ElFewja
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I’m supposed to put something here, but I honestly don’t know what to put. Creepy priest thing is creepy, I guess. I dunno. Wrote this approx Jan 09; I think it was one of the first tickling things I did recently (read: when I began writing tickling fiction again, this was one of the first if not the first that I wrote). It’s not bad; I think I definitely capture a tickler’s fervor in it. I kept thinking (when I edited this a few nights ago) that I should add more tickling content, but I decided against it; as a ler, when I’m tickling someone, I don’t particularly notice it so much. It’s… hm. It doesn’t make much sense with what I typically do (which is large detail from ler perspective, less from lee), but I dunno. I guess it’s a matter of the individual and how lost within the moment you become, so that, for some of my characters (as lee or ler) they feel it all or barely feel it/barely take note of it/etc. Something.
On a related note, almost a full year after I wrote this, I wrote a paper on Horatio Alger Jr (famous for writing many dime novels in mid to late 1800’s) During that particular class, while we were reading a story (well, one in particular, but our prof had said pretty much every book he wrote followed this pattern) concerning itself with a small orphan in New York who basically pulls himself up from absolute poverty. The prof. had made the point that, before he wrote, Alger had been a priest, to which I made the joke oh, well of course that is why he writes about kids. After that I said you know what, fuck it, I’m going to prove he’s a pedophile; went through the book taking notes of all the strange occurrences/observations he made of these young boys, right? Hit google up after and discovered… yeah, he actually was a pedophile. It was why he left the clergy; thus my paper’s thesis became that of Alger’s redemption through his books (that he was trying to redeem himself by saving fictional characters from their fates); I even found this poem he wrote about a priest having committed a horrible, nameless sin. Yeah. Point is? These stereotypes have a basis. Shame that I discovered all of that afterwards but… well, it works.
Shit that was long. My bad. Erm? Enjoy, I guess :O.
Old ways (M/F Feet)
Just another day, gray like all others, thought Reverend Smith as he gazed out of one of the cathedral’s small side windows. Not that there was much to see -- save a hellish mix of green and grey -- as the cathedral was located on top of a small hill, completely surrounded by well trimmed grass, rolling down into the valley so perfectly until meeting the forest of pine trees surrounding the hill, and though he knew the grass continued well into the grove, he could no longer see it. It wasn’t an excessively large hill, but high enough to see well over the top of the sprawling forests on a fairer day; today, though, all that could be seen was the grey of clouds nestled within the trees, gripping them tightly with a dying grasp as the sun beat hard upon them; they would yield and relinquish their grip before long so that the fog would disperse, but until then the day would remain a troubling gray. Probably, he thought aloud, it would rain before the day ended. There wouldn’t be any visitors today; it wouldn’t be worth traversing the forest through the rain.
Of course the large oaken doors at far end of the cathedral would open as he relished in the thought of not having to work today, but his expert expression didn’t show this. He turned, putting on his reverend’s mask of a face as he did; it was a look of knowing -- even if he didn’t always know -- that showed no emotion but also spoke of good tidings: a wide welcoming smile that threatened to destroy his cheeks accompanied by brilliantly welcoming eyes that had the power to gouge one’s soul of enmity. Such a look is required of any priest, lest one of the villagers suspect that he, an avatar of Zeus, did not have the answer. Not just an answer, to be sure; it’s always the answer. Thoughts like these danced as he looked upon the villager that entered and crossed the carpeted stone floor to greet him. As he distracted himself with his own fancies, he had hardly taken in her appearance before she stood directly in front of him, speaking hesitantly, as if she were interrupting something important.
“Excuse me, Reverend…” she began shyly; either she had some sort of confession to make, or she sought advice, he deduced; experience, an old friend and companion, told him that the villagers never traveled this far for any other reason.
