Oblesklk
2nd Level Yellow Feather
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2001
- Messages
- 3,357
- Points
- 38
[Author's note: this is the beginning of the Yelena series. This is a tickling comic book available for sale. These stories serve as a good background for the main characters, a setup for each issue to start. This story is told through the eyes of Yelena.]
My name is Yelena and I am a witch.
These words are not artistic license, nor is this intended to be a work of fiction, though that possibility looms in the mortal mind.
I am over 600 years old, born in what is now modern day Romania. Back then, it was simply the Kingdom of Hungary. My ancestry traces back to various points in Eastern Europe and Russia, in some truly magnificent areas of the world. I have lived many generations with many cultures, and learned many cultures worth of languages. My lineage is a simple one, although technically it ended a long, long time ago.
Sometime around 700 AD my family had made a deal with the devil for a taste of his dark power. My ancestors, tired of living in utter squalor, felt they had to sell their souls to attain the level of comfort only afforded to royalty at the time. They were tired of sleeping with rats and eating like dogs in the harsh winters. We migrated a lot, and my naïve family wished to side with Lucifer in order to create their own paradise on Earth. That poorly thought out decision led to centuries of persecution and pain for those closest to us. Our pact with the devil ended much like all the others.
I spent most of my mortal life fleeing from those seeking to kill me. The Witch Hunters, first allied with the Church, gave chase to us wherever we went. There was never respite; their hunt was relentless. During our exile my grandmother taught me how to read in four different languages. As I grew up, I became a voracious student of all disciplines, and quickly read through thousands of books, hoping to secure an identity for myself, and find some meaning to my wretched existence.
In my search for knowledge, I came across several manuscripts penned by family scholars. One of the languages my grandmother taught me was a variant of something called a thieves cant. It is a language passed on only through my family, and only we know how to read and write it. That collection of manuscripts comprised about 8 volumes on the basics of practicing witchcraft. It taught me everything I needed to know to get started. It taught me protection wards, charms, visions, and curses. I studied those texts for about 20 years, mastering what precious little there was left.
In addition to studying these texts, I also added to them.*
In the end, I had discovered through a series of experiments how to extend my own life. I was 44 when I learned how to do this. After some careful thought, I backed my physical appearance to my mid 20s, the apex of my beauty and physical prowess. I’ve retained all the wisdom of my many lives, but also enjoy the fluidity of youth.
After I mastered the art of immortality, I began to expand my learnings even further to prevent an unnatural death of disease or violence from taking me away from this beautiful world. Those 8 precious volumes I found still exist in my apartment today. They lay beside the 4,352 additional volumes I have since added to them over the centuries. So as you can imagine, I’ve grown beyond being a “dabbler” in the Arts.
And yet, I’ve been unable to use that power very often. You see, the pact with the devil was supposed to end after a couple centuries. That was never written into the contract, it was simply Lucifer’s implied outcome, since the mortals would never allow such power to exist in their superstitious societies. Through the Church, he forged a means of disposing of the last of the witches. But his task remains unfinished: I am still alive.
So why would the devil care if some unsuspecting twenty something year old witch lives among the mortals? He cares because I draw from his power to weave my spells. Although I have never passed on the trade to another, we no longer live in a society ruled by the superstitious. As generations pass, the probability of acceptance of my craft grows. In time, I could even open my own school and introduce an entirely new generation to the wonders of witchcraft. That open-ended invitation into his power pool frightens him beyond all else.
The contract is still in full effect, so he cannot simply end it. However, there’s nothing to stop him to sending others to end my existence. So he has. For 500 years now he’s attempted to find me and end the drain from his power; to end this one loophole in the contract signed many centuries ago. As long as I use weaker spells, he cannot get a trace on me. Any time I’m forced to use a strong spell, the amount of power consumed is easier to trace. So then I am forced to run, to take on yet another life to evade those that hunt me. I have been running for my entire life. Rarely am I able to find peace, I have to be constantly mindful of the servants of the Dark Lord.
For they have hunted me with a passion. The Witch Hunters all but exterminated my family, and now they scan the world looking for the one piece to the puzzle that allows them to complete their own deal with Lucifer. They will enjoy all the riches of the Nine Hells if they just complete this one task: my eradication. So they tend to that one task tirelessly, day and night.
It is important to note my powers may seem dark and demonic because I draw from Lucifer’s power. However, it is not entirely accurate. I have found the nature’s manipulations depend entirely on the person wielding it. I have crafted several beautiful things and helped many people through the use of my knowledge. I have healed the sick; given solace to the lonely, and allowed the disenfranchised become empowered through the power of their own minds. And I’ve done all this channeling power from Him. That has, no doubt, expanded his anger significantly, to know I refuse to obey His will.
