Ballad of a Submissive (Genders based on you, the reader!)

Author's Note: This is my attempt to try an epic tickling poem. I've done my best to remove all gender from the story. This means you can make the characters however you wish. Enjoy.

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Ballad of a Submissive


Let me tell you all a story
one that is too long to list.
It is the story of my life
for I am a masochist.

Now, before you get all nervous
let me make it clearly plain,
that a masochist like me
is not about receiving pain.

I would never want a spanking
nor would I like to be whipped.
But there's other types of suffering
to which I'm well equipped.

A tough one I am not
but I can handle what I'm dealt.
Yet just the thought of "tickle"
tends to make my courage melt.

I thought I'd be alone in this
noone could comprehend
that I crave this kind of torment
where I'm unable to defend.

When we first met, it wasn't long
before you understood.
You promised me "Dreams can come true,"
as this one truly would.

--

Next thing I know, I'm lying there,
spread-eagle on the bed.
My wrists and ankles shackled down,
thoughts flying through my head.

Could I, would I survive this?
How much time would I last?
I hoped it would take hours;
that the time not pass so fast.

You smiled as you took me in,
my head down to my toes.
A simple pair of underwear
was all I had for clothes.

To test my true submission,
you ask this question first.
"Of all the tickle spots on you,
which ones rank as the worst?"

I stop, just for a moment,
building anticipation.
This question's one I'll answer
with no pause or hesitation.

"My feet are the most sensitive,
followed by pits and thighs."
I should have known how bad it'd be
by the fire in your eyes.

Straddling my waist, you pause,
making sure your weight was steady.
You waved your fingers in the air,
and asked me, "Are you ready?"

While opening my mouth to speak,
I laugh out all my air
My readiness, it seems,
was not a topic which you cared.

Your hands had flown down to my ribs,
your fingers, they were poking.
I guess when you said you're a pro,
you really were not joking!

I struggled in my bonds a bit,
but it was not so rough.
In fact, if we are facing facts,
I could not get enough!

A minute passed, or maybe more.
I really didn't count.
Your fingers trailed down to my waist,
and did my laughter mount!

You chuckled to yourself because
you'd found a weaker spot.
You found that if you used your nails,
I squirmed around a lot.

Settling your weight on me
made struggling much tougher.
Yet when you squeezed my hips a bit,
my bucking got much rougher!

With a look that says "I will not stop,"
you whistled up a tune.
Ignoring that your tickling
was making me a loon.

Just when my laughter died a bit,
and I was sensitized.
Your hands trailed down a little more,
and grazed against my thighs.

Within a second, if not less,
I let out such a scream!
Who would have guessed that this was fun;
my acting out a dream.

Now beaming down at my dismay,
you dig your fingers in.
I do not think that you're a priest,
but I confess my sins.

You discover my weakest spot
is just above my knees.
You're telling me that you will stop
if I just use a "Please."

Though tears are welling in my eyes
I will not surrender.
Your fingers go under my knees,
a spot even more tender.

I howl, I thrash, I shake my head,
trying to move my leg.
"I give, I give, oh please a rest!"
You've gone and made me beg.

You cease your torture, for a bit,
with a smile a mile wide.
I take this time to catch my breath,
just clinging to my pride.

You ask if I'm ready for more.
I can't resist your charms.
My love for you does fade a bit
when you touch my underarms.

You promise you'll be gentle
since I'm lying so exposed.
But when you use that spider stroke,
I know that I've been hosed.

With all my strength, I do my best
to escape from my ties.
You swear another break is near.
I know you're full of lies.

In circles on my underarms,
your fingers seem to fly.
I laugh until I cannot breathe.
I think that I might die.

It must be pity that you take;
for you slow your assault.
Reminding me I asked for this,
so that it's all my fault.

Now that my lungs have got some air,
you speed back up again.
Inside my head I tell myself
I shouldn't be your friend.

You say that you'll go easy now,
and that you'll use a brush.
What we both know is that they're worse;
so soft, so fine, so plush.

Showing me a make up brush,
you say its made of sable.
There's two or three of other kinds
that lie there on the table.

Sadistic person that you are,
you hold it up aloft.
Letting it drop slowly
so I ponder bristles soft.