“How may I assist you, child?” Was the response he chose from his preplanned list of informal greetings. Careful to not let his gaze falter from her face, he took in the identity of the person standing before him. Intriguing that a woman so young, probably in her mid twenties, would travel however many miles it was from the village here, alone by the looks of the situation; it briefly occurred that someone may be outside awaiting her return but he chose not to linger on such possibilities. She came because of a household dispute, possibly, or else a squabble with a neighbor; her clothes were not that of a street whore nor a thief’s; a white bandana wrapped tightly over her golden hair, imprisoning it, and since there was neither sun nor wind today, he assumed this to mean she was married, further verifying his theory of a household dispute. A simple brown dress adorned her figure, hiding much of it away from sight, but he could tell that she had a fair body by her pale skin. The brown boots adorning her feet, which he could hardly see since she stood perhaps three feet from him and he did not allow his gaze to leave her face, were simple, albeit strangely clean despite the mud that must have covered the forest from the night’s rain, allowing him to perceive that she had taken a carefully chosen route as to keep her appearance. Coupled with the fact that not a single hair stood out of place, he could deduce that she had an extremely careful personality; rather, she thought far ahead of her actions, making this an interesting case for him to listen to; it would likely be only one confession, but an intriguing one nonetheless, probably involving irrational actions. All of these things he thought within a minute’s time, before realizing that he had let himself day dream. By the look of her face, she had spoken and he had missed her carefully chosen words.
“I’m sorry, child. Could you repeat yourself?”
“I asked if I could speak with you for a moment.”
“Of course, child. What seems to be the matter?” To this, she looked away from him at some distant, illusionary object or person. A confession, then. “Would you care to sit over here?” he asked as his hand waved towards one of the pews behind her. She nodded and gracefully glided across the floor to it, sitting down carefully upon the roughly hewn wood. Of course he didn’t follow her; he had to maintain his image of a grand figure so that she could readily divulge her secrets to the image he put forth. Her soft blue eyes gazed off into the distance, perhaps looking towards someone she had wronged, as she sat quietly for a few minutes. Patiently, he waited, until she chose to speak again.
She opened her mouth, sighed, and then closed it. Quickly, she opened it again, sat as if trying to speak, and again closed it, before opening it again and relinquishing a torrent of words, coming forth faster and faster until they were nigh incomprehensible. “Well, you see, I love my husband very much, and we have a child, but it isn’t ours it’s our deceased relatives, but that isn’t related, the point is I love him very much, my husband I mean, but our neighbor is so… I don’t know how to put it, and my husband left the other day for work, and my neighbor came over and one thing led to another and…”
After having said all of that, she let her head fall into her hands.
Listening to the entire story without wavering, the priest nodded, and allowed the woman silence to contemplate. After all, regardless of what he said, ultimately her thoughts and decisions were her own. Even if he told her that it was not wrong to be taken advantage of, she would not listen until she believed it for herself. A few moments passed before he decided to speak. “Child, this world and the next are not one and the same. People commit sin. The key to salvation is forgiveness; not only to those around you, but to yourself.”
“But..”
“You must forgive yourself of your worldly desires before you can be forgiven of them.”
“What kind of advice is that?! Can’t you help at all?”
Raising his hand to his chin, he allowed himself to think for a moment, before finally responding. “There is an ancient form of repentance that I can offer.”
“Please. Anything.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
Turning upon his heel, the priest strove towards the apse, where he typically gave his sermons on days of prayer. Reaching for a lantern he had tucked away beneath a table caused him to groan; though he was still young, he had a weak back which caused him much grief. Quickly as he could, he rose, picked up one of the multitude of lit candles that surrounded him and lit the lantern he now held. Before leaving he took in hand a small length of cloth. Having acquired what he needed, he hurried off towards the hallway to the right, containing the stairwell leading to the crypt beneath the cathedral, all the while followed by the madam who had appeared today. Turning the key that lay inside of the lock on the heavy oaken door proved somewhat difficult; the lock must have rusted he thought to himself. Unlocked, the door opened to an unlit, stone stairwell, leading to the long unused crypt. Perhaps a hundred or two years ago it had served to house the dead; now all it was used for was to store old equipment, which was exactly what he now needed.