For now, I am safe. I am one of the world’s largest cities in the United States of America, a new country whose core ideals I value highly. Although there is an unspoken caste system here, there is no social enforcement of action upon the classes. They are free to mingle socially as they see fit, something I’ve not encountered much before. I have tried to find peace here. I’ve had several careers recently, and lead a rather exciting life in a gorgeous 4,000 square feet downtown top-level apartment. How much does such an abode cost? Well not much, actually. I was able to use my charms to get inside the head of the easily swayed landlord. He does a good job of maintaining his highest tiers accommodations, but he is a crooked, corrupt, and morally reprehensible character. While those character flaws prove tiresome for my mortal counterparts, I delight in using them to secure cheap residency for myself. My books and manuscripts line the two libraries of the apartment. There I practice my witchcraft in secret, gaining knowledge of the world around me, as well as exploring power structures unimagined by any of my ancestors.
I have constructed a powerful ward around the apartment, allowing me to practice any manner of spell I choose, without being traced by the Witch Hunters. It works perfectly, except that I still cannot use most of my powers outside my home. But…I’m working on that.
So you might think, from my above description, that I am a bookish nerd that sits all day and pens her dissertations alone. Quite the contrary, I lead an active daily life as well. Over the years, I have held many titles, performed many professions, and interacted with millions of people. Right now I am working as a model. I will never be destined for superstardom, but that is more than all right with me. My career is blooming, the designers are all too willing to accept my lie that I’m only 20, and I am able to find a steady stream of work that I find interesting.
It is through this desire to expand my skill in modeling that I met Gretchen.
I have met many women like Gretchen in my journeys. But for Gretchen, she was born in the right place and time. In the 21st century, women with her drive, ambition, and talents are not relegated to the background as they were in the days of yore. She is an exceptional woman, and one whose passion I admire greatly.
So greatly, in fact, that we have become lovers over the past two months.
Now, I should explain a couple of things here. First, it would be myopic to label me a lesbian. I have taken in many men into my bedroom during my lifetimes, and loved a great number of them, as well. And when the circumstances warranted, I have also experimented quite heavily with other women. But these experimentations were few in number, due to the taboo nature of that desire. I am very firmly bisexual, and it only took me 150 years to admit that to myself. I find myself attracted to the entirety of a person, rather than the manner their sex organs dangle.
The second thing I wanted to explain is about Gretchen. She is a goddess among women. She is literally worshipped all over the world, wherever her picture is posted. She has achieved the level of stardom in international fashion modeling and through her charity work that most women would kill for. She is only 24, yet is worth more than $70 million due to her incredible demand. She could demand millions for the endorsement of a single product or clothing line, and her agent’s phone would still keep ringing.*
Because of our situations, we have to keep our relationship absolutely secret.
It is not because lesbianism is taboo in an industry dominated by many talented homosexual men. It is indirectly because Gretchen recently ended a 13-month poisonous marriage to the lead singer of “Screaming Syphilis,” an industrial metal band whose music I actually quite enjoyed until I learned the sordid affairs of their backstage hijinx. After that, that song list slowly faded from use in my mp3 player.
Her marriage, and the related fallout, created a massive buzz in the tabloids. It gave Gretchen an incredible amount of exposure, and ended up boosting her career to unbelievable dimensions. Soon after the ugly televised divorce proceedings, she had offers from all over the world. People couldn’t get enough. She said it was just dizzying, her agent would call her at 3am, telling her to board a plane for Madrid in four hours, because a new spring product line, photography crew, and a check for $1.2m would be waiting for her. So she went. And she’s been riding that wave of superstardom for several months now.
Although the marriage and its termination boosted her career, there is such a thing as too much concentrated, bad publicity. If Gretchen were caught in the middle of a secret lesbian affair with another model, the scandal would splash across the front page of every publication she never wants to see her picture on. She fears the industry would see her as an attention whore creating ridiculous situations just to further her career. If the two of us were ever found out, the backlash might be palpable.
As for me, any exposure at that level would be ill advised. I am content to live the life of a semi successful model for now. But I am not prepared to enter super stardom, especially since I am attempting to live a button down, muted life to avoid exposing myself to the Witch Hunters. If Gretchen and I were found out now, the paparazzi would be camped outside my apartment 24/7, and that is the one place I do not want a lot of public scrutiny, given the libraries inside.
So we keep it quiet. It may not always be like this, but for now it has to be.
I finish typing that last sentence, wondering how long I can really keep our relationship secret. Men are constantly buzzing around Gretchen with an unparalleled avarice, and people constantly quiz me about my love life. After a time, I wonder how long people will accept that “No, I don’t have a boyfriend right now” as a viable excuse after a couple of years.
