ElFewja
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I finally sat down and edited this, and man, I feel a lot better about it than I did when I first wrote it. It’s certainly experimental, and I’m not even sure it’s done well, but it definitely is different. It’s… well, author/you; an attempt at a second person story. This is a result of a low level short story course I took a year or two ago, where we were discussing point of view and modes of narration; it had bothered me that we only really considered first and third points of view. I wanted to see if second person would work. Actually, I’m only just now remembering those choose your own adventure books, but shut up, I did this first. One thing I tried very hard to do was make this genderless; it’ll be the closest thing to /M that I ever write, so for those of you that read, I hope you enjoy it. Actually, what I think is cool about it is it can be read from either point of view; much more accessible from a ‘lee point of view, but definitely accessible as a ‘ler point of view, too. Well, kind of. I’m drawing on a lot of experiences with an Ex of mine for this story. I’m sure she’d notice. Didn’t throw in tongue, which I’m a little disappointed at now, but oh well; at any rate, enjoy.
Enter The Dungeon (Author/You all over)
You enter the basement, closing the rickety wooden door behind you before descending the hundred year old stone steps. Though there is no light save that of a single candle on the table in the room’s center, you are greeted at the bottom of the stairs with the familiar sight of the shadowy brick walls and various forms of bondage, as you’ve been to this dungeon many times before. The smell of dust and mildew cling heavily to the damp air that is almost too thick to inhale as you take in the sight. A wooden and dusty stockade sits in the farthest corner, directly opposite of where you have entered, and next to it is a well padded rack which forms an X against the wall. Next to that, in the room’s corner, left from the entrance cut into the brick wall, is a too small, lidless coffin, which has been sliced in half so that it acts like the stockade near it. In the corner straight ahead, there rests a very kinky bed, with high metal bars at the head, and more bars, though not as high, at the foot; in the center of the room a simple, circular wooden table rests, with various nicks about its legs and a simple black box on its top. Two chairs sit at the table, and even from where you stand now, you can see all the scratches made in the wood of both chairs and the table from handcuffs. Having become familiar with all the devices here long ago, you choose the bed, favoring the comfort it offers. The uneven cement clicks beneath your flip flops, which you have chosen in lieu of your sneakers today, those shoes that you normally chose specifically for the tight defense they freely offer to your sensitive soles, as you discovered in during your first session that your naked foot skin could not withstand thorough tickling. Unlike the rest of your body - naked save the flip-flops on your feet and the light undergarments that house your private area – you choose to guard your feet, partially because you desire the slim layer of protection but more accurately because you enjoy the brief moments when they are stripped from you, furthering the reality of your helplessness.
The bed is made and quite soft beneath your bare skin as you slowly lay yourself onto it. In order to not waste even a second, as you know both of us only have a limited time to play, you raise yourself to your knees and reach behind you, to the foot of the bed, grabbing the Velcro shackles that rest there as you do. Quickly, you fasten one tightly about your right ankle, and then the other to your left, feeling the hard edges bite into the soft flesh of your shins. Even after all this time, that feeling never became something you have gotten used to or liked, and will leave deep imprints in your flesh for all to see - as it always does - speaking the secrets of your twisted desires to anyone happening to look your way. Now that you have fastened your legs, you lie down upon your stomach, stretching across the long mattress in order to take the Velcro cuff on the top of the mattress, to your left, and strap it to your wrist, rendering you for the most part helpless and immobile. Unable to fasten the fourth and final strap yourself, you wait patiently in the bondage you have willing placed yourself into.
Though you hear me enter, my high boots clacking loudly as I descend the stairs, you can’t see me from where you are, and are forced to endure hearing me slowly approach without being able to discern just how close I am, each of my steps digging into your soul as you know what is about to begin. There is a silence for but a second, before the sounds of things rattling against one another can be heard; you are quite aware that I have picked up the black box containing my instruments. As I come within your eyesight, you see that I’m wearing my mask, giving me that cold, ruthless and entirely inhuman look about me that terrifies you in such an ecstatic way.
I fix the final cuff myself as you stare into the unrestrained relish and emotion in my eyes that threaten to devour you should your will falter for even a second. Now that you are fully restrained, I bend down, disappearing from your sight. Returning quickly, I now have in my hand a pointed wizard’s hat and black robe, which I don. That will be today’s role-play, you realize.