As they descended, the air became increasingly wet and moldy. The steps themselves were covered with untouched dust; nobody had come down here for at least 10 years, to his understanding; the last time of which was when he first heard the call, and only to learn what resided down here in case of it being needed again. After fully descending the dangerously steep stairway, he turned to his companion and spoke. “For two reasons, you must now wear this blindfold. The first is that none who are not of the clergy are permitted to gaze upon these relics. The second has to do with your repentance.” As he said this, he withdrew from a pocket a small length of deep white cloth that he had planned to clean with. Warily, the woman took it, wrapping it around her head tightly and knotting it. To make sure that she was indeed blinded, he waved a hand in front of her face, which elicited no reaction. Turning, he spoke to her before walking carefully among the ancient artifacts. “Please put your hand on my shoulder,” he helped her to do this as he spoke, “and follow me straight, without hesitation. You have no need to worry of your footing. The path is straight and unhindered.”
What he was in search of was, if he recalled properly, near the far end from where they currently stood, but it might lay further within the labyrinth’s recesses; he couldn’t quite recall. With what light the small lantern gave, the priest gazed upon the ancient artifacts and relics that had long lain dormant in this basement as he passed over the cold, hard stone, occasionally slowing down as his companion lost her footing. Once, she nearly fell, grabbing onto him and almost bringing him down into the machinations as well. After a long minute of navigating the darkness he finally found the sullen object that he required. In the center of the room they had now entered sat a large, wooden contraption of sorts from an earlier, more barbaric era. From here, it looked merely like a table, cushioned in places, with a board bolted in place at one end. A stockade, he had heard it called; used in olden times to force sinners into repentance, or else withdraw from them vital information via a means most unpleasant.
On the wall, to the right of the entranceway hung an aged hook on which he placed the lantern; he desperately hoped the rusted thing could withstand the weight of the lantern because, should it fail, he would be left in utter darkness. Carefully traversing the floor, so that his companion did not lose her way, he reached the table, unlocking the board and lifting the very heavy top of it, so that it swung open slowly, creaking hollowly within the tomb in a manner that reminded him of a grave forcing itself open to unleash other worldly spirits back into this realm.
“I will need you to sit here.” He said, guiding her onto the table and placing her ankles into the half holes of the board. As he carefully let the upper half of the board drop, trapping the lower part of her legs away from herself, he saw worry upon the woman’s face.
While he locked the board, she asked in a voice that attempted to mask fear, “What are you doing, if I might ask?”
“I am locking you in place, so that you cannot escape; you must be held still as stone, lest your sinful nature take control and force you to flee from salvation. Fear not, Child, you will not be harmed.” He responded in as soothing of a voice as he could muster. Noticeably calmer, she sat back into the other piece of wood behind her. For the first time, he noticed a piece of large, black string dangling from a pin at the top of the board, centered directly between where the woman’s feet now stuck out of.
Now that she was in place he had to see to it that she remained so. With a piece of rope that lay nearby he bound her hands together tightly, letting them rest upon her lap. Doing this elicited a strange look upon her face, but she did not question him. Returning to the front of the table, he prepared himself to begin by taking a deep breath. He had only read about this in an ancient tome, and had no true experience of it, only hoping that all went well.
“We will need to remove these,” he said softly as he laid his hands upon her brown boots and carefully tugged them off.
As he was taking them off, she made another strange face before asking why.
“It is part of the repentance, child.” Setting the boots on the left side of the table, he turned to face her small feet, clad in brown, woolen socks. “We will need to remove these, too.” Tugging carefully at the toe of her sock, he removed the right piece of wool from her body, and then the left, leaving her well tended, almost delicious looking feet bare.
Now with fear of the unknown clearly taking hold, she asked, “What are you going to do?”
