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"Ginger" at Renassaince Faire (F/cd. multiple MF/cd, MF/cd) REPOST, age correction

tenderfeet

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"Ginger" at Renassaince Faire (F/cd. multiple MF/cd, MF/cd) REPOST, age correction

Back when I was 18, after graduating high school and before going off to college, I stayed with my Uncle Mike and Aunt Sandy (actually my mother's best friend and her husband) in a suburb outside of Boston for the whole summer. I had stayed there every summer for a week or two at a time, so it wasn't like I didn't know them.

They'd agreed to keep me that long because their daughter, Judy, who'd just finished her sophmore year at college, was in Europe as an exchange student in physics.

I'd come for a change of pace, as well as to see the nearby sites such as Washington, DC, Gettysburg, etc., though the latter was only on the weekends since my relatives insisted they go with me.

During the week, there wasn't much to do. Uncle and Auntie had every cable station possible and a pool in the backyard, but I didn't really know anyone my age, and all my cousin's friend's were gone. That's why I was overjoyed when the renaissance was coming to town for a whole week, and I planned to go every day, in costume since renfaires are more fun that way.

I decided to visit one day while Uncle and Auntie were at work. Besides giving me something to do during the day, it would give me a chance to do something I'd wanted to do for quite some time but didn't have the nerve for--go out in public crossdressed.

I should mention that at the time I was very slim (about 120) for my height then (5'7"), my auburn hair was shoulder length, and my feet were very small and narrow for a guy that tall (sz 7), so I made a very passable "girl". I'd even cultivated a "girlish" voice.

No one in town knew me, so I figured I could get away with it as my own little secret. I knew that somewhere in all of her mountains of clothes and old costumes my cousin was bound to have something appropriate, and we were approximately the same size.

A quick search proved I was correct. Shortly after my relatives left for work, I dressed up for the faire in Judy's uniform from the Jolly Ox, a bra stuffed by fake D-cup tits with erect nipples, and a thin black leather string tied around my right ankle, then left for the faire as a tavern wench.

A barefoot tavern wench.

I knew I had "girl's feet" since I'd been teased about it so often, so I figured being barefoot would add to my illusion. If only I'd left out the bright, shiny fire-engine red toenail polish, maybe I wouldn't have made myself such an obvious target.

Of course, I did have a lot of mischievous fun once I noticed so many guys and older men staring at my bare feet. Sometimes their expressions seemed almost like hunger.

Early in the afternoon after wandering around for most of the day, taking in the sights, pretending to be shy and modest, and enjoying my charade, I was approached by a mature woman in period outfit who asked me to do her a favor.

"I was just admiring your costume," she said, "and I'm hoping you'd be willing to pose for some pictures in the faire's stocks. We'll pay you for your time, of course."

"I dunno...,"

"We've been looking all day," she urged, "for someone in period costume with the right look." Then she added, "And we'd especially love to have a model with such pretty feet."

Disarmed by her flattery, I eagerly agreed in my sweetest girlie voice, like the gullible naive that I was. Then I followed her across the grounds to the stocks, thrilled to be the "girl" chosen as the model out of all the others at the faire.

"So, what's your name, sweetie?" she asked.

"Ginger," I answered, using the name I thought myself having when I 'played", "Ginger Lafitte."

"Well, Ginger, I'm Susan, and my husband waiting for us is John."

"Nice to meet you," I smiled. "To tell you the truth, I'll be glad to get off my feet. They're very tender, and walking on all these sticks and tiny gravel lying around really hurts, especially since I just did a pedicure yesterday."

"Oh, Lord, if that's the case, then why did come barefoot?" she laughed. Then she smiled conspiratorily and said in a voice to match, "Oh, I know what it is...you want all the guys to see those pretty feet of yours, right?"

My heart skipped a beat, and I must've blanched.

She laughed again. "Nevermind. I'm just glad we can help each other out."

We arrived at the stocks, where an attractive middle-aged was waiting with a camera.