I muse for a moment in peace, and then notice the clock reads 3:25pm. Shit! I need to meet Gretchen and some other models at the salon to get ready for tonight’s shoot. Hitting save on the computer and running to the bedroom, I hastily throw on a cute halter top, slip on one of my favorite pair of sandals, and start sprinting downstairs, hoping to God I can find a taxi within a couple minutes.
A bruised shin, and 2 near misses later, the cab ends up being 15 minutes late, which is about 10 minutes earlier than Gretchen and her entourage arrive. She is beset at all times by security and an image consultant who works hourly with her agent to ensure her client’s presentation is as best as it can be.
And it is. I’m just standing there like a dufus waiting for someone to help me, when Gretchen pours through the door, lighting up the entire room. In addition to her omnipresent security and image consultant, three other models arrive with her, all part of tonight’s shoot.
I’ve known these three girls for the better part of a year now; we’ve done about six jobs together. They tend to travel as a pack for whatever reason, and today they’ve decided to attach themselves to Gretchen. Gretchen looks absolutely stunning, as usual. Her blonde hair floats about her shoulders and back effortlessly, the effects of absolutely perfect grooming products and a high-end stylist. She quickly scans the room, but her sunglasses hide any show of excitement in her eyes when she spots me waiting for them. She gazes at me for just a moment, stops scanning the room, and immediately approaches the hostess to the get the spa treatment going. Her poker face never fades. Never smiling nor showing too much emotion, Gretchen is the consummate businesswoman.
After check in, the three girls and Gretchen come over to me and give me a warm welcome and kiss on the cheek.
“Are you excited about tonight?”
Having seen Gretchen again, I totally forgot about tonight. I have a “date” with one of the French fashion photographers, a friend of a friend blind date thing. Although I wasn’t feeling it, my agent advised me to see him anyway; any connection is a good connection. But right now, my passion rests for only one woman, my desire focused with pinpoint accuracy on the blonde goddess before me. The one for whom I can’t show any public affection.
Gretchen knows about the date, and says nothing when the girls first question me. I just laugh at the question, and say yes, it should be fun. After this, Gretchen blows past me, giving me the cold shoulder and storms off into the private room set aside for us.
“Come on, you tag along, we have to get going or we’re going to be late,” Gretchen announces abruptly.
After she leaves, one of the girls rolls her eyes and gives me a hug as we follow Gretchen in.
“Don’t worry about that,” she says “Gretchen has been in some weird mood all day. She’s actually pretty cool when you get to know her.”
I smile and try not to let it bother me. I know Gretchen acts tough and rude in her job, but she’s never spoken like that to me. The comment cut like a knife, and I can’t help but wonder how much of her comment was real, and how much was just a part of the act?
We all pretend, in our daily lives. We pretend to be something we’re clearly not, in order to continue the existence we’ve chosen. Gretchen’s words were an act, but how upset was she that I was seeing this guy tonight? We’re not exclusive, and she knew I was doing it just to expand my professional connections. But something there still didn’t seem right.
I decided to let it go, giggle and go with the girls into the spa.
I take some banal entertainment magazine with me, and sit in the chair awaiting my attendant. Looking down at my sandals, I quickly kick them off and start casting a protection ward on my feet. They’re very sensitive, and I didn’t feel like losing face in front of the girls tonight. My attendant comes in, and begins the process.
He’s going at it with his pumice, when some squirming catches my eye. It is Gretchen. With my sunglasses on, I still keep my head down pretending to read. However, her movements quickly catch my attention, and I draw my eyes upward to catch every detail of her body in action.
There’s a reason that Gretchen insists on a private room when getting pedicures. She attempted to secure a private room for herself today. But due to a scheduling mix-up we had to get our’s the same time as her. Although most believe it is because she is an egotistical, stuck up bitch, I am beginning to quickly realize the real truth.*
She is not relaxed as she usually is. Gretchen is the kind of woman that knows how to handle her environment. People like that are usually found at ease, relaxed, and never rattled when things change unexpectedly. But not here. She is clearly out of her element here. She throws her head back and a pained grimace takes over her face.
The attendant grabs his pumice and it may as well be an ancient torture device for Gretchen. She grips her chair with a vice like grip, trying to maintain her composure. As the attendant applies the pumice to the soles of her feet, she jerks around in her chair as though electrocuted. The movements are haphazard, sudden, and borderline alarming. I didn’t know women her age could be that ticklish. It makes me wonder why she bothers getting pedicures. And yet, her feet are always gorgeous, she must have them often. I then wonder, how many times does she come here, and how many agonizing hours has she spent in that chair?