Quietly yet harshly I whisper into your ear that I intend to torture you until you tell me everything you know. Of course, you know you know nothing – know that there is nothing to speak – and you fiercely tell me you have no intention of saying a word while struggling against your bonds, faking a glare of fiery hatred. I laugh, a cold metallic laugh, ruthless as the mask I wear, and tell you that lying will get you nowhere. As I fix a black blindfold around your eyes, your vision disappears, like a candle blown out in a hurricane, before telling you what I intend to do to your defenseless body. You already know, but you hear the words all the same; that too many of the tortures leave marks, signatures of their tormentor written onto the body of their victim, and that I intend to use an ancient and diabolical method to draw the words from your lips; I intend to tickle you, to force you to laugh uncontrollably.
Your world is that of darkness, the strong scent of mildew, the feel of starchy sheets beneath you, and the sound of your own warm breath as it heats and moistens the blanket beneath your mouth; your breathing becomes quick and erratic as you feel the tension inside of you rise. Suddenly you become aware of your ears, as you feel the holes become plugged, and then there is nothing; you are completely shut out from the world around you, save for your sense of touch. I’ve never gone this far with you, and you aren’t sure if you can handle it. Silence accompanies this, and you realize that today you won’t be gagged, knowing that I want to hear your screams of laughter, and that it will be much worse than usual since I do want to hear them.
A slight tug at your right foot and you feel the cool air begin to harass the bottom of your heel while you draw in a sharp breath. Nails dance across your heel as the flip flop betrays your arch, revealing it to be tormented as you gasp and laugh at the simple touches bothering your heels like a fly upon your face while you are sleeping. The flip flop disappears entirely from your foot as a single finger slithers an S down your exposed sole; unable to pull away, you laugh lightly from the feeling. This finger caresses your sole while you feel your last bit of defense – the other flip flop – crawl away from you, slowly, the end scrapping against your foot as it leaves you. And then it is gone entirely, lost to you forever in this dungeon, and you are entirely helpless to my whims, though truthfully you are secretly glad to be rid of the foul things that hide your feet from the world, and enjoy every nano-second of their disappearance; distantly, your thoughts briefly spin words, memories tangoing about wildly, as you remember that I too enjoy removing these accursed shoes. Within yourself you feel the tension rise while you await my real attack.
There is nothing, and you become nervous. You listen, but hear nothing through the ear plugs; failing this, you turn your head about nervously, trying to discern what is going to happen. For a single, long minute, nothing happens, causing you to become increasingly nervous, sweating slightly at the forehead and biting your lower lip while you wait. All at once, your toes become alive from the sensation of two whirring things – you know them to be electric toothbrushes – attacking each of your pinky toes’ pads. Writhing and laughing, you attempt to flail about but can only twist your feet back and forth ineffectively, serving only to amplify the sensations. As the spinning bristles carefully cleanse your pinky toes of your deeply withheld in laughter and screams, you feel them progress inwards, across your sole. Screaming and pleading only after a few seconds for an end, as you know where the damned things are moving, you assure me that you know nothing and that I’m wasting my time. Nothing changes; the accursed vibrating machines continue their diligently slow march back across your sole towards your toes, specifically the crevice where your toe bases hide themselves.
The bristles then begin to rapidly kiss that flesh beneath the toes on each foot, and you howl loudly; here, no matter how much you flail or wiggle your toes, the bristles will not be halted in the least. They dart side from side in unison, occasionally turning this or that toe into a puddle of sensation, inescapable and unbearable.
Suddenly, they stop spinning, though the bristles still slowly move across your sensitive toes as they’re carefully drawn away. Everything becomes empty again as you quickly and repeatedly breath for precious air through a smile engraved onto your face. The two minute timer ran out, you think to yourself as you feel a pressure at your left; you know that I’m leaning onto the bed from it. Quick squeezes at your right thigh, then your left, then both at the same time reaffirm your situation. The hands soon find the front sides of your hips, and dig deeply just below them - at that very special, horrendously ticklish spot I found on our second date – causing you to squirm wildly and laugh out at the very simple touches I employ.
