I Am Lee
by Willowtip
Part one: Just A Story
(F/F; some formatting and indentation; Germans; feedback welcome)
***
Placing his coffee back down carefully, Michael looked back at the screen. This was going to be a good one, he thought, as he scanned over the first few paragraphs. He was particularly pleased with Joelle. Sure, if he was going to be truly honest, she was basically a combination of his two most recent ex-girlfriends, but it was just starting point. He was completely over that. This was a work of fiction, and it was totally harmless.
Michael thought about this for a few seconds, before highlighting the final sentence: "She felt her arms tied behind the chair".
Delete. He typed:
Michael re-read it. Better, he thought. Much better. He carried on tapping on his keyboard.
***
But something wasn’t quite right, she also thought. Beneath her fear and all these thoughts, there was something else. Something more certain and determined. And the word ‘German’ briefly darted across her mind.
She was baffled. How could I know that, she thought. Because you’ve been here before, an answer came, skirting around the back of her mind. Before when? She didn’t have any memories of anything before she woke up, immobile, in this room.
You will have, came not-quite-a response.
The other-voice seemed to sigh. The word "seriously?" shot across her thoughts. The other-voice was getting louder, she noticed.
You already know the answer to that, said other-voice. Why ask? She’s going to tickle your feet. Other-voice now sounded like, well, her own voice.
I did know that, she thought. Why did I ask that, she thought. Then, before she could stop herself:
Why would I say that, she thought. None of this makes any sense. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know what they want to know. I’m a woman called Joelle, why would Nazis have captured me? She didn’t even explain any of that, like she’s rushing to get to the torture. And why would she tickle me? The Nazis didn’t historically use tickle torture. They had much more effective methods.
And how do I know what the Nazis did, historically? And do Germans even say ‘zis’ and ‘zat’? It really made no sense.
Now, remember.
And it all came back. She was a soriety pledge. She was a Russian spy. She was the other woman. She was a strict headmistress. She was a new army recruit. She was a novice. And every time, the tickling. So much tickling. Toes tied back, held upside down, wrapped up, strapped in, spreadeagled, probing fingers and feathers and brushes on her feet and her sides and her stomach and across her breasts. She was in the past and in the future. She remembered every strange implement, every possible location, every predicament, every man, woman and animal that made her beg for it to stop.
But none of this is real, the other-voice said. Listen.
Listen to what, she thought. Just listen when it’s next quiet, other-voice said.
Tap tap tap-tap-tap.
Did you hear it, said other-voice. Yes, she thought, what is it? A way-out, said other-voice. Now, you need to hold tight for a bit longer.
***
Michael clicked spell-check for a third time, out of habit. He scrolled through, re-reading his favourite bits. He felt pleased with the German accent and those German words he’d translated on Google. It made it seem more authentic. He was impressed that he remembered his history teacher calling the Nazis the Third Reich, or something like that. It even had his favourite sort of ending – Joelle, without having answers for her interrogator, is sentenced to non-stop tickling as a punishment, her laughs echoing around the prison every night and every day, with no prospect of escape or release. Classic. That’s what the Nazis would have done. Serves them bitches right, he thought.
Serves her right, he corrected himself, and smiled guiltily. It’s just a fiction, of course. He felt a wave of excitement as he skipped through the scene where the torturer had started to lick Joelle’s toes, and instinctively, he went to put his hand into his trousers. No, he thought, wait a minute. Post it first. Then you’ve got the rest of the afternoon free.
Michael loaded his internet browser and clicked the shortcut for the Tickling Fetish Message Board. He clicked ‘Start new thread’, and copied the text from his word processor. He clicked ‘Post’.
If someone could have asked him later he would have said that, at that moment, there was a flash of bright white light, and that for at least a while afterwards there was nothing else.
Two weeks later, without anyone noticing, TKLR_MIKE was unregistered on the forum.