“Oh fuck!” is the first phrase she thinks to utter. She twists and squirms in the chair, not giving in to the laughter. The attendant smiles, hiding a true and utter frustration as the foot he’s trying to smooth out is writhing and squirming to an extent that he cannot perform his duties.
I try not to stare, but cannot help myself.
I haven’t shared an important aspect of my sexuality with Gretchen yet. I have a profound and deep-seated love of tickling and laughter. Both have been critical components of my sexuality, and it’s just something that hasn’t been brought up yet. Over the centuries, the men who were able to make me laugh the hardest usually won my affections. Gretchen is no different. When taken away from the lights and glamour, she is actually a very warm and funny woman.
And now, seeing this model becoming unhinged by something simple as a pedicure is more than I can bear right now. Gretchen has a large amount of discipline and self-constraint. I can tell this is unbearable, and yet she refuses to laugh. She digs her nails deeper into the chair, hums loudly, and offers the room a variety of colorful and vulgar curses to withstand the procedure. But she never laughs.
Not once.
I look at her, and a wave of unadulterated desire and lust overtake me. I feel myself tempted to lift the protection on own feet, wanting to feel what she feels. I know how ticklish my feet are, so I can partially empathize with her. But I resist the temptation, keep my protective barrier safely where it’s at, and satisfy myself just with Gretchen’s squirming.
The other girls pretend not to notice, but I see them stare at Gretchen out of the corners of their eyes. Not out of lust, but out of wonder and slight embarrassment for this powerful woman reduced to a pile of ticklish jelly. I notice some of the other girls jerk their feet at first, and Kati even giggled for about five seconds straight, holding her magazine in front of her face to hide her laughter. But nothing like Gretchen’s reactions.
The wave of lust roars within me. I have an acute desire to strip off her clothes right here in the salon, and tickle every inch of her perfectly toned and ticklish body. I also have a growing desire…no, a need…to give her repeated orgasms tonight. I don’t know why, sometimes the human mind is a curious collection of loosely balanced needs and wants.
Regardless, I know I must take action. I think back to my apartment, and there is a devise…a specialty crafted piece of furniture I created a long time ago for another lover of mine. She was German, soft, redheaded, with such beautiful alabaster skin. In a time where showing ankles was a sign of harlotry, you can imagine her surprise when I stripped her down almost entirely naked, and put her in my specially crafted torture device. She didn’t know I loved tickling at that time, but she found out soon thereafter. I got her to confess the most amazing things to me while she was in it, after she had 4 screaming orgasms and the most amazing ticklish reactions.
But that’s another story, for another time…
The pedicure wraps up, Gretchen’s breathing slows back down to normal. The bill is paid and we find ourselves three blocks up the road in a dressing room, making last minute preparations before the evening shoot. My date is in exactly 2 hours, but I can’t hold off on seeing Gretchen any longer.
We’ve long had talks about our secret fantasies and desires. I have several relating to sensuality and control, but I’ve never shared the tickling fantasy with her. I consider the rest of the fantasies just good fun, but I take the tickling side of my personality much too seriously to just blurt it out thoughtlessly whenever the mood strikes. It has to be conveyed at the right time.
Gretchen shared with me that she’s always had the fantasy of being kidnapped in front of everyone, and held at the sadistic whims of her kidnappers for an undisclosed time. With security, it would never happen. I joked around and told her I would kidnap her, but we’ve never done it. It was just too hard to pull off, given the attention she gets. I detected a trace amount of sadness in her voice when she confessed this. It was as though she knew she could never live out that fantasy, given her status.
But tonight is different. She confessed her desires to a witch of great means, and now great motivation. Now that I know how ticklish she is, I am going to make this little tart beg for mercy. I will crush her dominant spirit, and make her apologize for the comment.
Then when all that is said and done, I will show her the sensuous side of tickling. I will make her explode with ecstasy repeatedly, until she loves tickling a 10% as much as I do.
The sheer thought of it makes my head pound, and heart skip a beat. I cannot breathe, I get sweaty and worry it will ruin my makeup. I quickly murmur a spell to calm my breathing and nerves. It quickly takes effect, and I smile.
Though I am now calmed, my desire cannot be contained. I approach her non-chalantly before the shoot, in front of the other girls, and whisper into her ear from behind, so no one can hear.
“Precisely 10 minutes after this shoot is done, you will be taken in front of a dozen witnesses”
The other girls stare at me, not hearing what I said. They think I am talking shit into her ear, and wait for Gretchen to explode in some fit of rage. But she does not explode. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her smile, ever so slightly, in the mirror. The other girls give me a questioning look, but say nothing. If nothing else, they will murmur behind my back about what guts and stupidity I have, to take on and talk shit to one of the world’s hottest models right now. Let them gossip.
I just threw down the gauntlet to one of the world’s most beautiful women. And I can’t wait for my date to get done tonight…!