For a moment you feel me stop, but the moment soon passes as my well rounded nails carefully and slowly trace their way down your spine; causing you to shiver lightly while goose bumps form on your neck as you giggle into the pillow. Slowly I move upwards, toward your neck, until my nails are alternating between the back and sides of it, lightly circling about expertly; it doesn’t tickle much, but you regret ever telling me that tickling your back and neck heightens your sensitivity, as I always do it just before I drop the killing blow, often by using my tongue to wreck havoc against your pitifully bound feet.
Soon, nails scale your bare sides, wiggling about at your ribs as they search for hidden coves of laughter, carefully concealed between or around any particular rib as you feel my body straddle your knees, so that I’m sitting on top of you, furthering your sensation of helplessness. The hands seem to find a location that they’re satisfied with, and wiggle erratically at one spot each, forcing you to laugh into the pillow your head rests on. Index fingers trace their way to your midriff once more, and grip; nothing happens. No, you beg, knowing that that is one of your worst spots. At the top of your lungs, you beg no, not there, please, anywhere but- and never finish the sentence, giving way to a flurry of laughter, far worse than any storm could hope to make, as the hands kneed into your gut, forcing laughter deeply stored there to escape and echo against the barren walls of our chamber.
Before you can realize it, the stomach attack ends and the euphoria instantly shifts to your armpits, as your raspy laughter switches to maddened cackles. You fight against your cuffs, trying to pull your arms down to protect those craters of sensitivity; failing that, you try to press them down into the mattress so that my fingers cannot wiggle there any longer, but this too does not succeed as I utilize your own body to turn you into a begging, whimpering mess of laughter and tears. The blindfold becomes wet, from sweat or tears, you cannot tell; hair has begun to dance about all over your face, turning it into a matted mess as you bury yourself further into the mattress to attempt to stifle your awareness of the world.
And then it ends. You feel my body shift about, turning towards the foot of the bed as you catch your breath and chase your sanity. The break lasts but a few seconds, for as soon as I have turned about entirely, you become aware of your feet again as nails race one another down your vulnerable flesh. Too weak to pull away, you helplessly flail about, forced to endure the torture. One foot stops feeling anything; the warm hand clasps behind your toes and you feel your eyes widen as the last means of defense, mindless flailing, is removed from you. Fingers dance, like the legs of a diabolic spider, about the center of your foot, which writhes and struggles against the new found bondage. Forgetting their nature, the spider legs drop and slither to your heel, then back up to your toes. Here, they remember their former glory, as they tap dance about the pads of your toes before heeding to the uncontrollable feelings of rock and scratch at the bases, hiding in their crevice, and that sweet space where the toes end and sole begins.
Only aware of your foot and your own ragged laughter, you recognize instantly when the sensations stop. Feeling that the hand holding your foot in place for tickling has not left, you are not surprised when you begin to laugh anew, this time to a new device - hard like plastic - that squeezed between your big and secondtoes somehow, despite the impenetrable barrier that they had formed. As it flitters about, you scream loudly, begging for me to stop while asking what the hell that thing is. The thing moves up and down between those two toes, skims the edges of your big toe, and then finds its way between your second and third toe, repeating this pattern until you have laughed so hard that you no longer can. Raggedly, you call out that you know nothing. You know that I don’t care, and you know that’s not why you are here; the tickling does not end.
Distantly, you feel the sensations stop as you pant heavily, until your other foot is squeezed tightly so that it no longer has the ability to wiggle. No; no more, you cry out, hardly aware of me, your emotionless captor, anymore, as the rapidly wiggling plastic attacks what’s left of your laughing toes. You begin to lose your sense of reality, unaware of anything other than the tickling sensations as an eternity passes. Stars are born and die out a hundred times over before you are aware that it has ended, and that your right hand is free. For a while you sit there, attempting to regain enough energy to free yourself.
Not sure how long you rested there, free of abuse, you finally feel that you can manage to remove the cuff of your left hand. Euphoria caresses every part of your being as you somehow manage to sit up onto your knees and free your ankles, feeling like a new person as you do. No longer needing the blindfold or ear plugs, you remove them, setting them upon the bed as you take in your surroundings. The candle still burns, and the box is where it was when you entered; all is as it was, though you are now barefoot and your shoes are nowhere to be seen. No matter; you don’t really want them right now, anyway.
