The first two parts of this story were written to fulfill the request of another member, and are found in this thread:
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=143034
Nowthis is part 3, with some suggestions made by sexyfeline. I hope it is enjoyable to those who have commented favorably on the first two parts.
MISTAKEN IDENTITY, part 3
. . . you tense, dreading the torment I have so kindly described for you. Then, I lick. I draw the tip of my tongue against the high, soft, arched instep. Your shrill cry hurts my ears, yet I am encouraged by your response. Flickering like a snake, I slither my strong tongue over your soles, your toes, and the sides of your feet, moving from one to the other. You are hysterical, babbling incoherently, your body arched high and spasming. Your feet are frantic, but there is no escape from my tickling tongue. There is never any escape. I invade the spaces between your toes, becoming intoxicated at your howls for mercy. I continue for countless minutes until I hear you fighting for air, at which point I must stop.
Your sobs touch my heart. Most prisoners at this point will be screaming, cursing, threatening, or, hopefully, telling me all I want to know. Your sobs seem borne of genuine fear and despair. I don't quite understand; how were you trained? One would almost think you were an innocent angel instead of the devious rebel I have been told you are. Your sobs touch my heart--but do not soften it. You know what I need.
"You know what I need, Kylie. Just tell me and this agony will stop. There is no shame in this. Everyone breaks under my torment. It is simply a question
of whether you will retain your sanity in the end. I will keep doing this until you tell me the code. Does it make sense to resist? Do you enjoy the tickle
torture, is that why you won't tell me, because you want this to continue?"
"No no no no no no no," you whimper repeatedly. It is time to make the interrogation . . . more excruciating. And then there are three short knocks on the door. I know who that is. "I'll be right back, my morsel. It appears that my colleagues are not pleased with your reticence. I'm sure they will demand that I increase your suffering. See you soon." You do not even respond, you simply lay there groaning.
I leave the room and face the one who knocked. The Torturess. Strawberry hair, green eyes, porcelain skin, tall, muscular, and voluptuous. I fear her more than I fear death itself. Her voice is measured and cold. "I see she is still hesitant to reveal what she knows. Have you lost your skills?" Her scowl chills me.
"No, my dearest, she simply will not talk. I am about to escalate my torments. I will double my efforts!"
"I hope so . . ." she says, "for your sake. Or else, you will take her place on the table. I will make you scream while she watches. I might even let her loose upon you. Can you imagine her thirst for revenge right now?" Her gaze is evil. I try to remain calm but she knows I am quivering inside. "I haven't put you through a harrowing in some time now. I thirst for tickle domination." The price we all pay for working at this agency is that we must submit quarterly to the very torments we unleash upon our prisoners. The Torturess takes great delight in stretching me across her X-frame, naked, and tickling every inch of me for hours. And hours. And hours. My screams only serve to energize her lust for tickling. The worst part of these quarterly sessions is that she wants no information, no promises, no compromises. She only wants her prisoner to writhe in hysterical tickle agony, to finally be released and crumble on the floor, broken, quivering, and kissing her feet for mercy. I am known as cruel and merciless; but her vicious and sadistic tickling makes me seem like a kitten.
She leans close to my face, her lips almost touching mine. "Listen, my pet. We need that data, NOW! You do whatever you need to do to make her talk. I want her wrung dry and shattered. Indeed, she is strong. Personally I think she secretly enjoys it, but you must determine that, and then use it against her. We need that box opened tonight; you have one more hour. If she is still silent, then I will come in and ravage her, and afterward punish you for days on end for your failure." I hear her drop a shoe off one foot; reflexively I look down and see her bare alabaster skin, her long toes with their red painted nails, which she wriggles to tempt me. "I know your every weakness, my darling," she purrs. "And I will make you crumble if you fail us." She kisses me long and deep, our tongues dancing. Our love for each other is subtle and convoluted. She draws back, lingering her lips against mine. "Now get back in there and strip her mind naked."
I enter the chamber once more, and again you turn toward me. "Who's there, who's there!"
"It is your tormentor once again, my sweet." You whimper. "The Torturess is not pleased. Is the data inside the box worth all this suffering? I have been
instructed to inflict greater tickling cruelty upon you." You wail: "HOW MUCH MORE CRUEL CAN YOU BE! WHO THE HELL IS THE TORTURESS?!"