[Issue one shows Yelena on her date, and telling Gretchen she's going to be kidnapped in public. The story continues in the comic from there]
My name is Yelena and I am a witch.
These words are not artistic license, nor is this intended to be a work of fiction, though that possibility looms in the mortal mind.
I am over 600 years old, born in what is now modern day Romania. Back then, it was simply the Kingdom of Hungary. My ancestry traces back to various points in Eastern Europe and Russia, in some truly magnificent areas of the world. I have lived many generations with many cultures, and learned many cultures worth of languages. My lineage is a simple one, although technically it ended a long, long time ago.
Sometime around 700 AD my family had made a deal with the devil for a taste of his dark power. My ancestors, tired of living in utter squalor, felt they had to sell their souls to attain the level of comfort only afforded to royalty at the time. They were tired of sleeping with rats and eating like dogs in the harsh winters. We migrated a lot, and my naïve family wished to side with Lucifer in order to create their own paradise on Earth. That poorly thought out decision led to centuries of persecution and pain for those closest to us. Our pact with the devil ended much like all the others.
I spent most of my mortal life fleeing from those seeking to kill me. The Witch Hunters, first allied with the Church, gave chase to us wherever we went. There was never respite; their hunt was relentless. During our exile my grandmother taught me how to read in four different languages. As I grew up, I became a voracious student of all disciplines, and quickly read through thousands of books, hoping to secure an identity for myself, and find some meaning to my wretched existence.
In my search for knowledge, I came across several manuscripts penned by family scholars. One of the languages my grandmother taught me was a variant of something called a thieves cant. It is a language passed on only through my family, and only we know how to read and write it. That collection of manuscripts comprised about 8 volumes on the basics of practicing witchcraft. It taught me everything I needed to know to get started. It taught me protection wards, charms, visions, and curses. I studied those texts for about 20 years, mastering what precious little there was left.
In addition to studying these texts, I also added to them.*
In the end, I had discovered through a series of experiments how to extend my own life. I was 44 when I learned how to do this. After some careful thought, I backed my physical appearance to my mid 20s, the apex of my beauty and physical prowess. I’ve retained all the wisdom of my many lives, but also enjoy the fluidity of youth.
After I mastered the art of immortality, I began to expand my learnings even further to prevent an unnatural death of disease or violence from taking me away from this beautiful world. Those 8 precious volumes I found still exist in my apartment today. They lay beside the 4,352 additional volumes I have since added to them over the centuries. So as you can imagine, I’ve grown beyond being a “dabbler” in the Arts.
And yet, I’ve been unable to use that power very often. You see, the pact with the devil was supposed to end after a couple centuries. That was never written into the contract, it was simply Lucifer’s implied outcome, since the mortals would never allow such power to exist in their superstitious societies. Through the Church, he forged a means of disposing of the last of the witches. But his task remains unfinished: I am still alive.
So why would the devil care if some unsuspecting twenty something year old witch lives among the mortals? He cares because I draw from his power to weave my spells. Although I have never passed on the trade to another, we no longer live in a society ruled by the superstitious. As generations pass, the probability of acceptance of my craft grows. In time, I could even open my own school and introduce an entirely new generation to the wonders of witchcraft. That open-ended invitation into his power pool frightens him beyond all else.
The contract is still in full effect, so he cannot simply end it. However, there’s nothing to stop him to sending others to end my existence. So he has. For 500 years now he’s attempted to find me and end the drain from his power; to end this one loophole in the contract signed many centuries ago. As long as I use weaker spells, he cannot get a trace on me. Any time I’m forced to use a strong spell, the amount of power consumed is easier to trace. So then I am forced to run, to take on yet another life to evade those that hunt me. I have been running for my entire life. Rarely am I able to find peace, I have to be constantly mindful of the servants of the Dark Lord.
For they have hunted me with a passion. The Witch Hunters all but exterminated my family, and now they scan the world looking for the one piece to the puzzle that allows them to complete their own deal with Lucifer. They will enjoy all the riches of the Nine Hells if they just complete this one task: my eradication. So they tend to that one task tirelessly, day and night.
It is important to note my powers may seem dark and demonic because I draw from Lucifer’s power. However, it is not entirely accurate. I have found the nature’s manipulations depend entirely on the person wielding it. I have crafted several beautiful things and helped many people through the use of my knowledge. I have healed the sick; given solace to the lonely, and allowed the disenfranchised become empowered through the power of their own minds. And I’ve done all this channeling power from Him. That has, no doubt, expanded his anger significantly, to know I refuse to obey His will.