"Honey, meet Ginger LaFEET," Susan said, with a curious stress on the last syllable. "I finally found us a model!"

He smiled at me. "And a pretty one at that."

I smile back coquettishly.

He glanced quickly at my feet, then smiled at his wife.

"And, as I see you've just noticed," Susan grinned impishly, winking at her husband, "she's already barefoot!"

"What do you mean by that?" I asked nervously.

"Oh, it's nothing to worry," she replied, patting me on the shoulder. "Being barefoot when you were in the stocks was part of the punishment, so if you had shoes on, we'd have to remove them. So you've already helped by saving us time."

After I signed a model's release, the husband began photographing the scene as I sat down on the, thankfully padded, bench.

Susan instructed me to put my ankles in the center holes and my wrists in the outer ones, which I obediently did, then she shut the top bar and padlocked the latch.

When I heard the "click" of the padlock, I felt a slightly queasy feeling that you get just before a roller-coaster ride as I realized that I was now completely helpless.

The camera snapped away continuously, and I'm sure John got a good shot of the look on my face.

I asked why the lock, and she said, "For realism, of course, silly."

"This will help take the stress off your thighs," she told me as she tied my legs together just below the knees with several loops of rope. "And this is also for historical accuracy," she explained as she did the same with my ankles outside the device. "Stocks in the old days weren't exactly one-size-fits-all."

"Hmmm...," I said, "I guess I never thought of that."

Just then John stopped and interrupted. "Honey, do you think you can get something from there," nodding to indicate the nearby bathrooms, "to clean off the bottoms of her feet?"

"Thanks, honey, good idea," Susan replied to him, then turned back to me. "After all, you do want your feet looking their best for these pictures other people, women and men, might see, don't you, sweetie?"

Looking out, I could see a few people beginning to gather, curious as to what was going on.

A few minutes later she returned with a washrag, a small bar of soap, and a pail of hot water, plus a wooden stool. She sat down and immediately began to wet, then soap up my feet as John resumed picture-taking.

Seeing me wince, bite my lip, and clench my fists when she started scrubbing the bottoms of my feet with the washcloth, she stopped. "Are you ok, sweetie? Does that hurt?"

"No," I replied, "it's just that I...I'm really, really, tick-...," trailing off. There was no way I was going to admit that to someone that close to my trapped and vulnerable bare feet, especially not in front of all these people. Shaking my head, I smiled, "It's ok. I'm all right."

"Well, ok, if you say so," Susan said, with a knowing, mischievious look in her eyes before continuing.

When she finished, she asked John, "How's that, honey?", winking as she did. "Perfect, my dear," he replied, winking back. I suddenly felt somewhat uneasy, and began to squirm.

By now everyone was staring with eager faces at my bare naked size 7 feet sticking out of the stocks.

All right, I told myself, if you want a show, I'll give you one, and pointed my toes forward all the way to show off my painted toenails, flexed my feet back, circled them outward and brought them back together with my toes pointed again, then began paddling them back and forth, curling one all the way forward as the other stretched all the way back then switching.

Susan picked up a sign attached to a wooden stake and planted it in the ground beside the stocks. All the onlookers smiled, and several of them began snickering.

"Wh-what's the sign for?" I asked nervously.

"Oh, that's your 'crime'," Susan answered. "What you've been 'sentenced' to the stocks for. They always did that so that to everyone could see why you're in there as they passed by."

"Why is everyone laughing?" I wondered. "What does it say?"

"You sure you want to know?" she inquired. At my affirmative reply, she said, "Well, here goes then:"

"This naughty little wench is fickle
A shameless coy tease
So her bare feet are yours to tickle
However much you please"

My eyes must've been as big as saucers, because everyone laughed, including Susan and John. My feet stopped moving.

"Oh, don't worry, silly," Susan giggled, "that's just for the camera. We'd never do anything like that, would we, honey?"

"No, never," John deadpanned, adding, "not a million years."

Of course they wouldn't do that, I told myself, not in public, with all these people watching. I relaxed, and my feet started pedaling again, only much faster.