That is a question you should not have asked. "You should not have asked that question, my morsel, because you will not like the answer." My answer will be increased tickle agony.
I move close, stroke my fingers lightly from your cheek down to the hollows of your underarms, delighting in your reaction: you jump, giggle, and raise goosebumps. I lean into your ear, tickling you again with my whispers. "I have some wonderfully exquisite . . . tortures for you." You unleash another torrent of vulgarity, weaving a tapestry of profanity that hangs like a gauzy curtain in the room. It is time.
"I am going to release you from this table, my puppet." You tell me thank you, thank you, thank you, over and over. Poor child, you have no idea. I untie
your toes, release your ankles, and then release a wrist, bringing it over quickly to your other wrist and linking the cuffs together before I release the clasp from the table. I tug at your bound wrists to make you sit up; I help you stand and hold you against me for balance. I give you some more juice. "Come with me to the platform." You say nothing; I pull you with me, your steps uncertain, but I help you. Across the room stands the platform. It is waist-high to me, with steps on one side. "Climb up here, carefully now, there you go." You whimper, and I'm surprised you haven't fought or tried to escape, or otherwise resisted. I guide you upward, helping you to kneel on the padded leather. A padded post rises up from the middle, waist-high to you, with two soft leather straps attached to it. A bar with D-rings hangs from the ceiling. I unclasp your wrist hooks and bring them up to the spreader bar, so now your arms are stretched up in a "Y". You begin to whimper and plead, you beg me to let you go, you don't know any code, you're not Kylie, you'll do anything to make it stop. I ignore your babblings. The leather straps on the post are attached to your legs about mid-thigh. You will be able to wriggle, just enough to think you can escape my touch, but the illusion will soon be broken as you realize there is no hope. The platform angles slightly upward to the rear, and it is sized such that your delicate feet dangle over the edge. Your legs are separated about shoulder width apart, locked in ankle cuffs, where I want them to be. The final step is to tie each big toe to a D-ring with a soft suede thong. Your bondage is complete. Your chest heaves as you breathe rapidly in fear. I check to make sure your bonds are snug, but not too tight. I want you to be comfortable while you are being tortured.
"Now, my damsel, the hour is at hand. There is no point in being coy: you know we need that data tonight. You are thinking you can hold out long enough. But I am about to visit upon you the most ferocious tickle torture you could ever imagine . . . worse than your darkest nightmares. And if, somehow, you can hold out past the critical point in time, then I will be angry. The Torturess will be angry. You won't like us when we're angry. Your punishment will be long and devastating. So why not just whisper the code to me?" You wail once more. Standing in front of you, I reach up, caressing your hair, and finally unfasten the blindfold. You blink and then stare, taking in the sight of your personal tormentor, then look around the room. You spot the tool table, with its assortment of brushes, feathers, and mechanical devices, and shriek.
"Do you like the implements, my dear? I have more to try on you. And I must say, I am disappointed in your reluctance to issue forth anything from those
rosebud lips but lies and profanity. Therefore you will lose the privilege to talk at all." I plunge my index finger deep into your soft navel, vibrating it against
the bottom, causing you to open your mouth in a silent tickle scream. I really must get a copy of that painting. Quickly I stuff the blindfold cloth into your
mouth, making it a gag, and tie it around the back of your head. It is more a symbolic gag than a true gag; you can still breathe through your mouth and
make loud sounds. However, it has worked as planned: your eyes grow wide with terror, realizing that there is nothing you can say to mediate the tortures I am about to unleash upon you.
I pick up the ostrich feather duster in one hand and a stiff goose feather in the other. I show them to you, smiling. Your eyes grow wide and your muffled screams and thrashing intoxicate me. "I am going to slowly drag these feathers up and down your back, and along your sides. I am going to trace my fingertips along the soles of your feet, and drag the quill end of my feather up and down your insteps. Those are MY feet, tied and helpless for my amusement. Since you have nothing useful to say, I will simply indulge my unquenchable lust for tickle torture. And you are my torture toy." More screams, more thrashing; how delicious.