For now, I am safe. I am one of the world’s largest cities in the United States of America, a new country whose core ideals I value highly. Although there is an unspoken caste system here, there is no social enforcement of action upon the classes. They are free to mingle socially as they see fit, something I’ve not encountered much before. I have tried to find peace here. I’ve had several careers recently, and lead a rather exciting life in a gorgeous 4,000 square feet downtown top-level apartment. How much does such an abode cost? Well not much, actually. I was able to use my charms to get inside the head of the easily swayed landlord. He does a good job of maintaining his highest tiers accommodations, but he is a crooked, corrupt, and morally reprehensible character. While those character flaws prove tiresome for my mortal counterparts, I delight in using them to secure cheap residency for myself. My books and manuscripts line the two libraries of the apartment. There I practice my witchcraft in secret, gaining knowledge of the world around me, as well as exploring power structures unimagined by any of my ancestors.
I have constructed a powerful ward around the apartment, allowing me to practice any manner of spell I choose, without being traced by the Witch Hunters. It works perfectly, except that I still cannot use most of my powers outside my home. But…I’m working on that.
So you might think, from my above description, that I am a bookish nerd that sits all day and pens her dissertations alone. Quite the contrary, I lead an active daily life as well. Over the years, I have held many titles, performed many professions, and interacted with millions of people. Right now I am working as a model. I will never be destined for superstardom, but that is more than all right with me. My career is blooming, the designers are all too willing to accept my lie that I’m only 20, and I am able to find a steady stream of work that I find interesting.
It is through this desire to expand my skill in modeling that I met Gretchen.
I have met many women like Gretchen in my journeys. But for Gretchen, she was born in the right place and time. In the 21st century, women with her drive, ambition, and talents are not relegated to the background as they were in the days of yore. She is an exceptional woman, and one whose passion I admire greatly.
So greatly, in fact, that we have become lovers over the past two months.
Now, I should explain a couple of things here. First, it would be myopic to label me a lesbian. I have taken in many men into my bedroom during my lifetimes, and loved a great number of them, as well. And when the circumstances warranted, I have also experimented quite heavily with other women. But these experimentations were few in number, due to the taboo nature of that desire. I am very firmly bisexual, and it only took me 150 years to admit that to myself. I find myself attracted to the entirety of a person, rather than the manner their sex organs dangle.
The second thing I wanted to explain is about Gretchen. She is a goddess among women. She is literally worshipped all over the world, wherever her picture is posted. She has achieved the level of stardom in international fashion modeling and through her charity work that most women would kill for. She is only 24, yet is worth more than $70 million due to her incredible demand. She could demand millions for the endorsement of a single product or clothing line, and her agent’s phone would still keep ringing.*
Because of our situations, we have to keep our relationship absolutely secret.
It is not because lesbianism is taboo in an industry dominated by many talented homosexual men. It is indirectly because Gretchen recently ended a 13-month poisonous marriage to the lead singer of “Screaming Syphilis,” an industrial metal band whose music I actually quite enjoyed until I learned the sordid affairs of their backstage hijinx. After that, that song list slowly faded from use in my mp3 player.
Her marriage, and the related fallout, created a massive buzz in the tabloids. It gave Gretchen an incredible amount of exposure, and ended up boosting her career to unbelievable dimensions. Soon after the ugly televised divorce proceedings, she had offers from all over the world. People couldn’t get enough. She said it was just dizzying, her agent would call her at 3am, telling her to board a plane for Madrid in four hours, because a new spring product line, photography crew, and a check for $1.2m would be waiting for her. So she went. And she’s been riding that wave of superstardom for several months now.
Although the marriage and its termination boosted her career, there is such a thing as too much concentrated, bad publicity. If Gretchen were caught in the middle of a secret lesbian affair with another model, the scandal would splash across the front page of every publication she never wants to see her picture on. She fears the industry would see her as an attention whore creating ridiculous situations just to further her career. If the two of us were ever found out, the backlash might be palpable.
As for me, any exposure at that level would be ill advised. I am content to live the life of a semi successful model for now. But I am not prepared to enter super stardom, especially since I am attempting to live a button down, muted life to avoid exposing myself to the Witch Hunters. If Gretchen and I were found out now, the paparazzi would be camped outside my apartment 24/7, and that is the one place I do not want a lot of public scrutiny, given the libraries inside.
So we keep it quiet. It may not always be like this, but for now it has to be.
I finish typing that last sentence, wondering how long I can really keep our relationship secret. Men are constantly buzzing around Gretchen with an unparalleled avarice, and people constantly quiz me about my love life. After a time, I wonder how long people will accept that “No, I don’t have a boyfriend right now” as a viable excuse after a couple of years.