Anticipation was an important aspect of the old method, he remembered. He had to let it build up within her so that the first touch would elicit an unprecedented response. He paced to the side of the table loudly so that she would hear him, and her head turned as if she could see him. From this side, to the other, as he passed her vulnerable feet he felt the anticipation within him rising as well. Strangely, he longed to touch them, but knew that he had to let the suspense build up more; knew that he had to fight this welling urge. Slowly he walked, reaching the other side of the table, stopping for a minute before crossing in front of her again, those small feet screaming and crying to be touched. They’re so defenseless, he thought, but took control of himself as he passed to her right once more, then behind. With every deliberate step he took, he watched as she flinched, expecting the worst at any moment. Slowly he passed her left side, and then stopped in front of her feet; for long moments thereafter he simply stood and stared, watching the shadows that danced upon them at the whim of the torch’s flame. Those soft wrinkles adorning her bare soles craved touch; her arches that would be perfectly complemented by a finger running up and down them, and her toes, like the most delicious grapes! He almost reached out right then and began, but caught himself and stopped, stepping back to look upon her longer, tracing around her dainty feet with his eyes. Now he understood why this type of trial was originally established; he had seen feet before, but never as he did now. To see them completely helpless, awaiting their fate in an almost wanting way, allowed him to see them in a new light. This is where they were meant to be; bound helpless, and awaiting punishment.
Just then, as he contemplated how perfectly flat the balls of her feet were, her right foot twitched slightly. A breeze had caressed it, perhaps, or an itch dug into it; either way, he knew he could contain himself no longer. Though he wanted to lunge, he silently stepped forward, relishing in the calm moment just before a catastrophic event takes place: the cries of the earth before an earthquake, the screams of the sky before a hurricane. Carefully, he took his left finger, moved gently towards her right foot, and flicked it up her arch, causing her to squeal lightly. Before she could gain any bearing of what had happened he dug in with both hands, dragging them rapidly up and down both quivering soles.
All of the pent up suspense suddenly released itself from within this woman in an absolute shriek, relinquished in a way that was completely unprepared for what had happened. She screamed out as if for the first time aware of herself; of her feet. Like a banshee she howled with a loud aieee before succumbing to the tickling, laughing as hard as he had ever seen a person laugh. Allowing his fingers to take over whatever bit of flesh fancied them, he danced and weaved patterns across her soles, eliciting more and more laughter from the feet’s owner. Both index finger’s down an arch, followed by all of his fingers sliding across her poor soles caused her to buck at her bondage in an attempt to escape. Attacking the toes led to her pointing them forward, scrunching her toes into her soles as much as possible in defense. To this he responded by drawing his finger tips up from her heels, enjoying the feel of her soft foot skin as he did so.
After only a moment of relentless tickling she began to flap her feet quickly in attempts to fend him off. Though unsuccessful, it became hard to simply tickle her. She took up a tactic where she hid the toes of one foot behind another, but to this he simply chose to attack the foot sacrificing itself for the other. Quickly the defended foot would attempt to protect the now victimized one, leading its toes to the front lines where they were tormented by his fingers until the other foot returned. So the repentance continued, until quite frustrated, she began kicking extremely hard at her bondage, almost lifting the wooden block from the table itself.
A new idea surfaced upon his mind, as he grabbed her left foot with his right hand, held it still, and raked down her now completely defenseless foot repeatedly. Howls of laughter greeted this, as well as her free foot beating upon the fingers of the hand holding her still, until that foot was grabbed and tickled in the same manner as punishment for its wrong-doings.
She laughed, she cried out, she begged for it to stop, but he hardly heard her, only half aware of the melody of her screams and laughs. The laughter was most melodious when her toes were scraped upwards, but as she protected these the most, it was difficult to create such joyful sounds. To get at the, he stopped for a brief second, allowing her to catch her breath, truthfully waiting for her to lower her defenses for but a second so that he could have at her toes. With gusto he struck at them as soon as the opportunity arose, causing her to gasp in a large amount of air and scream with laughter again before bending her toes into her soles out of defense. Though the toe bases were now protected, the pads of them were not, which he lightly scratched at with his fingers before turning his attention to the spot just under them, causing her to shriek madly.