Behind you, I raise the duster up to your neck, and then touch it to your neck as you shudder, and then trail it down your spine. You shiver, whimper, and try to arch your body as far as the bonds will allow. Starting at the top of your sheer panties, I draw the duster upward, slowly, deliberately, flickering it against your spine. For several minutes I do this; I delight in your bucking, heaving, squirming, and panting. The tickle torture dance is my favorite form of expression. Then I stop, leaving you heaving for breath. I switch to the stiff single feather. I press the tip into the base of your spine, making you jump. Then I trail the tip upward, tracing it slowly, so slowly, along your spine, outlining each vertebrae, up to your neck, then flickering it across your ears, up and down your arms, and twirling it into your underarms. I love the sound as your squeal into your gag. Then I stop. I pick up the duster with my free hand, and using both implements, I lightly tickle your sides. You squirm, unable to escape; whichever way you twist, right or left, some sort of feather awaits . . . and you whine in despair. You hang your head in defeat as the feathers fluff up and down your sides, from hips to shoulders, now on your neck, twirling into your hollow underarms, now and then on the silken insides of your thighs. Wait . . . oh wait . . . do your hips begin to gyrate? Do I see the hint of swelling in the cleft of your panties? And then, and then, I hear it: a low, long, throaty moan. Yes--yes--oh yes! The Torturess was so right! You ENJOY this! Oh, my prisoner, my pet, you will break soon. I have you now.
Putting down the feathers, I touch my fingertips to your back. You jump and moan again. You are not expecting this: lightly I scratch your back, and you mew like a kitten. Then I trace the soft tips up and down with feathery touches; you whine, frantically trying to buck your hips. I dance my fingers randomly, keeping you off balance, now at your hips, now in your soft underarms, across the back of your neck, massaging for a minute, then firmly tracing your spine. Your moans are deeper, almost animal grunts now, and you desperately try to squeeze your thighs together, restrained by the straps. Cruel, I stop.
You whine, long and piercing. "What is wrong, my pet?" I whisper into your ear. "Is there something you want to say?" You nod up and down vigorously. I remove the gag.
Between gasps, barely able to speak, you plead. "Please . . . what do you want . . . I swear . . . I don't know code . . . not Kylie . . . I'll do anything . . . please . . . " What? How can this be? My time is running out. I must unleash a greater agony.
I go to the tool table, and pick up the Wahl massagers with the spiked rubber attachments. I display them to you. "These are destined for your tender feet," I declare. Your eyes grow even wider with fear, and you shriek. "WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE HELL OH MY GOD--"
"I told you, your god has abandoned you! Your new god is tickling, and you are the sacrifice!" Your cries for release are a symphony.
On the way to the rear of the platform, where your delicious feet hang over the back, soles stretched and helpless, I pick up another accessory. This is a frame that fits over the rear of the platform, into which the vibrating massagers fit, such that the rubber spikes rest against the ball and toes of each foot. When set on low, the massagers create a ferocious buzzing tickling sensation that elicits screams from the most hardened prisoner. While the big toes are bound, the other toes are free to wriggle and squirm; as they do so, they cause the massagers to bounce and sway, adding even more torment. It is a cruel dilemma: the massagers tickle, causing the toes to wriggle, and the more the toes wriggle, the more the massagers bounce and scrape across the toes, causing even more tickle torture, in an endless escalation of merciless anguish.
As I set up the foot tickling frame, you beg. I describe the torment you are about to endure. "You know, it will be better if you try to keep your toes still once the torture begins. If you wriggle, it will cause the spikes to brush across your feet and only increase the tickling agony." You sob. Everything is ready; I only need to push the switches. "I hope that you will suffer honorably . . . but if you wish to beg for mercy, I will now hear your pleas."
Suddenly bold, you shout, "You Bundaberg-swilling bastard, you'll get no such pleasure from me!" Very well then, my foolish morsel. I slide the switches.
You scream as your body vibrates. Nothing could have prepared you for this. Unable to stop your feet from their tickle-spasms, you suffer even more as the ticklers bounce and sway across your soft soles and toes. You thrash with all your might, howling in despair, trying to rip the spreader bar from the ceiling. I watch this dance for several minutes, letting the massagers do their work without pity, without mercy, relentless, and finally I switch them off.