I muse for a moment in peace, and then notice the clock reads 3:25pm. Shit! I need to meet Gretchen and some other models at the salon to get ready for tonight’s shoot. Hitting save on the computer and running to the bedroom, I hastily throw on a cute halter top, slip on one of my favorite pair of sandals, and start sprinting downstairs, hoping to God I can find a taxi within a couple minutes.
A bruised shin, and 2 near misses later, the cab ends up being 15 minutes late, which is about 10 minutes earlier than Gretchen and her entourage arrive. She is beset at all times by security and an image consultant who works hourly with her agent to ensure her client’s presentation is as best as it can be.
And it is. I’m just standing there like a dufus waiting for someone to help me, when Gretchen pours through the door, lighting up the entire room. In addition to her omnipresent security and image consultant, three other models arrive with her, all part of tonight’s shoot.
I’ve known these three girls for the better part of a year now; we’ve done about six jobs together. They tend to travel as a pack for whatever reason, and today they’ve decided to attach themselves to Gretchen. Gretchen looks absolutely stunning, as usual. Her blonde hair floats about her shoulders and back effortlessly, the effects of absolutely perfect grooming products and a high-end stylist. She quickly scans the room, but her sunglasses hide any show of excitement in her eyes when she spots me waiting for them. She gazes at me for just a moment, stops scanning the room, and immediately approaches the hostess to the get the spa treatment going. Her poker face never fades. Never smiling nor showing too much emotion, Gretchen is the consummate businesswoman.
After check in, the three girls and Gretchen come over to me and give me a warm welcome and kiss on the cheek.
“Are you excited about tonight?”
Having seen Gretchen again, I totally forgot about tonight. I have a “date” with one of the French fashion photographers, a friend of a friend blind date thing. Although I wasn’t feeling it, my agent advised me to see him anyway; any connection is a good connection. But right now, my passion rests for only one woman, my desire focused with pinpoint accuracy on the blonde goddess before me. The one for whom I can’t show any public affection.
Gretchen knows about the date, and says nothing when the girls first question me. I just laugh at the question, and say yes, it should be fun. After this, Gretchen blows past me, giving me the cold shoulder and storms off into the private room set aside for us.
“Come on, you tag along, we have to get going or we’re going to be late,” Gretchen announces abruptly.
After she leaves, one of the girls rolls her eyes and gives me a hug as we follow Gretchen in.
“Don’t worry about that,” she says “Gretchen has been in some weird mood all day. She’s actually pretty cool when you get to know her.”
I smile and try not to let it bother me. I know Gretchen acts tough and rude in her job, but she’s never spoken like that to me. The comment cut like a knife, and I can’t help but wonder how much of her comment was real, and how much was just a part of the act?
We all pretend, in our daily lives. We pretend to be something we’re clearly not, in order to continue the existence we’ve chosen. Gretchen’s words were an act, but how upset was she that I was seeing this guy tonight? We’re not exclusive, and she knew I was doing it just to expand my professional connections. But something there still didn’t seem right.
I decided to let it go, giggle and go with the girls into the spa.
I take some banal entertainment magazine with me, and sit in the chair awaiting my attendant. Looking down at my sandals, I quickly kick them off and start casting a protection ward on my feet. They’re very sensitive, and I didn’t feel like losing face in front of the girls tonight. My attendant comes in, and begins the process.
He’s going at it with his pumice, when some squirming catches my eye. It is Gretchen. With my sunglasses on, I still keep my head down pretending to read. However, her movements quickly catch my attention, and I draw my eyes upward to catch every detail of her body in action.
There’s a reason that Gretchen insists on a private room when getting pedicures. She attempted to secure a private room for herself today. But due to a scheduling mix-up we had to get our’s the same time as her. Although most believe it is because she is an egotistical, stuck up bitch, I am beginning to quickly realize the real truth.*
She is not relaxed as she usually is. Gretchen is the kind of woman that knows how to handle her environment. People like that are usually found at ease, relaxed, and never rattled when things change unexpectedly. But not here. She is clearly out of her element here. She throws her head back and a pained grimace takes over her face.
The attendant grabs his pumice and it may as well be an ancient torture device for Gretchen. She grips her chair with a vice like grip, trying to maintain her composure. As the attendant applies the pumice to the soles of her feet, she jerks around in her chair as though electrocuted. The movements are haphazard, sudden, and borderline alarming. I didn’t know women her age could be that ticklish. It makes me wonder why she bothers getting pedicures. And yet, her feet are always gorgeous, she must have them often. I then wonder, how many times does she come here, and how many agonizing hours has she spent in that chair?
“Oh fuck!” is the first phrase she thinks to utter. She twists and squirms in the chair, not giving in to the laughter. The attendant smiles, hiding a true and utter frustration as the foot he’s trying to smooth out is writhing and squirming to an extent that he cannot perform his duties.
