ElFewja
Verified
- Joined
- Dec 21, 2007
- Messages
- 1,297
- Points
- 0
I heard Bon Jovi say, once, that every once and a while you hear a song that you wish you wrote. One of the first tickling stories I read was Town Square by Don Keefer… and this is definitely something I wish I had written. But I didn’t. Point of story; I was thinking of that one when I wrote this, but that’s about the only relation between the two. It’s not as good, but I liked it. Enjoy.
A Fine Night For The Stockade (M/F Feet)
For an autumn night it wasn’t terribly cold, but as Florine had left this morning without the intent of being gone long, she had not taken a coat with her. Of course, it had not been in her plans to steal that apple, either, but hunger pangs pushed her to desperation, as her wages could not support meals every day. She had had no intention of being caught, but that was how events had played out, resulting in her placement within the town’s stockade for the night.
She shivered as a breeze blew, slicing through her thin shirt that barely covered half of her breasts, as well as up through the light material of her skirt in various places. At least she had worn a pair of thick leather boots she had found the other day, which happened to fit her nicely, albeit tightly around her calves. As she looked up, she could see her arms dangling over head, the rope that held them appearing as a sad, frayed thing in the light of the night’s bright full moon.
The stockade had not been so bad during the day; rotten fruit had been thrown at her, but most had missed as only children threw any, and those that did were far too young to throw well. Adults seemed not to mind that such a pretty thing as she had been placed here, as they walked by seemingly without noticing for a large part of the day, though many individuals whom she recognized as shop keepers took wary notice of her, memorizing her face as they read the sign next to her that proclaimed her as both a thief and a wench.
Though it was still early in the night, the dirt roads had long since been abandoned, giving Florine little to do save think, which she did so deeply that she had not heard or seen the man that had skulked up to her.
Just as she turned to see him, ready to let out a scream of surprise, his thick, rough hand covered her mouth painfully. Not willing to give in so easily, she bit his hand, but found that she was unable to pierce his leathery grip. Soon enough, the man’s second hand appeared and stealthily began to wrap a length of soft, albeit foul smelling cloth about her head. Expertly, he removed the hand covering her mouth and filled it with the cloth before she was able to even squeak; by removing his thick hand, she could see the face of this man, though hidden behind the thick wool of his cowl, recognizing him for the man she had stolen from earlier.
Her eyes must have spoken the question, because he responded to the words that had begun to form within her mind. “Aye, you know who I am, then. You should know I received no compensation for your theft. Well, I intend to have it,” he said, finishing the knot below her left cheek; the thing was tied too tightly, and dug into the ends of her lips, but she could hardly complain.
Deftly, that bulge of a man stepped back, admiring his work as she wondered what he intended to do now that she was unable to call for help. Surely, he could cause her no harm, as he would be the first person the authorities would suspect. Though, a similar thing had happened not too long ago, Florine remembered, where a woman had been brutally murdered over night; the culprit had never been found, but she knew that nobody had looked especially hard, either, as the victim was quite poor. Beneath that mustache, his lips curved wryly into a sickly smile as he stepped forward, to which she flinched. Laying his hand upon her left foot, she felt a soft tug followed by a cool breeze which caressed her overly hot foot nicely.
Before she had a chance to suspect any sort of foul intent, he had begun to draw a raven’s feather against her exposed, vulnerable foot. Her foot twitched spasmodically as she attempted to gasp and laugh but found that, though she could to some extent, her laughter was so muffled that unless someone were standing within a few feet, they would not be able to hear her. It tickled lightly as he ran the thing across her sole, but when he discovered her toes, Florine thought she might lose her mind. No matter how hard she wiggled or twitched, she could not avoid the touches, and without the ability to laugh she found herself to be very vulnerable to this feeling that now took control of her, leading her into a field of sensation where the only thing she was permitted to do was laugh. All her bondage allowed her to do, save struggle futilely, was to let her head fall into her underarm as she attempted to crush the thoughts of those wild sensations that raked between her bare toes to the ground, but she found that this had no effect.