I bring you water and watch carefully. I make sure you are not hurt and not about to faint. Gasping, heaving, sobbing, you hang limp, your chin against your chest. When I remove the framework from the rear of the platform, your poor feet are still twitching. I must confess a secret: the Torturess has used this device on me, and I could not bear it. It will be used on me again if I fail to extract the code. I would rather die. Therefore I must play my ace card right now.
I brush your damp hair away from your face and stroke your cheeks. You do not react, you only hang limp, still gasping. Now I will break you. "Did you like the merciless foot tickling torture device?" I ask sweetly.
"No no no no no no no, no more, please no more," you whimper faintly.
I lean closer. "But I do so want to tickle your feet again, endlessly, relentlessly. I love it." More pleas from you, no more, no more, you'll do anything . . . I pause, and deliver the final stroke. "I'll make a deal with you then, my tender tickle toy. I'll leave your feet alone, if you tell me some other place you want to be tickled instead."
You pause for only a moment. "My back," you whisper. "Just use the . . . feathers on . . . my back . . . like you did . . . just . . . please not . . . my feet."
"WHOSE FEET?"
"YOUR feet . . . Tormentor . . . please have mercy on your feet . . I can't take this . . . "
I win. And now to make certain you are truly broken. Just seventeen minutes left on the Torturess's deadline, but I will have the code by then, I am certain. "Just one more thing, my precious treat. The strap of your bra interferes with the rhythm of my tickling on your back. You have such a beautiful back. I want to see your back so bare and smooth, a work of art from nature. May I remove your bra?"
You whimper. "Oh nooooooooo . . . why . . . "
I lean close and tickle your ear once more with staccato whispers, while reaching around and tracing my figertips along your spine. You sigh deeply. "Are you sure? I just want your smooth back all to myself. Say yes. I can tear off your bra any time I want, but I want you to ask me."
You scrunch up your face. "I knew . . . you were . . . a freak."
I chuckle. "Oh my sweet, do you think I'm a voyeur? I have a lover who gives me all I need . . . more than I need, if truth be told. No, I don't want your body, I want your mind. And I will possess your mind through tickling, and I simply want more bare flesh to tickle. Of course, I could go back to my favorite pasttime, wriggling my fingertips along the base of your helpless toes."
"Okay okay!" you cry.
"Okay what?"
"Okay you can . . . take off . . . my bra."
"Beg me," I tell you. "Beg me to take it off so I can tickle your back."
"Please take it off . . . so you can . . . tickle my back."
I am so cruel as I stroke your smooth back with both hands now. "Say it like you mean it!"
You draw a deep breath. "Please, please take off my bra so you can tickle my back!"
"If you insist," I respond. I go around to the back, reach up, and slowly undo the clasp. Slowly, because I can never figure out how to work those things. Picking up the feathers, I begin again. "Thank you," I say, "for offering your bare back to me." And I tickle, slowly, as before, while you begin to sigh and mew, and moan, and twitch your hips. Only a few minutes left; I need to bring you to the quivering edge of ultimate pleasure, and then stop, and whisper in your ear that I'll tickle you anywhere you want me to, any way you want me to, if only you tell me the code--
--and then I hear the coded knock of the Torturess. Damn her! What the hell--I still have a few minutes left! I suppose this is something critical; but if she was waiting for the opportune moment, that was NOT it.
"I must attend to the Torturess, my pet," I whisper into your ear. You whine. "She is going to want to know if you have told me the code. Think about it, please. You can surrender yourself to me, and I'll reward you with all the tickling pleasure you could crave, or you can have her burst in here and devastate your feet with savage endless tickling. And you don't want that."
I open the door and face the Torturess. I expect a look of a smug triumph, but instead she looks very worried. "I almost have her! You're early! Please give me a few more minutes!"
She waves her hands to silence me. "No, wait, that's not Kylie."
I scowl. "No kidding, that's what she keeps saying."
"No no no, you don't understand--that's really not Kylie. Some agents just captured Kylie in Sydney. I have no idea who that is in there." She paused. Oh hell, now what.