As if she had had too much, she clasped the bottoms of her feet together. He was still able to force his hands between them and tickle, which he did, but it proved bothersome, so he let her rest for a minute. Perhaps five minutes had passed since he began, he thought, waiting for her to leave her feet defenseless and ready for another round. However, she did not move, probably knowing that this plan worked. At this point, he remembered when he had first read of this particular form of repentance, and recalled the black string dangling behind her feet. He allowed her another moment of rest before he reached forward and hungrily grabbed the string, using his free hand to gently caress the sides of her feet that projected themselves towards him. Doing this caused her feet to shoot back to where they had been before, which he had hoped for; quickly, so as not to allow her feet to escape, he held them in place against the board with his free hand, so that they were unable to struggle and wrapped the string around both of her big toes, tying them together. With that important part done he took the free end of the string and wrapped it around the hook at the board’s top, pulling it tight and then tying it into a knot so that she could not pull her feet from the board, leaving them exposed and defenseless to the siege he was prepared to lay upon them.
With her feet absolutely defenseless, he began again, striking at the toes that could no longer flex freely. As he dug into her toes, her soles bended and flexed against the string in unison, which he found quite attractive, but she soon realized she was unable to escape its grasp and her light laughter turned to maddened howls. Though she struggled to flex her feet, she was unable to do so in a useful manner, allowing him the freedom of digging all of his fingers into her silken soles, barraging them with feelings. If she had shrieked before, she now screamed at the top of her lungs, unable to escape the torture in any way. For long minutes he ran his fingers across her soles, touching them all over, greatly enjoying how her foot skin felt against his fingers, her laughter growing in desperation with each stroke of the finger. Knowing that her only options were to laugh and to attempt to free her feet of the contraption designed to keep them still sped his motions, until his fingers danced a mad man’s dance of crazed spins and leaps upon her helpless skin while she sat, shrieking and laughing. Again he began a relentless siege upon the toes, but for a much longer period of time than before as she could no longer protect them. At first when he touched them, after tying her toes to the post, she only shrieked in surprise, but now she screamed with what probably was all of her might. Not the toes, she howled, not the toes! It was there that he focused heavily for several minutes, knowing full well that it must be done lest she find herself unable to forgive herself of her sins.
Finally he stopped, knowing that he had gone far beyond a reasonable amount of torture; still, he felt it necessary to tickle her far more than she seemed capable of handling. Beside that, her feet had felt as if they had melted between his finger tips; it took too much of his willpower to find the means to stop. All in all, the event probably only took about fifteen minutes but the woman looked flustered beyond comparison; she almost seemed as if she had undergone labor. As he reached to the top of the board with his left hand to untie her toes, he continued to scratch at the very center of the poor woman’s sole lightly, finding himself unable to resist as he caused causing her to twitch ever so slightly while she giggled the entire time he unlocked her. The string fell loose, and quickly realizing this, her feet fought much harder to escape the scratching than before, but he soon stopped to continue releasing her. Next he moved around and untied her hands while she continued to giggle lightly from the tickling that had but a moment ago occurred. As he unlocked and opened the board once again, she removed her blindfold. She shouldn’t be allowed to remove it but he had long since forgotten the traditions involved and made no attempt to stop her. As soon as she located her shoes and socks, she quickly donned them, welcoming the protection that they provided that she had never before been aware of. While she did this, he took the lantern down from its hook, awaiting her to rise and follow him back out of the crypt, though she sat flexing her feet, guarded by the leather of her boots, as if assuring herself that they were indeed safe; for a excruciatingly long minute he stood, waiting, while she sat and attempted to regain her breath with what energy she retained; eventually she leapt off of the table and walked towards him so that he could lead her out. As they exited, he decided to break the eerie silence of the tomb with conversation.
“How do you feel, Child?”
“Ticklish.” She spoke, giggling still, though much lighter than before.
“Do you feel as though you have repented?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The rest of the march through the crypt was one of silence, save for the soft thuds of their shoes greeting and immediately parting from stones. Up the stone stairs they traveled, she bid thanks and goodbye, and then left.
A few days passed before she came back, speaking of another sin, and asking for further repentance, to which he gladly granted her.
