren’t doing that, they would grab them around the ball of the foot to present her tender, tiny toes to the brushes innumerable bristles. One brush alone was enough to make her wail in ticklish distress, but one for each foot? And two smaller ones in her armpits? It was unspeakable agony. And all the whole, her weeping womanhood throbbed in disappointment

For a while, Dany's whole world turned black and mute except from the scritching of remorseless bristles against powerless flesh—the steady scrape, scrape, scrape.

But Dany had learned from this, had learned from Zharaq and his taunting words. When she and Missandei were free, she would show them what it meant to mock the dragon. The Great Masters would be served with Fire and Blood. And the girls? Perhaps Dany would have a hand at their ancient craft, see how they handled the tongues, feathers, and brushes they had so eagerly unleashed on them. Missandei would be eager to assist. And afterwards, Dany would forgive them, hire them, and bring them with her when they sailed across the Narrow Sea to Westeros. Let Cersei Lannister go mad with laughter, she thought, and for a while, she imagined it was not her writhing in these chains with the sore back and the hoarse voice, but another. She was watching this torture from afar, sitting where Zharaq had been sitting not so long ago. It was not her with the small brushes in her hollows. It was not her with hundreds of bristles tormenting her toes and arches. It was someone else, another blonde queen, Cersei, screaming to the Mother for mercy and begging them to stop.

And that made things a bit better. Till her time was up and she would be released, that was all she could do. She would picture fire, blood, and tickle torture.


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oneortheother
Otto
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
I do a bit of writing.
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Do you prefer upperbody or lowerbody (feet) tickling? 

68%
93 deviants said Lowerbody
32%
44 deviants said Upperbody

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:iconcroozel:
Croozel Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2017  Hobbyist Artist
Thank you for the watch, my guy!
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:iconcodeman52490us:
codeman52490us Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016
Happy birthday!
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:icononeortheother:
oneortheother Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks :)
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:iconcodeman52490us:
codeman52490us Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017
No problem.
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TDonkey Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016  Student Writer
Happy Birthday man, love your stories ^^
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:icononeortheother:
oneortheother Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Glad you enjoy them!
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:iconsunking88:
Sunking88 Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016
Happy Birthday
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:icononeortheother:
oneortheother Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks, man!
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:iconsunking88:
Sunking88 Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2017
:)
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:iconfootlover2011:
footlover2011 Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2016
Happy birthday 
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