TO BE CONTINUED... stay tuned for part 4 of 4
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=143034
Nowthis is part 3, with some suggestions made by sexyfeline. I hope it is enjoyable to those who have commented favorably on the first two parts.
MISTAKEN IDENTITY, part 3
. . . you tense, dreading the torment I have so kindly described for you. Then, I lick. I draw the tip of my tongue against the high, soft, arched instep. Your shrill cry hurts my ears, yet I am encouraged by your response. Flickering like a snake, I slither my strong tongue over your soles, your toes, and the sides of your feet, moving from one to the other. You are hysterical, babbling incoherently, your body arched high and spasming. Your feet are frantic, but there is no escape from my tickling tongue. There is never any escape. I invade the spaces between your toes, becoming intoxicated at your howls for mercy. I continue for countless minutes until I hear you fighting for air, at which point I must stop.
Your sobs touch my heart. Most prisoners at this point will be screaming, cursing, threatening, or, hopefully, telling me all I want to know. Your sobs seem borne of genuine fear and despair. I don't quite understand; how were you trained? One would almost think you were an innocent angel instead of the devious rebel I have been told you are. Your sobs touch my heart--but do not soften it. You know what I need.
"You know what I need, Kylie. Just tell me and this agony will stop. There is no shame in this. Everyone breaks under my torment. It is simply a question
of whether you will retain your sanity in the end. I will keep doing this until you tell me the code. Does it make sense to resist? Do you enjoy the tickle
torture, is that why you won't tell me, because you want this to continue?"
"No no no no no no no," you whimper repeatedly. It is time to make the interrogation . . . more excruciating. And then there are three short knocks on the door. I know who that is. "I'll be right back, my morsel. It appears that my colleagues are not pleased with your reticence. I'm sure they will demand that I increase your suffering. See you soon." You do not even respond, you simply lay there groaning.
I leave the room and face the one who knocked. The Torturess. Strawberry hair, green eyes, porcelain skin, tall, muscular, and voluptuous. I fear her more than I fear death itself. Her voice is measured and cold. "I see she is still hesitant to reveal what she knows. Have you lost your skills?" Her scowl chills me.
"No, my dearest, she simply will not talk. I am about to escalate my torments. I will double my efforts!"
"I hope so . . ." she says, "for your sake. Or else, you will take her place on the table. I will make you scream while she watches. I might even let her loose upon you. Can you imagine her thirst for revenge right now?" Her gaze is evil. I try to remain calm but she knows I am quivering inside. "I haven't put you through a harrowing in some time now. I thirst for tickle domination." The price we all pay for working at this agency is that we must submit quarterly to the very torments we unleash upon our prisoners. The Torturess takes great delight in stretching me across her X-frame, naked, and tickling every inch of me for hours. And hours. And hours. My screams only serve to energize her lust for tickling. The worst part of these quarterly sessions is that she wants no information, no promises, no compromises. She only wants her prisoner to writhe in hysterical tickle agony, to finally be released and crumble on the floor, broken, quivering, and kissing her feet for mercy. I am known as cruel and merciless; but her vicious and sadistic tickling makes me seem like a kitten.
She leans close to my face, her lips almost touching mine. "Listen, my pet. We need that data, NOW! You do whatever you need to do to make her talk. I want her wrung dry and shattered. Indeed, she is strong. Personally I think she secretly enjoys it, but you must determine that, and then use it against her. We need that box opened tonight; you have one more hour. If she is still silent, then I will come in and ravage her, and afterward punish you for days on end for your failure." I hear her drop a shoe off one foot; reflexively I look down and see her bare alabaster skin, her long toes with their red painted nails, which she wriggles to tempt me. "I know your every weakness, my darling," she purrs. "And I will make you crumble if you fail us." She kisses me long and deep, our tongues dancing. Our love for each other is subtle and convoluted. She draws back, lingering her lips against mine. "Now get back in there and strip her mind naked."
I enter the chamber once more, and again you turn toward me. "Who's there, who's there!"
"It is your tormentor once again, my sweet." You whimper. "The Torturess is not pleased. Is the data inside the box worth all this suffering? I have been
instructed to inflict greater tickling cruelty upon you." You wail: "HOW MUCH MORE CRUEL CAN YOU BE! WHO THE HELL IS THE TORTURESS?!"