“Art thou enjoying thyself?” he asked slyly, raising his head to look her in the eyes. She returned his hungry gaze and shook her head wildly as she could not plead with him to stop. Desperately she hoped that some soul would see this man – see what he was doing to her – and rescue her from this punishment. When she shook her head, he laughed and, while still torturing her with the feather, did something to her large toe – she could not see – so that it was bound against the board that held her ankles, restricting any movements her foot had had before. She tried to scream when he did this, as her foot had become incredibly vulnerable to his dastardly intents, but this only seemed to encourage him.
He laughed cruelly, and dropped the feather – probably near where her boot lay – and moved closer to her foot while she gasped for the air she had been denied until then. A curious feeling followed, quite unlike that from before, but similar in that it made her want to pull her sensitive foot away and laugh out into the night air with all of her might. It was warm, and moist, dancing about her now exposed toes that could no longer protect themselves. He had begun to lick her toes, kissing their bottoms every now and then, and the feelings drove her wild. When he used his tongue, she could feel the whiskers of his mustache dance about just beneath her toe nails in a maddening way while he explored her flesh. Every now and then he engulfed a toe, wrapping his tongue quickly about, tickling every spot of it at once as she screamed into her gag as loud as she could manage; all she could think of was how much she wanted this man to leave her foot un-harassed, or at the very least tickle her somewhere other than her toes, which she had just tonight discovered to be far more sensitive than the rest of her foot..
After giving each toe several long minutes of this treatment, he ran his tongue straight down her arch, sending a sickening shiver down her spine, after which he stood up, her boot in his hand again. “This will do,” he said simply, disappearing into the night as she realized she had no idea who exactly he was, or which stall he had run this morning, so that she would never be able to accuse him what had happened. The tears and sweat that had accumulated dried, and as she caught her breath she realized how hot she had become from the encounter. This was short lived as the wind stripped her of the warmth, leaving her far colder than before; worse, her now exposed and very wet foot became quite chill as a result of being bared in the night air.
By the time the sun rose, she had concluded that although she did not like being tickled, the event was sort of thrilling. Maybe later in the day she would steal again, so that she would be put within the stockade once more and await another form of punishment; the tickling had not been so bad, and maybe would be worse still if it occurred again, she thought to herself secretly, blushing at the thought. Maybe it would be both feet, or even somewhere worse that she could not begin to imagine. She was released not long after, and though the soldier that let her go recognized that something had happened, he had made no attempt to understand what that may have been, forcing her to walk home in the bitterly cold rain, half barefoot through the mud that eagerly rushed forward to consume her naked foot with each step.
A Fine Night For The Stockade (M/F Feet)
For an autumn night it wasn’t terribly cold, but as Florine had left this morning without the intent of being gone long, she had not taken a coat with her. Of course, it had not been in her plans to steal that apple, either, but hunger pangs pushed her to desperation, as her wages could not support meals every day. She had had no intention of being caught, but that was how events had played out, resulting in her placement within the town’s stockade for the night.
She shivered as a breeze blew, slicing through her thin shirt that barely covered half of her breasts, as well as up through the light material of her skirt in various places. At least she had worn a pair of thick leather boots she had found the other day, which happened to fit her nicely, albeit tightly around her calves. As she looked up, she could see her arms dangling over head, the rope that held them appearing as a sad, frayed thing in the light of the night’s bright full moon.
The stockade had not been so bad during the day; rotten fruit had been thrown at her, but most had missed as only children threw any, and those that did were far too young to throw well. Adults seemed not to mind that such a pretty thing as she had been placed here, as they walked by seemingly without noticing for a large part of the day, though many individuals whom she recognized as shop keepers took wary notice of her, memorizing her face as they read the sign next to her that proclaimed her as both a thief and a wench.
Though it was still early in the night, the dirt roads had long since been abandoned, giving Florine little to do save think, which she did so deeply that she had not heard or seen the man that had skulked up to her.
Just as she turned to see him, ready to let out a scream of surprise, his thick, rough hand covered her mouth painfully. Not willing to give in so easily, she bit his hand, but found that she was unable to pierce his leathery grip. Soon enough, the man’s second hand appeared and stealthily began to wrap a length of soft, albeit foul smelling cloth about her head. Expertly, he removed the hand covering her mouth and filled it with the cloth before she was able to even squeak; by removing his thick hand, she could see the face of this man, though hidden behind the thick wool of his cowl, recognizing him for the man she had stolen from earlier.