I try not to stare, but cannot help myself.
I haven’t shared an important aspect of my sexuality with Gretchen yet. I have a profound and deep-seated love of tickling and laughter. Both have been critical components of my sexuality, and it’s just something that hasn’t been brought up yet. Over the centuries, the men who were able to make me laugh the hardest usually won my affections. Gretchen is no different. When taken away from the lights and glamour, she is actually a very warm and funny woman.
And now, seeing this model becoming unhinged by something simple as a pedicure is more than I can bear right now. Gretchen has a large amount of discipline and self-constraint. I can tell this is unbearable, and yet she refuses to laugh. She digs her nails deeper into the chair, hums loudly, and offers the room a variety of colorful and vulgar curses to withstand the procedure. But she never laughs.
Not once.
I look at her, and a wave of unadulterated desire and lust overtake me. I feel myself tempted to lift the protection on own feet, wanting to feel what she feels. I know how ticklish my feet are, so I can partially empathize with her. But I resist the temptation, keep my protective barrier safely where it’s at, and satisfy myself just with Gretchen’s squirming.
The other girls pretend not to notice, but I see them stare at Gretchen out of the corners of their eyes. Not out of lust, but out of wonder and slight embarrassment for this powerful woman reduced to a pile of ticklish jelly. I notice some of the other girls jerk their feet at first, and Kati even giggled for about five seconds straight, holding her magazine in front of her face to hide her laughter. But nothing like Gretchen’s reactions.
The wave of lust roars within me. I have an acute desire to strip off her clothes right here in the salon, and tickle every inch of her perfectly toned and ticklish body. I also have a growing desire…no, a need…to give her repeated orgasms tonight. I don’t know why, sometimes the human mind is a curious collection of loosely balanced needs and wants.
Regardless, I know I must take action. I think back to my apartment, and there is a devise…a specialty crafted piece of furniture I created a long time ago for another lover of mine. She was German, soft, redheaded, with such beautiful alabaster skin. In a time where showing ankles was a sign of harlotry, you can imagine her surprise when I stripped her down almost entirely naked, and put her in my specially crafted torture device. She didn’t know I loved tickling at that time, but she found out soon thereafter. I got her to confess the most amazing things to me while she was in it, after she had 4 screaming orgasms and the most amazing ticklish reactions.
But that’s another story, for another time…
The pedicure wraps up, Gretchen’s breathing slows back down to normal. The bill is paid and we find ourselves three blocks up the road in a dressing room, making last minute preparations before the evening shoot. My date is in exactly 2 hours, but I can’t hold off on seeing Gretchen any longer.
We’ve long had talks about our secret fantasies and desires. I have several relating to sensuality and control, but I’ve never shared the tickling fantasy with her. I consider the rest of the fantasies just good fun, but I take the tickling side of my personality much too seriously to just blurt it out thoughtlessly whenever the mood strikes. It has to be conveyed at the right time.
Gretchen shared with me that she’s always had the fantasy of being kidnapped in front of everyone, and held at the sadistic whims of her kidnappers for an undisclosed time. With security, it would never happen. I joked around and told her I would kidnap her, but we’ve never done it. It was just too hard to pull off, given the attention she gets. I detected a trace amount of sadness in her voice when she confessed this. It was as though she knew she could never live out that fantasy, given her status.
But tonight is different. She confessed her desires to a witch of great means, and now great motivation. Now that I know how ticklish she is, I am going to make this little tart beg for mercy. I will crush her dominant spirit, and make her apologize for the comment.
Then when all that is said and done, I will show her the sensuous side of tickling. I will make her explode with ecstasy repeatedly, until she loves tickling a 10% as much as I do.
The sheer thought of it makes my head pound, and heart skip a beat. I cannot breathe, I get sweaty and worry it will ruin my makeup. I quickly murmur a spell to calm my breathing and nerves. It quickly takes effect, and I smile.
Though I am now calmed, my desire cannot be contained. I approach her non-chalantly before the shoot, in front of the other girls, and whisper into her ear from behind, so no one can hear.
“Precisely 10 minutes after this shoot is done, you will be taken in front of a dozen witnesses”
The other girls stare at me, not hearing what I said. They think I am talking shit into her ear, and wait for Gretchen to explode in some fit of rage. But she does not explode. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her smile, ever so slightly, in the mirror. The other girls give me a questioning look, but say nothing. If nothing else, they will murmur behind my back about what guts and stupidity I have, to take on and talk shit to one of the world’s hottest models right now. Let them gossip.
I just threw down the gauntlet to one of the world’s most beautiful women. And I can’t wait for my date to get done tonight…!
[Issue one shows Yelena on her date, and telling Gretchen she's going to be kidnapped in public. The story continues in the comic from there]