That is a question you should not have asked. "You should not have asked that question, my morsel, because you will not like the answer." My answer will be increased tickle agony.
I move close, stroke my fingers lightly from your cheek down to the hollows of your underarms, delighting in your reaction: you jump, giggle, and raise goosebumps. I lean into your ear, tickling you again with my whispers. "I have some wonderfully exquisite . . . tortures for you." You unleash another torrent of vulgarity, weaving a tapestry of profanity that hangs like a gauzy curtain in the room. It is time.
"I am going to release you from this table, my puppet." You tell me thank you, thank you, thank you, over and over. Poor child, you have no idea. I untie
your toes, release your ankles, and then release a wrist, bringing it over quickly to your other wrist and linking the cuffs together before I release the clasp from the table. I tug at your bound wrists to make you sit up; I help you stand and hold you against me for balance. I give you some more juice. "Come with me to the platform." You say nothing; I pull you with me, your steps uncertain, but I help you. Across the room stands the platform. It is waist-high to me, with steps on one side. "Climb up here, carefully now, there you go." You whimper, and I'm surprised you haven't fought or tried to escape, or otherwise resisted. I guide you upward, helping you to kneel on the padded leather. A padded post rises up from the middle, waist-high to you, with two soft leather straps attached to it. A bar with D-rings hangs from the ceiling. I unclasp your wrist hooks and bring them up to the spreader bar, so now your arms are stretched up in a "Y". You begin to whimper and plead, you beg me to let you go, you don't know any code, you're not Kylie, you'll do anything to make it stop. I ignore your babblings. The leather straps on the post are attached to your legs about mid-thigh. You will be able to wriggle, just enough to think you can escape my touch, but the illusion will soon be broken as you realize there is no hope. The platform angles slightly upward to the rear, and it is sized such that your delicate feet dangle over the edge. Your legs are separated about shoulder width apart, locked in ankle cuffs, where I want them to be. The final step is to tie each big toe to a D-ring with a soft suede thong. Your bondage is complete. Your chest heaves as you breathe rapidly in fear. I check to make sure your bonds are snug, but not too tight. I want you to be comfortable while you are being tortured.
"Now, my damsel, the hour is at hand. There is no point in being coy: you know we need that data tonight. You are thinking you can hold out long enough. But I am about to visit upon you the most ferocious tickle torture you could ever imagine . . . worse than your darkest nightmares. And if, somehow, you can hold out past the critical point in time, then I will be angry. The Torturess will be angry. You won't like us when we're angry. Your punishment will be long and devastating. So why not just whisper the code to me?" You wail once more. Standing in front of you, I reach up, caressing your hair, and finally unfasten the blindfold. You blink and then stare, taking in the sight of your personal tormentor, then look around the room. You spot the tool table, with its assortment of brushes, feathers, and mechanical devices, and shriek.
"Do you like the implements, my dear? I have more to try on you. And I must say, I am disappointed in your reluctance to issue forth anything from those
rosebud lips but lies and profanity. Therefore you will lose the privilege to talk at all." I plunge my index finger deep into your soft navel, vibrating it against
the bottom, causing you to open your mouth in a silent tickle scream. I really must get a copy of that painting. Quickly I stuff the blindfold cloth into your
mouth, making it a gag, and tie it around the back of your head. It is more a symbolic gag than a true gag; you can still breathe through your mouth and
make loud sounds. However, it has worked as planned: your eyes grow wide with terror, realizing that there is nothing you can say to mediate the tortures I am about to unleash upon you.
I pick up the ostrich feather duster in one hand and a stiff goose feather in the other. I show them to you, smiling. Your eyes grow wide and your muffled screams and thrashing intoxicate me. "I am going to slowly drag these feathers up and down your back, and along your sides. I am going to trace my fingertips along the soles of your feet, and drag the quill end of my feather up and down your insteps. Those are MY feet, tied and helpless for my amusement. Since you have nothing useful to say, I will simply indulge my unquenchable lust for tickle torture. And you are my torture toy." More screams, more thrashing; how delicious.