The onlookers' disappointment was very apparent, but no one left. Instead, more trickled in.

Susan stood up. "I'm going to go around behind you for a little bit to let John get some photos of just you."

As her husband continued taking pictures, she walked around. When she was behind me, Susan said, "One more thing: often times those in the stocks were also gagged, so I need you to open wide, and say 'Ah'."

I complied, even though I felt uncomfortable about it. But I'd gone this far, so I might as well go all the way. Immediately, Susan stuffed a hanky in my mouth, slapped duct tape across it, and covered both with with a linen cloth tied behind my neck.

Then she walked back in front of me with a thick white cotton cord, and saying, "Someone's moving her feet around way too much," bound my big toes together, pulled back so that my soles were taut, and secured the other end to the eyebolt on top of the stocks.

Now I couldn't move my feet at all.

What the hell? I thought.

Then I saw my two captors now grinning like hyenas, and a chill ran down my spine. It was belatedly dawning on me that something wasn't quite kosher with this whole scene, but it was too late. All I could do was sit and wait for was about to happen next, whatever that was. As if it weren't obvious already.

Susan squatted down and took something from her purse at the foot of the stocks, then turned around, holding it up for the now much larger crowd to view, being careful to keep it out of my sight, which exaggerated my apprehension.

The sudden expressions from the audience, which it now was, made me even more frantic.

Susan turned around slowly, keeping her hands below my line of sight until she was facing me dead on. "Tell me, sweetie," she asked playfully with that mischievious smile of hers again, "are you...," bringing her hands up to her shoulders, "...ticklish?"

In each hand was...OH MY GOD...a stiff turkey feather!

I saw that and my mouth fell open in horror. As the full truth of my predicament broke through my denial, my stomach dropped hard and I panicked, struggling wildly in fear and shaking my head in protest, to the audience's great amusement.

"I'll take that as a 'Yes'," Susan laughed. "But just how ticklish are you, sweetie?"

Turning to the audience, she said, "Of course, Ginger can't answer that and doesn't really need to since we're all about to find out. She might not even know herself; I'm sure no one has ever done to her what I'm about to do."

I was looking around frantically from Susan, who somehow knew and turning to give me that smile again winked at me, to John photographing nonstop, at the audience, trying to plead for someone to help me.

Susan looked at her waiting victim--me--one more time with that playfully malicious smile--before asking the audience, "What do you say, my friends, I'll leave her fate in your hands: do you want to see little Ginger suffer her due punishment?"

Everyone, everyone, in the audience, shouted their loud and whole-hearted approval.

"Before I start in on these pretty little bare soles here, I've been doing this for years, so I'm an expert tickler--a foot-tickling specialist, you might say. Now, watch how quickly I can make her laugh, then we can see how hard and for how long."

With that, Susan sat back down before my defenceless and hypersensitive bare feet

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, sweetie" she said merrily. "Nobody as ticklish as you obviously are will be able to bear me tickling her little tootsies for even one minute. And I'm going to tickle you and tickle you and tickle you, until you can't take it anymore. And then you what? I'm going to keep right on tickling!"

We looked each other in the eyes, her with predatory mischievous intent, me with fear, embarassment, humiliation.

Meanwhile, the audience was chanting,"TICKLE, TICKLE, TICKLE HER, TICKLE HER BARE FEET! TICKLE, TICKLE, TICKLE HER, TICKLE HER BARE FEET!...," over and over and over again.

She was making me wait, dragging it out to psych me out and build my apprehension, along with the audience's anticipation, knowing that since I couldn't even see my feet, the wait would be as excrutiating.

Suddenly I jerked as I felt the feathers touch my soles and begin sliding upward, but that was my only reaction at first because they didn't bother me initially. I started to relax and was almost disappointed. Almost.

"I picked you out right away," Susan explained. "I prefer to target foot-teasers like you--coming to the faire barefoot with 'whorehouse red toenails' was a dead giveaway--as potential "victims" because you keep your feet in better condition so they're usually more sensitive, and because you're so easy to lull into a false sense of security with a little flattery."