The giggling begins right off,
as hard as I might fight.
Your eyes tell me this will not end,
I may lie here all night.

The brush continues lowering,
with devious intent.
I scream out loud and shake my head,
there's such frustration pent.

You use this opportunity
to drop the brush down low.
My screaming turns to peals of mirth,
I struggle to and fro.

The bristles swirl from side to side,
then up and down as well.
Your fingers tease my other pit;
is this Heaven or Hell?

I pound my head against the bed,
I cannot take much more.
My lungs are aching from the strain,
and my stomach is sore.

You pause a bit, watching my plight.
I must look like a fool.
I do not realize, in fact,
you want another tool.

Trying to be a sneaky one,
you hide it be'ind your back.
But when I hear the buzz it makes,
I have a heart attack.

"Oh God, not that," I plead with you.
I have no courage left.
A tool like that will murder me,
when used by one so deft.

You hold both brushes overhead
and say you'll count to three.
Ignoring all my cries for help,
discrediting my plea.

By "One" I'm babbling like a nit.
At "Two" I'm close to tears.
Yet deep inside I know that I
have wanted this for years.

I close my eyes and bite my lip,
hoping to block it out.
The minute toothbrush touches skin,
I writhe around and shout.

Both implements are torturous,
each in a different way.
One teases lightly all around,
letting the bristles splay.

The other is quite the machine,
emotionless and firm.
The spinning head against my flesh
turns me into a worm.

A minute passes, perhaps more.
I have no sense of time.
My sanity abandons me;
a truly heinous crime.

I laugh and laugh until I'm hoarse,
and then my mouth is silent.
The thrashing on the bed slows down;
I am no longer violent.

It seems I am exhausted now,
surely there is no more.
A glimpse of hope runs through my mind
as brushes hit the floor.

With eyes half-closed, I see you stand,
to observe my submisison.
"I think its time for us to try
another fun position."

An insane scream runs through my mind,
also exhiliration.
While part of me begs to be free,
I can't resist temptation.

You quickly undo cuffs and ties.
I contemplate escape.
Yet when I hear what you have planned,
all I can do is gape.

Leading me down another hall,
you open up a door.
Before me is a set of stocks
just waiting on the floor.

I cannot move, I cannot breathe.
My mind is in upheaval.
This large and frightening device
looks eerily medieval.

Once I recover my right mind,
I turn and our eyes meet.
"What better way for me to pay
attention to your feet!"

You lead me over to the chair,
and ask me to be seated.
Blink of an eye, and I comply;
my dream has been completed.

You cuff my wrists above me
to a hook up in the wall.
A strap around my waist ensures
I will not buck or fall.

With looks that say "I'm loving this",
you open up the holes.
I place my feet inside the stocks,
surrendering my soles.

You close and lock my feet up tight,
and I belong to you.
We both are smiling miles wide,
because we know its true.

You hesitate, just for a bit,
unsure of how to start.
The seconds feel ten hours long
inside my throbbing heart.

Your fingernails attack my feet
without a word of warning.
The evil glimmer in your eyes
says I'll be here til morning.

The movements never stay for long.
You do provide some give.
You're searching for the spots, today,
that are most sensitive.

You scrape your nails against my heels,
which doesn't tickle much.
A fingertip upon my arch s'a more effective touch.

The higher up my foot, it seems,
the more my laughter grows.
Balls of my feet cause me to squeak,
and oh, my precious toes!

Each part of them is hyper "lish",
the pads, under, between.
You take your time on each new spot,
just listening to me scream.

At last, you stop, and I collapse,
convinced that you are through.
"Oh honey, that was just the start;
there's plenty more to do!"

You delve into your bag of tricks,
removing silken cords.
I sense your meaning plainly,
and I try to break the boards.

"Tsk tsk, my dear, this will not do,
you wish not to be free.
For if you do, just say the word,
and that is what you'll be.

But if you don't, then stop this mess;
just end this whole charade.
You want this tickle torture stuff.
Sleep in the bed you made!"

We're silent for a moment
as I contemplate your speech.
Dare I confess, and here remain,
when freedom's within reach?