Behind you, I raise the duster up to your neck, and then touch it to your neck as you shudder, and then trail it down your spine. You shiver, whimper, and try to arch your body as far as the bonds will allow. Starting at the top of your sheer panties, I draw the duster upward, slowly, deliberately, flickering it against your spine. For several minutes I do this; I delight in your bucking, heaving, squirming, and panting. The tickle torture dance is my favorite form of expression. Then I stop, leaving you heaving for breath. I switch to the stiff single feather. I press the tip into the base of your spine, making you jump. Then I trail the tip upward, tracing it slowly, so slowly, along your spine, outlining each vertebrae, up to your neck, then flickering it across your ears, up and down your arms, and twirling it into your underarms. I love the sound as your squeal into your gag. Then I stop. I pick up the duster with my free hand, and using both implements, I lightly tickle your sides. You squirm, unable to escape; whichever way you twist, right or left, some sort of feather awaits . . . and you whine in despair. You hang your head in defeat as the feathers fluff up and down your sides, from hips to shoulders, now on your neck, twirling into your hollow underarms, now and then on the silken insides of your thighs. Wait . . . oh wait . . . do your hips begin to gyrate? Do I see the hint of swelling in the cleft of your panties? And then, and then, I hear it: a low, long, throaty moan. Yes--yes--oh yes! The Torturess was so right! You ENJOY this! Oh, my prisoner, my pet, you will break soon. I have you now.
Putting down the feathers, I touch my fingertips to your back. You jump and moan again. You are not expecting this: lightly I scratch your back, and you mew like a kitten. Then I trace the soft tips up and down with feathery touches; you whine, frantically trying to buck your hips. I dance my fingers randomly, keeping you off balance, now at your hips, now in your soft underarms, across the back of your neck, massaging for a minute, then firmly tracing your spine. Your moans are deeper, almost animal grunts now, and you desperately try to squeeze your thighs together, restrained by the straps. Cruel, I stop.
You whine, long and piercing. "What is wrong, my pet?" I whisper into your ear. "Is there something you want to say?" You nod up and down vigorously. I remove the gag.
Between gasps, barely able to speak, you plead. "Please . . . what do you want . . . I swear . . . I don't know code . . . not Kylie . . . I'll do anything . . . please . . . " What? How can this be? My time is running out. I must unleash a greater agony.
I go to the tool table, and pick up the Wahl massagers with the spiked rubber attachments. I display them to you. "These are destined for your tender feet," I declare. Your eyes grow even wider with fear, and you shriek. "WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE HELL OH MY GOD--"
"I told you, your god has abandoned you! Your new god is tickling, and you are the sacrifice!" Your cries for release are a symphony.
On the way to the rear of the platform, where your delicious feet hang over the back, soles stretched and helpless, I pick up another accessory. This is a frame that fits over the rear of the platform, into which the vibrating massagers fit, such that the rubber spikes rest against the ball and toes of each foot. When set on low, the massagers create a ferocious buzzing tickling sensation that elicits screams from the most hardened prisoner. While the big toes are bound, the other toes are free to wriggle and squirm; as they do so, they cause the massagers to bounce and sway, adding even more torment. It is a cruel dilemma: the massagers tickle, causing the toes to wriggle, and the more the toes wriggle, the more the massagers bounce and scrape across the toes, causing even more tickle torture, in an endless escalation of merciless anguish.
As I set up the foot tickling frame, you beg. I describe the torment you are about to endure. "You know, it will be better if you try to keep your toes still once the torture begins. If you wriggle, it will cause the spikes to brush across your feet and only increase the tickling agony." You sob. Everything is ready; I only need to push the switches. "I hope that you will suffer honorably . . . but if you wish to beg for mercy, I will now hear your pleas."
Suddenly bold, you shout, "You Bundaberg-swilling bastard, you'll get no such pleasure from me!" Very well then, my foolish morsel. I slide the switches.
You scream as your body vibrates. Nothing could have prepared you for this. Unable to stop your feet from their tickle-spasms, you suffer even more as the ticklers bounce and sway across your soft soles and toes. You thrash with all your might, howling in despair, trying to rip the spreader bar from the ceiling. I watch this dance for several minutes, letting the massagers do their work without pity, without mercy, relentless, and finally I switch them off.