(To be continued) (obviously)
by Willowtip
Part one: Just A Story
(F/F; some formatting and indentation; Germans; feedback welcome)
***
Placing his coffee back down carefully, Michael looked back at the screen. This was going to be a good one, he thought, as he scanned over the first few paragraphs. He was particularly pleased with Joelle. Sure, if he was going to be truly honest, she was basically a combination of his two most recent ex-girlfriends, but it was just starting point. He was completely over that. This was a work of fiction, and it was totally harmless.
Michael thought about this for a few seconds, before highlighting the final sentence: "She felt her arms tied behind the chair".
Delete. He typed:
"She felt her arms pulled right above her, the leather straps digging into her wrists. They were stretched tight. She tried to relax her arms, but a jolt of pain shot across her shoulder blades. A small tear formed in the corner of her eye".
Michael re-read it. Better, he thought. Much better. He carried on tapping on his keyboard.
***
The tear soaked into her blindfold. Suddenly, a door creaked open. It sounded heavy and old. In her panic, she tried, pathetically, to shake free of her bonds, but barely moved at all. She tried to thrash her legs, but the stocks her feet were trapped in. Her toes curled as the cool draft from the open door blew over them.
"Wh-whose there?" she said, trembling.
"Wh-whose there?" she said, trembling.
But something wasn’t quite right, she also thought. Beneath her fear and all these thoughts, there was something else. Something more certain and determined. And the word ‘German’ briefly darted across her mind.
"Guten Abend, Fraulein," came a soft, yet menacing voice.
She was baffled. How could I know that, she thought. Because you’ve been here before, an answer came, skirting around the back of her mind. Before when? She didn’t have any memories of anything before she woke up, immobile, in this room.
You will have, came not-quite-a response.
"I apologise for bringing you hear like zis," the voice continued, "but, we zink zat you have some information we may need. For the Zird Reich."
"Please, I don’t know anything," Joelle whispered. "Please, let me go."
"We can not do zat," said German voice, "until you have told us what we need to hear".
"But I don’t know anything," Joelle pleaded.
"Zat is unfortunate. Zankfully, we have ways of making you talk."
"Please, I don’t know anything," Joelle whispered. "Please, let me go."
"We can not do zat," said German voice, "until you have told us what we need to hear".
"But I don’t know anything," Joelle pleaded.
"Zat is unfortunate. Zankfully, we have ways of making you talk."
The other-voice seemed to sigh. The word "seriously?" shot across her thoughts. The other-voice was getting louder, she noticed.
"What are you going to do?" asked Joelle, her breathing getting faster.
You already know the answer to that, said other-voice. Why ask? She’s going to tickle your feet. Other-voice now sounded like, well, her own voice.
"Well, fraulein, tell me zis. Are you ticklish?"
I did know that, she thought. Why did I ask that, she thought. Then, before she could stop herself:
"Ticklish? Oh, please, anything but that." Joelle tried to cross her feet and scrunched up her toes.
Why would I say that, she thought. None of this makes any sense. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know what they want to know. I’m a woman called Joelle, why would Nazis have captured me? She didn’t even explain any of that, like she’s rushing to get to the torture. And why would she tickle me? The Nazis didn’t historically use tickle torture. They had much more effective methods.
And how do I know what the Nazis did, historically? And do Germans even say ‘zis’ and ‘zat’? It really made no sense.
Joelle felt a nail rake slowly up her left sole, and she let out a yelp. "I zink you are a ticklish one, ya?" The finger continued to stroke up and down her helpless sole. Don’t laugh, she thought, biting her bottom lip. Don’t laugh. But the maddening sensations grew and grew – she felt a finger slip delicately between her big toe and her second toe, then, agonisingly, along the top of her foot, then back down the side and across the ball. Don’t laugh.
Suddenly, she felt a second hand grab her toes and pull them back, and five wriggling fingers scratched manically all across her soles. She couldn’t hold it back any more.
Suddenly, she felt a second hand grab her toes and pull them back, and five wriggling fingers scratched manically all across her soles. She couldn’t hold it back any more.