Despite my most rational thought,
this is just what I crave.
So totally defenseless now;
somebody's tickle slave.

There's no point now for silly games,
you know my true desire.
I sit back, softly whispering
"I'll do what you require."

You grin a mile wide and say
"You've chosen what is best.
Now let me tie your toes back, please.
I'll take care of the rest."

Your task's completed easily,
for I don't try to fight.
I even spread my toes a bit,
to add more to my plight.

Once all ten toes are fast secured,
you show me your new lotion.
You say you only use this stuff
for those who show devotion.

Pouring a little on your palms,
you wipe it down my foot.
Instinctively, I try to squirm.
The ties make me stay put.

Once both my soles are covered well,
all oily and slick.
You rake your nails all over them.
From toes to heel real quick.

My eyes pop far out of my head.
My laughter is insane.
The oil and ties have both combined
to liquify my brain.

Dragging your nails across my soles,
you study my response.
Noticing my hysteria's
led to a Renaissance.

Though this is torture at its worst,
my struggling has ceased.
My bondage has, ironically,
unleashed a tickle beast!

Through peals of laughter, loud and clear,
you hear me beg for more!
You find its time to rummage through
your bag of tools galore.

This time, you remove two brushes;
each one meant for the hair.
With lightning speed, you sweep my soles.
I've no time to prepare.

The lotion you applied before
makes using them a breeze.
My torture now is serious.
You spare no time to tease.

I gasp for breath in between howls;
yet you don't hear a "Stop!"
In fact, feel free to tickle me
until, so weak, I drop.

You find I make the loudest sound;
it bounces off the walls.
When you scrape brushes up against
my oh-so-helpless balls. (of my feet, duh!)

You're sure I've reached my breaking point,
when in amidst my throes
You hear me barely speak the words,
"Oh please, tickle my toes!"

The brushes stop their mad assault.
You look into my eyes.
You see that my words were the truth,
with more than mild surprise.

That shock is quickly undermined
with sadistic intent.
I asked for it, and you'll be more
than happy to consent.

With steady eyes, I watch you plan
an ultimate retort.
I've gone ahead and challenged you.
This is no longer sport.

You turn and stare daggers at me.
"Now this should up the throttle."
I gander down, yet all I see. . .
Is one very plain bottle.

Slathering it against my toes,
I smell the scent of. . .lime?
While kneeling down to face my feet,
you tell me that it's time.

"It has been fun and games til now.
Your swan song has been sung.
Why don't you meet my favorite tool.
My nimble, agile tongue!"

Before your words enter my brain,
you're beginning to lick.
Now I understand just why
you poured it on so thick!

Mad laughter escapes from my lips
as I look at the ceiling.
In all my years upon this Earth,
this is the bestest feeling.

Your tongue is all you said and more.
It tickles like a beast.
And with my feet bound helplessly,
it must be quite the feast.

Dabbling upon the pads and
flicking up the stems.
Your touch is very gentle
as if toes are precious gems.

I'm laughing like I've lost my mind,
and maybe that's the case.
Yet if I had my deepest wish,
I'd never leave this place.

The thing that gets me howling most
is when your tongue's between.
You seem to find every square inch.
All crevices unseen.

Unlike before, you do not rest,
not even for a sec.
Not even though I have become
a babbling, cackling wreck.

Eventually, sensations fade;
and everything goes black.
You must have seen my eyes glaze o'er
for you cease your attack.

I'm past the point of speaking out,
though I have much to say.
I hear your voice talking to me.
You sound quite far away.

"Let's get you out of here to rest,
my darling ticklish pet.
There is still more to come for you.
I'm not through with you yet."

--

So now you've heard my tale, my friend.
I swear it is the truth.
I'm sorry if you found it crude;
or possibly uncouth.

Tis neither of those things.
Its more discovery of self.
The story of the day I put
"vanilla" on the shelf.

I'd re-emerged a brand new being;
for I had lived my dream.
And now was craving even more
those ticklings extreme.

It is my sincere hope that you
will one day do the same.
Go out and live your fantasies.
There is no need for shame.

I promise you, that if you do,
it will knock off your socks.
Oops, gotta run! It's time for fun.
My next date with the stocks!