On a related note, almost a full year after I wrote this, I wrote a paper on Horatio Alger Jr (famous for writing many dime novels in mid to late 1800’s) During that particular class, while we were reading a story (well, one in particular, but our prof had said pretty much every book he wrote followed this pattern) concerning itself with a small orphan in New York who basically pulls himself up from absolute poverty. The prof. had made the point that, before he wrote, Alger had been a priest, to which I made the joke oh, well of course that is why he writes about kids. After that I said you know what, fuck it, I’m going to prove he’s a pedophile; went through the book taking notes of all the strange occurrences/observations he made of these young boys, right? Hit google up after and discovered… yeah, he actually was a pedophile. It was why he left the clergy; thus my paper’s thesis became that of Alger’s redemption through his books (that he was trying to redeem himself by saving fictional characters from their fates); I even found this poem he wrote about a priest having committed a horrible, nameless sin. Yeah. Point is? These stereotypes have a basis. Shame that I discovered all of that afterwards but… well, it works.
Shit that was long. My bad. Erm? Enjoy, I guess :O.
Old ways (M/F Feet)
Just another day, gray like all others, thought Reverend Smith as he gazed out of one of the cathedral’s small side windows. Not that there was much to see -- save a hellish mix of green and grey -- as the cathedral was located on top of a small hill, completely surrounded by well trimmed grass, rolling down into the valley so perfectly until meeting the forest of pine trees surrounding the hill, and though he knew the grass continued well into the grove, he could no longer see it. It wasn’t an excessively large hill, but high enough to see well over the top of the sprawling forests on a fairer day; today, though, all that could be seen was the grey of clouds nestled within the trees, gripping them tightly with a dying grasp as the sun beat hard upon them; they would yield and relinquish their grip before long so that the fog would disperse, but until then the day would remain a troubling gray. Probably, he thought aloud, it would rain before the day ended. There wouldn’t be any visitors today; it wouldn’t be worth traversing the forest through the rain.
Of course the large oaken doors at far end of the cathedral would open as he relished in the thought of not having to work today, but his expert expression didn’t show this. He turned, putting on his reverend’s mask of a face as he did; it was a look of knowing -- even if he didn’t always know -- that showed no emotion but also spoke of good tidings: a wide welcoming smile that threatened to destroy his cheeks accompanied by brilliantly welcoming eyes that had the power to gouge one’s soul of enmity. Such a look is required of any priest, lest one of the villagers suspect that he, an avatar of Zeus, did not have the answer. Not just an answer, to be sure; it’s always the answer. Thoughts like these danced as he looked upon the villager that entered and crossed the carpeted stone floor to greet him. As he distracted himself with his own fancies, he had hardly taken in her appearance before she stood directly in front of him, speaking hesitantly, as if she were interrupting something important.
“Excuse me, Reverend…” she began shyly; either she had some sort of confession to make, or she sought advice, he deduced; experience, an old friend and companion, told him that the villagers never traveled this far for any other reason.
“How may I assist you, child?” Was the response he chose from his preplanned list of informal greetings. Careful to not let his gaze falter from her face, he took in the identity of the person standing before him. Intriguing that a woman so young, probably in her mid twenties, would travel however many miles it was from the village here, alone by the looks of the situation; it briefly occurred that someone may be outside awaiting her return but he chose not to linger on such possibilities. She came because of a household dispute, possibly, or else a squabble with a neighbor; her clothes were not that of a street whore nor a thief’s; a white bandana wrapped tightly over her golden hair, imprisoning it, and since there was neither sun nor wind today, he assumed this to mean she was married, further verifying his theory of a household dispute. A simple brown dress adorned her figure, hiding much of it away from sight, but he could tell that she had a fair body by her pale skin. The brown boots adorning her feet, which he could hardly see since she stood perhaps three feet from him and he did not allow his gaze to leave her face, were simple, albeit strangely clean despite the mud that must have covered the forest from the night’s rain, allowing him to perceive that she had taken a carefully chosen route as to keep her appearance. Coupled with the fact that not a single hair stood out of place, he could deduce that she had an extremely careful personality; rather, she thought far ahead of her actions, making this an interesting case for him to listen to; it would likely be only one confession, but an intriguing one nonetheless, probably involving irrational actions. All of these things he thought within a minute’s time, before realizing that he had let himself day dream. By the look of her face, she had spoken and he had missed her carefully chosen words.