The sensations from the feathers were becoming more intense with each stroke. I was once again wincing, biting my lip, clenching my hands, even wiggling my toes as the ticklish feelings became more unbearable and my feet started twitching reflexively.

"Also, there's always more people in the audience to see you suffer, which makes better photos," she added. "And besides, I enjoy it more when I feel like I'm dealing out a little justice!"

If I can just hold out long enough, I kept telling myself, keep from laughing, she'll give up.

"I think you knew this was coming," Susan taunted as she continued sliding the feathers up and down my poor soles from heel to toe-tip and back. "You had to have known. I certainly dropped enough hints."

I bit down harder attempting to prevent the inevitable giggling, but it was useless. With my feet totally immobile, there was no escape from the feather even for a brief instant, and soon I was giggling helplessly away.

"Maybe you wanted this, sweetie. I bet you did, didn't you?" Susan teased, to which I shook my head violently. "After all, you did come here voluntarily, and even with all the hints placed yourself in the stocks, then let me padlock them, let me tie you up more, even let me gag you. You do know, of course, that if you'd backed out at anytime before the gag, we'd've released you right away. So you did this to yourself."

My giggling became louder and faster, and even with my soles twitching and wrinkling, my toes wriggling spasmodically, and my body beginning to tremble convulsively, I made one last effort to stifle it.

"Or perhaps you were just so eager to have your pretty little bare feet on such public display for everyone, especially the men, to see and stare at that you willfully ignored the warning signs. That's right, isn't it, you little slut?"

As she said this, my last attempt to stop my uncontrollable giggling shattered in a piercing squeal that erupted into loud, agonized laughter. I had been broken in less than a minute.

"See, sweetie?" chuckled Susan, "I told you resistance was futile."

Thank God, now she'll quit, I hoped futilely. She's won. She's broken me. She's...

The tickling didn't stop. There was no relief, only...more tickling. She was completely without mercy. Up and down my soles the feathers went, in between my toes, and around my ankles, in constant motion all the time.

I was laughing hysterically and struggling almost violently enough to break the stocks. If they hadn't been made of six-by-four oak with the uprights driven down deep, I might have done so. Susan had even ceased her taunting because she knew none of it would get through.

She continued nonstop for thirty minutes, then reversed the feathers and started dragging the quills up and down my soft, tender soles. This new torture felt like electric shocks passing through my body. I'd never felt anything like it. And there was nothing I could do to escape it.

Pleased with my reaction, Susan continued this new torture for another half-hour as I literally screamed with laughter and hot tears ran down my face as I thrashed about even more wildly on the bench. Since sawing the feathers back and forth between my toes had produced such violent screams earlier, she did this occasionally too.

John, of course, continued taking pictures, and by this time, the audience was HUGE. And no one was doing anything to stop it. They were all just standing around watching me be tortured, many taking pictures and some recording with digital cams. Here I was, clearly in agony, and they're being entertained? Worse, they were even cheering my torturer on to greater effort!

"TICKLE, TICKLE, TICKLE HER, TICKLE HER BARE FEET! TICKLE, TICKLE, TICKLE HER, TICKLE HER BARE FEET!..."

Finally,Susan ceased tickling with the feather.

After giving me less than a minute's rest so she could spread baby oil on my soles and toe pads, she untied my toes, telling the crowd, "Let's give her feet a chance to move around so we can enjoy watching them squirm in desparation."

She immediately attacked my vulnerable feet with her long, sharp fingernails. The baby oil made my poor feet even more sensitive, and also enabled her fingernails to slide more easily across my soles and toepads. Clearly she wasn't lying about being an experienced tickler, hitting every spot she targeted even with my poor bare feet twisting, writhing, and jerking around in desparation, trying to block one with the other, and curling their toes.

No part of my poor tortured soles was spared. First her fingers danced like a spider all over my delicate pads. Then she attacked the balls and heels of my feet and dug her fingernails into my arches. No spots were spared. She varied from figure-8's to jiggling her fingernails all over the bottoms of my feet to running them side-to-side to hard to spreading them out four wide and raking up and down my soles, constantly changing intensity between slow & light to fast & hard to slow & hard to fast & light.