As you cross the room, your bare feet slap lightly, almost inaudibly, against the pavement beneath you. Looking up the stairs, you are unsure if you have the energy to ascend them, though these thoughts don’t cause you to hesitate in the least. After you ascend, you close the door behind you, rounding a corner to see me standing there, waiting with lust filled eyes. Before we come together, you hear me comment on the fact that you’re barefoot, and that that is a good way to get tickled. Knowing that there will be more tickling later, probably sooner than you are ready for, we fall together, moving backwards as one until the couch greedily grasps us.
Enter The Dungeon (Author/You all over)
You enter the basement, closing the rickety wooden door behind you before descending the hundred year old stone steps. Though there is no light save that of a single candle on the table in the room’s center, you are greeted at the bottom of the stairs with the familiar sight of the shadowy brick walls and various forms of bondage, as you’ve been to this dungeon many times before. The smell of dust and mildew cling heavily to the damp air that is almost too thick to inhale as you take in the sight. A wooden and dusty stockade sits in the farthest corner, directly opposite of where you have entered, and next to it is a well padded rack which forms an X against the wall. Next to that, in the room’s corner, left from the entrance cut into the brick wall, is a too small, lidless coffin, which has been sliced in half so that it acts like the stockade near it. In the corner straight ahead, there rests a very kinky bed, with high metal bars at the head, and more bars, though not as high, at the foot; in the center of the room a simple, circular wooden table rests, with various nicks about its legs and a simple black box on its top. Two chairs sit at the table, and even from where you stand now, you can see all the scratches made in the wood of both chairs and the table from handcuffs. Having become familiar with all the devices here long ago, you choose the bed, favoring the comfort it offers. The uneven cement clicks beneath your flip flops, which you have chosen in lieu of your sneakers today, those shoes that you normally chose specifically for the tight defense they freely offer to your sensitive soles, as you discovered in during your first session that your naked foot skin could not withstand thorough tickling. Unlike the rest of your body - naked save the flip-flops on your feet and the light undergarments that house your private area – you choose to guard your feet, partially because you desire the slim layer of protection but more accurately because you enjoy the brief moments when they are stripped from you, furthering the reality of your helplessness.
The bed is made and quite soft beneath your bare skin as you slowly lay yourself onto it. In order to not waste even a second, as you know both of us only have a limited time to play, you raise yourself to your knees and reach behind you, to the foot of the bed, grabbing the Velcro shackles that rest there as you do. Quickly, you fasten one tightly about your right ankle, and then the other to your left, feeling the hard edges bite into the soft flesh of your shins. Even after all this time, that feeling never became something you have gotten used to or liked, and will leave deep imprints in your flesh for all to see - as it always does - speaking the secrets of your twisted desires to anyone happening to look your way. Now that you have fastened your legs, you lie down upon your stomach, stretching across the long mattress in order to take the Velcro cuff on the top of the mattress, to your left, and strap it to your wrist, rendering you for the most part helpless and immobile. Unable to fasten the fourth and final strap yourself, you wait patiently in the bondage you have willing placed yourself into.
Though you hear me enter, my high boots clacking loudly as I descend the stairs, you can’t see me from where you are, and are forced to endure hearing me slowly approach without being able to discern just how close I am, each of my steps digging into your soul as you know what is about to begin. There is a silence for but a second, before the sounds of things rattling against one another can be heard; you are quite aware that I have picked up the black box containing my instruments. As I come within your eyesight, you see that I’m wearing my mask, giving me that cold, ruthless and entirely inhuman look about me that terrifies you in such an ecstatic way.
I fix the final cuff myself as you stare into the unrestrained relish and emotion in my eyes that threaten to devour you should your will falter for even a second. Now that you are fully restrained, I bend down, disappearing from your sight. Returning quickly, I now have in my hand a pointed wizard’s hat and black robe, which I don. That will be today’s role-play, you realize.
Quietly yet harshly I whisper into your ear that I intend to torture you until you tell me everything you know. Of course, you know you know nothing – know that there is nothing to speak – and you fiercely tell me you have no intention of saying a word while struggling against your bonds, faking a glare of fiery hatred. I laugh, a cold metallic laugh, ruthless as the mask I wear, and tell you that lying will get you nowhere. As I fix a black blindfold around your eyes, your vision disappears, like a candle blown out in a hurricane, before telling you what I intend to do to your defenseless body. You already know, but you hear the words all the same; that too many of the tortures leave marks, signatures of their tormentor written onto the body of their victim, and that I intend to use an ancient and diabolical method to draw the words from your lips; I intend to tickle you, to force you to laugh uncontrollably.