“I’m sorry, child. Could you repeat yourself?”
“I asked if I could speak with you for a moment.”
“Of course, child. What seems to be the matter?” To this, she looked away from him at some distant, illusionary object or person. A confession, then. “Would you care to sit over here?” he asked as his hand waved towards one of the pews behind her. She nodded and gracefully glided across the floor to it, sitting down carefully upon the roughly hewn wood. Of course he didn’t follow her; he had to maintain his image of a grand figure so that she could readily divulge her secrets to the image he put forth. Her soft blue eyes gazed off into the distance, perhaps looking towards someone she had wronged, as she sat quietly for a few minutes. Patiently, he waited, until she chose to speak again.
She opened her mouth, sighed, and then closed it. Quickly, she opened it again, sat as if trying to speak, and again closed it, before opening it again and relinquishing a torrent of words, coming forth faster and faster until they were nigh incomprehensible. “Well, you see, I love my husband very much, and we have a child, but it isn’t ours it’s our deceased relatives, but that isn’t related, the point is I love him very much, my husband I mean, but our neighbor is so… I don’t know how to put it, and my husband left the other day for work, and my neighbor came over and one thing led to another and…”
After having said all of that, she let her head fall into her hands.
Listening to the entire story without wavering, the priest nodded, and allowed the woman silence to contemplate. After all, regardless of what he said, ultimately her thoughts and decisions were her own. Even if he told her that it was not wrong to be taken advantage of, she would not listen until she believed it for herself. A few moments passed before he decided to speak. “Child, this world and the next are not one and the same. People commit sin. The key to salvation is forgiveness; not only to those around you, but to yourself.”
“But..”
“You must forgive yourself of your worldly desires before you can be forgiven of them.”
“What kind of advice is that?! Can’t you help at all?”
Raising his hand to his chin, he allowed himself to think for a moment, before finally responding. “There is an ancient form of repentance that I can offer.”
“Please. Anything.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
Turning upon his heel, the priest strove towards the apse, where he typically gave his sermons on days of prayer. Reaching for a lantern he had tucked away beneath a table caused him to groan; though he was still young, he had a weak back which caused him much grief. Quickly as he could, he rose, picked up one of the multitude of lit candles that surrounded him and lit the lantern he now held. Before leaving he took in hand a small length of cloth. Having acquired what he needed, he hurried off towards the hallway to the right, containing the stairwell leading to the crypt beneath the cathedral, all the while followed by the madam who had appeared today. Turning the key that lay inside of the lock on the heavy oaken door proved somewhat difficult; the lock must have rusted he thought to himself. Unlocked, the door opened to an unlit, stone stairwell, leading to the long unused crypt. Perhaps a hundred or two years ago it had served to house the dead; now all it was used for was to store old equipment, which was exactly what he now needed.
As they descended, the air became increasingly wet and moldy. The steps themselves were covered with untouched dust; nobody had come down here for at least 10 years, to his understanding; the last time of which was when he first heard the call, and only to learn what resided down here in case of it being needed again. After fully descending the dangerously steep stairway, he turned to his companion and spoke. “For two reasons, you must now wear this blindfold. The first is that none who are not of the clergy are permitted to gaze upon these relics. The second has to do with your repentance.” As he said this, he withdrew from a pocket a small length of deep white cloth that he had planned to clean with. Warily, the woman took it, wrapping it around her head tightly and knotting it. To make sure that she was indeed blinded, he waved a hand in front of her face, which elicited no reaction. Turning, he spoke to her before walking carefully among the ancient artifacts. “Please put your hand on my shoulder,” he helped her to do this as he spoke, “and follow me straight, without hesitation. You have no need to worry of your footing. The path is straight and unhindered.”