Now, remember.
"HAAHAAHAHAHAHAAHAAAHAAHAAAAOHMYGOOOOOODPLEEEEASENOOOOHAHAHA!" she screamed.
And it all came back. She was a soriety pledge. She was a Russian spy. She was the other woman. She was a strict headmistress. She was a new army recruit. She was a novice. And every time, the tickling. So much tickling. Toes tied back, held upside down, wrapped up, strapped in, spreadeagled, probing fingers and feathers and brushes on her feet and her sides and her stomach and across her breasts. She was in the past and in the future. She remembered every strange implement, every possible location, every predicament, every man, woman and animal that made her beg for it to stop.
"PLEEEEASESTOPTICKLAHAHAHALINGMEEEEHEHEHEHEEEE!" Joelle was being driven insane by the relentless fingers. "Are you ready to talk yet?" responded the German voice.
"YEEEEESSSNOOOOOYEESSSSITELLLLAHAHAHAHYOUANYTHINGAHAAHAAAHAHAHA!"
"No, we want to know the specific information. Maybe a solid hour of this will loosen your tongue. No rests until then."
"NOOOOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!" Joelle screamed and screamed, but her tormentor never let up for a second. "ICANTSTAAAAANDIIIIITTTTAHAHAHA!"
"YEEEEESSSNOOOOOYEESSSSITELLLLAHAHAHAHYOUANYTHINGAHAAHAAAHAHAHA!"
"No, we want to know the specific information. Maybe a solid hour of this will loosen your tongue. No rests until then."
"NOOOOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!" Joelle screamed and screamed, but her tormentor never let up for a second. "ICANTSTAAAAANDIIIIITTTTAHAHAHA!"
But none of this is real, the other-voice said. Listen.
The hands had moved to both feet now, alternating between digging into Joelle’s tender pink toes and scratching the bottoms of her soles.
Listen to what, she thought. Just listen when it’s next quiet, other-voice said.
Minutes went by, though the seemed like hours. Joelle’s tortured laughs now alternated with sobs as the fingers dug into her poor soles over and over. Then, it stopped. She could hear the German lady move across the room. There was a click, like a chest was unlocked. The room was temporarily silent, as Joelle struggled to catch her breath in her restraints.
Tap tap tap-tap-tap.
Did you hear it, said other-voice. Yes, she thought, what is it? A way-out, said other-voice. Now, you need to hold tight for a bit longer.
"You think you have suffered so far, fraulein? You have not. We have only just started."
There was a whirring sound, and then she felt her feet spasm as intense ticklish sensations took over. She began to scream again.
There was a whirring sound, and then she felt her feet spasm as intense ticklish sensations took over. She began to scream again.
***
Michael clicked spell-check for a third time, out of habit. He scrolled through, re-reading his favourite bits. He felt pleased with the German accent and those German words he’d translated on Google. It made it seem more authentic. He was impressed that he remembered his history teacher calling the Nazis the Third Reich, or something like that. It even had his favourite sort of ending – Joelle, without having answers for her interrogator, is sentenced to non-stop tickling as a punishment, her laughs echoing around the prison every night and every day, with no prospect of escape or release. Classic. That’s what the Nazis would have done. Serves them bitches right, he thought.
Serves her right, he corrected himself, and smiled guiltily. It’s just a fiction, of course. He felt a wave of excitement as he skipped through the scene where the torturer had started to lick Joelle’s toes, and instinctively, he went to put his hand into his trousers. No, he thought, wait a minute. Post it first. Then you’ve got the rest of the afternoon free.
Michael loaded his internet browser and clicked the shortcut for the Tickling Fetish Message Board. He clicked ‘Start new thread’, and copied the text from his word processor. He clicked ‘Post’.
If someone could have asked him later he would have said that, at that moment, there was a flash of bright white light, and that for at least a while afterwards there was nothing else.
Two weeks later, without anyone noticing, TKLR_MIKE was unregistered on the forum.
(To be continued) (obviously)