I bring you water and watch carefully. I make sure you are not hurt and not about to faint. Gasping, heaving, sobbing, you hang limp, your chin against your chest. When I remove the framework from the rear of the platform, your poor feet are still twitching. I must confess a secret: the Torturess has used this device on me, and I could not bear it. It will be used on me again if I fail to extract the code. I would rather die. Therefore I must play my ace card right now.
I brush your damp hair away from your face and stroke your cheeks. You do not react, you only hang limp, still gasping. Now I will break you. "Did you like the merciless foot tickling torture device?" I ask sweetly.
"No no no no no no no, no more, please no more," you whimper faintly.
I lean closer. "But I do so want to tickle your feet again, endlessly, relentlessly. I love it." More pleas from you, no more, no more, you'll do anything . . . I pause, and deliver the final stroke. "I'll make a deal with you then, my tender tickle toy. I'll leave your feet alone, if you tell me some other place you want to be tickled instead."
You pause for only a moment. "My back," you whisper. "Just use the . . . feathers on . . . my back . . . like you did . . . just . . . please not . . . my feet."
"WHOSE FEET?"
"YOUR feet . . . Tormentor . . . please have mercy on your feet . . I can't take this . . . "
I win. And now to make certain you are truly broken. Just seventeen minutes left on the Torturess's deadline, but I will have the code by then, I am certain. "Just one more thing, my precious treat. The strap of your bra interferes with the rhythm of my tickling on your back. You have such a beautiful back. I want to see your back so bare and smooth, a work of art from nature. May I remove your bra?"
You whimper. "Oh nooooooooo . . . why . . . "
I lean close and tickle your ear once more with staccato whispers, while reaching around and tracing my figertips along your spine. You sigh deeply. "Are you sure? I just want your smooth back all to myself. Say yes. I can tear off your bra any time I want, but I want you to ask me."
You scrunch up your face. "I knew . . . you were . . . a freak."
I chuckle. "Oh my sweet, do you think I'm a voyeur? I have a lover who gives me all I need . . . more than I need, if truth be told. No, I don't want your body, I want your mind. And I will possess your mind through tickling, and I simply want more bare flesh to tickle. Of course, I could go back to my favorite pasttime, wriggling my fingertips along the base of your helpless toes."
"Okay okay!" you cry.
"Okay what?"
"Okay you can . . . take off . . . my bra."
"Beg me," I tell you. "Beg me to take it off so I can tickle your back."
"Please take it off . . . so you can . . . tickle my back."
I am so cruel as I stroke your smooth back with both hands now. "Say it like you mean it!"
You draw a deep breath. "Please, please take off my bra so you can tickle my back!"
"If you insist," I respond. I go around to the back, reach up, and slowly undo the clasp. Slowly, because I can never figure out how to work those things. Picking up the feathers, I begin again. "Thank you," I say, "for offering your bare back to me." And I tickle, slowly, as before, while you begin to sigh and mew, and moan, and twitch your hips. Only a few minutes left; I need to bring you to the quivering edge of ultimate pleasure, and then stop, and whisper in your ear that I'll tickle you anywhere you want me to, any way you want me to, if only you tell me the code--
--and then I hear the coded knock of the Torturess. Damn her! What the hell--I still have a few minutes left! I suppose this is something critical; but if she was waiting for the opportune moment, that was NOT it.
"I must attend to the Torturess, my pet," I whisper into your ear. You whine. "She is going to want to know if you have told me the code. Think about it, please. You can surrender yourself to me, and I'll reward you with all the tickling pleasure you could crave, or you can have her burst in here and devastate your feet with savage endless tickling. And you don't want that."
I open the door and face the Torturess. I expect a look of a smug triumph, but instead she looks very worried. "I almost have her! You're early! Please give me a few more minutes!"
She waves her hands to silence me. "No, wait, that's not Kylie."
I scowl. "No kidding, that's what she keeps saying."
"No no no, you don't understand--that's really not Kylie. Some agents just captured Kylie in Sydney. I have no idea who that is in there." She paused. Oh hell, now what.
TO BE CONTINUED... stay tuned for part 4 of 4