Your world is that of darkness, the strong scent of mildew, the feel of starchy sheets beneath you, and the sound of your own warm breath as it heats and moistens the blanket beneath your mouth; your breathing becomes quick and erratic as you feel the tension inside of you rise. Suddenly you become aware of your ears, as you feel the holes become plugged, and then there is nothing; you are completely shut out from the world around you, save for your sense of touch. I’ve never gone this far with you, and you aren’t sure if you can handle it. Silence accompanies this, and you realize that today you won’t be gagged, knowing that I want to hear your screams of laughter, and that it will be much worse than usual since I do want to hear them.
A slight tug at your right foot and you feel the cool air begin to harass the bottom of your heel while you draw in a sharp breath. Nails dance across your heel as the flip flop betrays your arch, revealing it to be tormented as you gasp and laugh at the simple touches bothering your heels like a fly upon your face while you are sleeping. The flip flop disappears entirely from your foot as a single finger slithers an S down your exposed sole; unable to pull away, you laugh lightly from the feeling. This finger caresses your sole while you feel your last bit of defense – the other flip flop – crawl away from you, slowly, the end scrapping against your foot as it leaves you. And then it is gone entirely, lost to you forever in this dungeon, and you are entirely helpless to my whims, though truthfully you are secretly glad to be rid of the foul things that hide your feet from the world, and enjoy every nano-second of their disappearance; distantly, your thoughts briefly spin words, memories tangoing about wildly, as you remember that I too enjoy removing these accursed shoes. Within yourself you feel the tension rise while you await my real attack.
There is nothing, and you become nervous. You listen, but hear nothing through the ear plugs; failing this, you turn your head about nervously, trying to discern what is going to happen. For a single, long minute, nothing happens, causing you to become increasingly nervous, sweating slightly at the forehead and biting your lower lip while you wait. All at once, your toes become alive from the sensation of two whirring things – you know them to be electric toothbrushes – attacking each of your pinky toes’ pads. Writhing and laughing, you attempt to flail about but can only twist your feet back and forth ineffectively, serving only to amplify the sensations. As the spinning bristles carefully cleanse your pinky toes of your deeply withheld in laughter and screams, you feel them progress inwards, across your sole. Screaming and pleading only after a few seconds for an end, as you know where the damned things are moving, you assure me that you know nothing and that I’m wasting my time. Nothing changes; the accursed vibrating machines continue their diligently slow march back across your sole towards your toes, specifically the crevice where your toe bases hide themselves.
The bristles then begin to rapidly kiss that flesh beneath the toes on each foot, and you howl loudly; here, no matter how much you flail or wiggle your toes, the bristles will not be halted in the least. They dart side from side in unison, occasionally turning this or that toe into a puddle of sensation, inescapable and unbearable.
Suddenly, they stop spinning, though the bristles still slowly move across your sensitive toes as they’re carefully drawn away. Everything becomes empty again as you quickly and repeatedly breath for precious air through a smile engraved onto your face. The two minute timer ran out, you think to yourself as you feel a pressure at your left; you know that I’m leaning onto the bed from it. Quick squeezes at your right thigh, then your left, then both at the same time reaffirm your situation. The hands soon find the front sides of your hips, and dig deeply just below them - at that very special, horrendously ticklish spot I found on our second date – causing you to squirm wildly and laugh out at the very simple touches I employ.
For a moment you feel me stop, but the moment soon passes as my well rounded nails carefully and slowly trace their way down your spine; causing you to shiver lightly while goose bumps form on your neck as you giggle into the pillow. Slowly I move upwards, toward your neck, until my nails are alternating between the back and sides of it, lightly circling about expertly; it doesn’t tickle much, but you regret ever telling me that tickling your back and neck heightens your sensitivity, as I always do it just before I drop the killing blow, often by using my tongue to wreck havoc against your pitifully bound feet.