Her eyes must have spoken the question, because he responded to the words that had begun to form within her mind. “Aye, you know who I am, then. You should know I received no compensation for your theft. Well, I intend to have it,” he said, finishing the knot below her left cheek; the thing was tied too tightly, and dug into the ends of her lips, but she could hardly complain.
Deftly, that bulge of a man stepped back, admiring his work as she wondered what he intended to do now that she was unable to call for help. Surely, he could cause her no harm, as he would be the first person the authorities would suspect. Though, a similar thing had happened not too long ago, Florine remembered, where a woman had been brutally murdered over night; the culprit had never been found, but she knew that nobody had looked especially hard, either, as the victim was quite poor. Beneath that mustache, his lips curved wryly into a sickly smile as he stepped forward, to which she flinched. Laying his hand upon her left foot, she felt a soft tug followed by a cool breeze which caressed her overly hot foot nicely.
Before she had a chance to suspect any sort of foul intent, he had begun to draw a raven’s feather against her exposed, vulnerable foot. Her foot twitched spasmodically as she attempted to gasp and laugh but found that, though she could to some extent, her laughter was so muffled that unless someone were standing within a few feet, they would not be able to hear her. It tickled lightly as he ran the thing across her sole, but when he discovered her toes, Florine thought she might lose her mind. No matter how hard she wiggled or twitched, she could not avoid the touches, and without the ability to laugh she found herself to be very vulnerable to this feeling that now took control of her, leading her into a field of sensation where the only thing she was permitted to do was laugh. All her bondage allowed her to do, save struggle futilely, was to let her head fall into her underarm as she attempted to crush the thoughts of those wild sensations that raked between her bare toes to the ground, but she found that this had no effect.
“Art thou enjoying thyself?” he asked slyly, raising his head to look her in the eyes. She returned his hungry gaze and shook her head wildly as she could not plead with him to stop. Desperately she hoped that some soul would see this man – see what he was doing to her – and rescue her from this punishment. When she shook her head, he laughed and, while still torturing her with the feather, did something to her large toe – she could not see – so that it was bound against the board that held her ankles, restricting any movements her foot had had before. She tried to scream when he did this, as her foot had become incredibly vulnerable to his dastardly intents, but this only seemed to encourage him.
He laughed cruelly, and dropped the feather – probably near where her boot lay – and moved closer to her foot while she gasped for the air she had been denied until then. A curious feeling followed, quite unlike that from before, but similar in that it made her want to pull her sensitive foot away and laugh out into the night air with all of her might. It was warm, and moist, dancing about her now exposed toes that could no longer protect themselves. He had begun to lick her toes, kissing their bottoms every now and then, and the feelings drove her wild. When he used his tongue, she could feel the whiskers of his mustache dance about just beneath her toe nails in a maddening way while he explored her flesh. Every now and then he engulfed a toe, wrapping his tongue quickly about, tickling every spot of it at once as she screamed into her gag as loud as she could manage; all she could think of was how much she wanted this man to leave her foot un-harassed, or at the very least tickle her somewhere other than her toes, which she had just tonight discovered to be far more sensitive than the rest of her foot..
After giving each toe several long minutes of this treatment, he ran his tongue straight down her arch, sending a sickening shiver down her spine, after which he stood up, her boot in his hand again. “This will do,” he said simply, disappearing into the night as she realized she had no idea who exactly he was, or which stall he had run this morning, so that she would never be able to accuse him what had happened. The tears and sweat that had accumulated dried, and as she caught her breath she realized how hot she had become from the encounter. This was short lived as the wind stripped her of the warmth, leaving her far colder than before; worse, her now exposed and very wet foot became quite chill as a result of being bared in the night air.
By the time the sun rose, she had concluded that although she did not like being tickled, the event was sort of thrilling. Maybe later in the day she would steal again, so that she would be put within the stockade once more and await another form of punishment; the tickling had not been so bad, and maybe would be worse still if it occurred again, she thought to herself secretly, blushing at the thought. Maybe it would be both feet, or even somewhere worse that she could not begin to imagine. She was released not long after, and though the soldier that let her go recognized that something had happened, he had made no attempt to understand what that may have been, forcing her to walk home in the bitterly cold rain, half barefoot through the mud that eagerly rushed forward to consume her naked foot with each step.