After half hour, she retied my big toes, saying, "Now watch this: after being able to move her feet around, this will drive her really crazy!"

In between screaming with hysterical agony, I franticly begged for mercy, but that was useless. Susan had a new toy to play with, and play she did. She continued torturing my defenceless bare feet with her tormenting fingernails without ceasing and without mercy, even incorporating the feathers-between-the-toes routine, and the whole time the bottoms of my feet felt like they were on fire.

At last, Susan finally ceased for good, but only after a full two hours since my torment had first begun.

I had been tickle-tortured to absolute hysteria. My hair was plastered to my head with sweat and my outfit was soaked. My sides hurt from laughing, my throat was so sore from screaming and laughing, and every muscle in my body ached from involuntary spasms.

"You are absolutely the most ticklish girl we've ever used," said Susan standing up. "I'd be glad to play with you anytime, sweetie. Here's my card," she dropped it in my lap, "give me a call if you're ever up for it."

"Oh, and by the way," she added as she started to leave, "I never would've let you leave after getting you in the stocks. Once there, you, and your pretty little feet, were all mine.'

As I sat there still trying to get my breath, wondering why I hadn't been released yet, John came over to me. He pulled out a $100 bill and stuffed it down the front of my blouse.

"You know, Ginger," he said, "while I've been taking pictures, several men told me about your blatant teasing and how glad they were to see you getting what you deserved. We asked ourselves why should we be the only ones having fun..."

It was then that I noticed Susan forming the audience into a line, mostly men plus several middle-aged women, pointing at the sign and selling turkey feathers for a dollar apiece.

"You know, we've never done this part to any other girl before," he added. "It'll make great subject matter for more photos!"

I was dazed with disbelief. This couldn't be for real.

But for the next few hours, until the faire closed for the evening, it was all too real.

When I was finally released, I was so exhausted and sore all over that I stumbled only a few steps before collapsing behind the nearest big oak tree, passed out cold.


* * * * *

When I finally awoke, I was cold, but not too much. I was actually grateful no one had kidnapped me to hold captive as a tickle slave. Or worse.

I had to climb over the fence in my bare feet to get to the parking lot where my car was, appreciative of the momentary pain to distract me from the intensity of the still lingering itchy, tingling feeling on the bottoms of my feet.

Somehow I'd never broken out of my "Ginger" persona even for a moment, though that may have saved me hours of torture. On the other hand, maybe not. Or maybe it would've been worse.

Next time I come to one of these damn things, though, it'll be as a knight, in a full suit of armor.

The drive home in a way was worse than what had gone on before. My plan had been to get home to be cleaned up and dressed before they returned home from work.

No one in my family knew anything about my crossdressing. Two of them, at least, would now know. Unless they were out to dinner. Please, God, let that be the case.

Besides being who they were, their size was intimidating: my uncle was 6'6" and my aunt an even 6'0".

When I arrived didn't see Mike and Sandy around, so I crept down toward my room off the downstairs den. As I stepped around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, there they were sitting on the couch, waiting.

"We've been expecting you for hours," Sandy said. "Go to your room and take a shower, then come out so we can talk." I was surprised she didn't mention my attire, or my toenail polish.

Finished, I walked into my bedroom and opened the drawer with my underwear. Nothing.

Nothing, that is, but a short silk flowery blue robe and matching panties. I frantically checked the other drawers containing my things, then the closet; all empty.

Reluctantly I picked up the lingerie; beneath it was a note that read: "Put these on, then come out to the den. We'll be waiting."

Trembling, I opened the door and paused. One of their laptops was on the small coffee table.

After I stood in the doorway with them looking at me for several long moments, the two of them moved to either end.

"Go ahead and sit down," Mike instructed me. "In the floor between us."

"And put your feet up on the coffee table," ordered Sandy, "on either side of the laptop."