Soon, nails scale your bare sides, wiggling about at your ribs as they search for hidden coves of laughter, carefully concealed between or around any particular rib as you feel my body straddle your knees, so that I’m sitting on top of you, furthering your sensation of helplessness. The hands seem to find a location that they’re satisfied with, and wiggle erratically at one spot each, forcing you to laugh into the pillow your head rests on. Index fingers trace their way to your midriff once more, and grip; nothing happens. No, you beg, knowing that that is one of your worst spots. At the top of your lungs, you beg no, not there, please, anywhere but- and never finish the sentence, giving way to a flurry of laughter, far worse than any storm could hope to make, as the hands kneed into your gut, forcing laughter deeply stored there to escape and echo against the barren walls of our chamber.
Before you can realize it, the stomach attack ends and the euphoria instantly shifts to your armpits, as your raspy laughter switches to maddened cackles. You fight against your cuffs, trying to pull your arms down to protect those craters of sensitivity; failing that, you try to press them down into the mattress so that my fingers cannot wiggle there any longer, but this too does not succeed as I utilize your own body to turn you into a begging, whimpering mess of laughter and tears. The blindfold becomes wet, from sweat or tears, you cannot tell; hair has begun to dance about all over your face, turning it into a matted mess as you bury yourself further into the mattress to attempt to stifle your awareness of the world.
And then it ends. You feel my body shift about, turning towards the foot of the bed as you catch your breath and chase your sanity. The break lasts but a few seconds, for as soon as I have turned about entirely, you become aware of your feet again as nails race one another down your vulnerable flesh. Too weak to pull away, you helplessly flail about, forced to endure the torture. One foot stops feeling anything; the warm hand clasps behind your toes and you feel your eyes widen as the last means of defense, mindless flailing, is removed from you. Fingers dance, like the legs of a diabolic spider, about the center of your foot, which writhes and struggles against the new found bondage. Forgetting their nature, the spider legs drop and slither to your heel, then back up to your toes. Here, they remember their former glory, as they tap dance about the pads of your toes before heeding to the uncontrollable feelings of rock and scratch at the bases, hiding in their crevice, and that sweet space where the toes end and sole begins.
Only aware of your foot and your own ragged laughter, you recognize instantly when the sensations stop. Feeling that the hand holding your foot in place for tickling has not left, you are not surprised when you begin to laugh anew, this time to a new device - hard like plastic - that squeezed between your big and secondtoes somehow, despite the impenetrable barrier that they had formed. As it flitters about, you scream loudly, begging for me to stop while asking what the hell that thing is. The thing moves up and down between those two toes, skims the edges of your big toe, and then finds its way between your second and third toe, repeating this pattern until you have laughed so hard that you no longer can. Raggedly, you call out that you know nothing. You know that I don’t care, and you know that’s not why you are here; the tickling does not end.
Distantly, you feel the sensations stop as you pant heavily, until your other foot is squeezed tightly so that it no longer has the ability to wiggle. No; no more, you cry out, hardly aware of me, your emotionless captor, anymore, as the rapidly wiggling plastic attacks what’s left of your laughing toes. You begin to lose your sense of reality, unaware of anything other than the tickling sensations as an eternity passes. Stars are born and die out a hundred times over before you are aware that it has ended, and that your right hand is free. For a while you sit there, attempting to regain enough energy to free yourself.
Not sure how long you rested there, free of abuse, you finally feel that you can manage to remove the cuff of your left hand. Euphoria caresses every part of your being as you somehow manage to sit up onto your knees and free your ankles, feeling like a new person as you do. No longer needing the blindfold or ear plugs, you remove them, setting them upon the bed as you take in your surroundings. The candle still burns, and the box is where it was when you entered; all is as it was, though you are now barefoot and your shoes are nowhere to be seen. No matter; you don’t really want them right now, anyway.
As you cross the room, your bare feet slap lightly, almost inaudibly, against the pavement beneath you. Looking up the stairs, you are unsure if you have the energy to ascend them, though these thoughts don’t cause you to hesitate in the least. After you ascend, you close the door behind you, rounding a corner to see me standing there, waiting with lust filled eyes. Before we come together, you hear me comment on the fact that you’re barefoot, and that that is a good way to get tickled. Knowing that there will be more tickling later, probably sooner than you are ready for, we fall together, moving backwards as one until the couch greedily grasps us.