In front of my two relatives, I was seeing an edited digital recording of highlights of that afternoon's events.

I was mortified.

But not as horrified as they'd been in their respective offices when word spread like wildfire about the titillating live webcast from the renfaire and they'd logged on to see what the fuss was about.

Throughout the recording, the bottoms of my feet were tingling, my soles wrinkling and my toes curling and uncurling involuntarily. It didn't help that Mike and Sandy spent more time staring at my bare feet and "whorehouse red" toenails than watching the show they'd already seen.

Once the recording arrived at a close-up of the sign, one of them hit Pause.

Too speechless to even attempt to explain, I sat dumbfounded and mute as they stood up and faced me from either side.

"How dare you embarass us like that?" Mike said to me. "Crossdressing to go to the faire, then allowing people to do that to you. Do you have any idea what is was like having to listen to how much of a slut the "girl" in the video must've been to merit such treatment?"

"And how dare you steal Judy's clothes for your outfit?" Sandy added. "Well, since you wanted to dress like a girl for the renfaire, that's how you'll be dressed here all the time for the rest of the summer, always barefoot , with your toenails painted, of course. You only get shoes and male clothes if we're taking you out somewhere ourselves."

Mike went upstairs as Sandy walked around the coffeetable and stopped directly in front of me, staring down at my bare feet and painted toenails. "Well, I do admit you have pretty little feet," she said, arching her left eyebrow, "just like a real girl."

Just as I was beginning to wonder what was going on now, Mike returned, carrying four lengths of rope. More ominously, his fingers were now tipped with glamour-length nails, press-on, which Sandy already had naturally

Suddenly, I was filled with dread.

"Stand up and come around here," Sandy ordered, "and stand in the center of the room."

As I got up, she picked up the coffee table and moved it to the side of the room as Mike went to the other side and moved the raised futon against the wall so that it was perpencidular and away from it

"Lose the robe," Mike said when Sandy had moved beside him. Reluctantly I did so, now left in just bra & panties.

"Now lie down with your head towards the wall," Sandy told me. When I did so, she continued, "Now stretch your arms over your head toward either corner and your legs out straight together."

When I started to protest, they told me, "No back talk, or it'll be worse for you, and longer."

Mike tied my wrists to both corners and Sandy tied my legs together just below the knees, pulled knee-high nylons over both my feet, then bound my ankles together with duct tape, securing to the futon's frame by rope with my feet just over the edge.

Then she moved around opposite her husband at the top of the futon.

"You see," Sandy remarked to my anxious face, "we noticed your 'friend' this afternoon missed several choice spots."

"Here," Mike said as he ripped a strip of duct tape off a roll, "we don't want to have the whole neighborhood here do we?".

As he placed it over my mouth, Sandy said, "Well, not yet, anyway," winking at me as she did so.

Then she put a blindfold over my eyes!

After giving time for my panic to peak, they proceeded to tickle me all over my upper body, front and back, from my upper arms down to my knees, for the next half hour. My feet they saved for last, thankfully for only about ten minutes, taking turns then tickling them in tandem, Mike on the right and Sandy on the left. Those last ten minutes were HORRIBLE--due to the nylons, that ten minutes under their nails was nearly as excrutiating as the entire hour I'd suffered earlier under the expert touch of Susan's nails.

I was now utterly and completely exhausted. Mike untied me while Sandy went upstairs for one of Judy's silk sleepshirts.

"You know," Mike said, grinning at me but talking to his wife, "all of my officemates who saw the video would probably love the chance to tickle the girl they saw on it."

"You're absolutely right," replied Sandy. Then, arching that eyebrow again looking at me, she added, "We could probably sell tickets."

With that possibility in the future, it took me a couple of hours to get to sleep in spite of my thorough fatigue.
 
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i remember seeing this story almost two years ago when it first was posted...it is as good now as it was then!!
 
Wow, great story!
If this would happen to me, I would die laughing. I would be tickled nearly to death!!!! OMG!!!

Please more of ths stuff!
 
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