What he was in search of was, if he recalled properly, near the far end from where they currently stood, but it might lay further within the labyrinth’s recesses; he couldn’t quite recall. With what light the small lantern gave, the priest gazed upon the ancient artifacts and relics that had long lain dormant in this basement as he passed over the cold, hard stone, occasionally slowing down as his companion lost her footing. Once, she nearly fell, grabbing onto him and almost bringing him down into the machinations as well. After a long minute of navigating the darkness he finally found the sullen object that he required. In the center of the room they had now entered sat a large, wooden contraption of sorts from an earlier, more barbaric era. From here, it looked merely like a table, cushioned in places, with a board bolted in place at one end. A stockade, he had heard it called; used in olden times to force sinners into repentance, or else withdraw from them vital information via a means most unpleasant.
On the wall, to the right of the entranceway hung an aged hook on which he placed the lantern; he desperately hoped the rusted thing could withstand the weight of the lantern because, should it fail, he would be left in utter darkness. Carefully traversing the floor, so that his companion did not lose her way, he reached the table, unlocking the board and lifting the very heavy top of it, so that it swung open slowly, creaking hollowly within the tomb in a manner that reminded him of a grave forcing itself open to unleash other worldly spirits back into this realm.
“I will need you to sit here.” He said, guiding her onto the table and placing her ankles into the half holes of the board. As he carefully let the upper half of the board drop, trapping the lower part of her legs away from herself, he saw worry upon the woman’s face.
While he locked the board, she asked in a voice that attempted to mask fear, “What are you doing, if I might ask?”
“I am locking you in place, so that you cannot escape; you must be held still as stone, lest your sinful nature take control and force you to flee from salvation. Fear not, Child, you will not be harmed.” He responded in as soothing of a voice as he could muster. Noticeably calmer, she sat back into the other piece of wood behind her. For the first time, he noticed a piece of large, black string dangling from a pin at the top of the board, centered directly between where the woman’s feet now stuck out of.
Now that she was in place he had to see to it that she remained so. With a piece of rope that lay nearby he bound her hands together tightly, letting them rest upon her lap. Doing this elicited a strange look upon her face, but she did not question him. Returning to the front of the table, he prepared himself to begin by taking a deep breath. He had only read about this in an ancient tome, and had no true experience of it, only hoping that all went well.
“We will need to remove these,” he said softly as he laid his hands upon her brown boots and carefully tugged them off.
As he was taking them off, she made another strange face before asking why.
“It is part of the repentance, child.” Setting the boots on the left side of the table, he turned to face her small feet, clad in brown, woolen socks. “We will need to remove these, too.” Tugging carefully at the toe of her sock, he removed the right piece of wool from her body, and then the left, leaving her well tended, almost delicious looking feet bare.
Now with fear of the unknown clearly taking hold, she asked, “What are you going to do?”
Anticipation was an important aspect of the old method, he remembered. He had to let it build up within her so that the first touch would elicit an unprecedented response. He paced to the side of the table loudly so that she would hear him, and her head turned as if she could see him. From this side, to the other, as he passed her vulnerable feet he felt the anticipation within him rising as well. Strangely, he longed to touch them, but knew that he had to let the suspense build up more; knew that he had to fight this welling urge. Slowly he walked, reaching the other side of the table, stopping for a minute before crossing in front of her again, those small feet screaming and crying to be touched. They’re so defenseless, he thought, but took control of himself as he passed to her right once more, then behind. With every deliberate step he took, he watched as she flinched, expecting the worst at any moment. Slowly he passed her left side, and then stopped in front of her feet; for long moments thereafter he simply stood and stared, watching the shadows that danced upon them at the whim of the torch’s flame. Those soft wrinkles adorning her bare soles craved touch; her arches that would be perfectly complemented by a finger running up and down them, and her toes, like the most delicious grapes! He almost reached out right then and began, but caught himself and stopped, stepping back to look upon her longer, tracing around her dainty feet with his eyes. Now he understood why this type of trial was originally established; he had seen feet before, but never as he did now. To see them completely helpless, awaiting their fate in an almost wanting way, allowed him to see them in a new light. This is where they were meant to be; bound helpless, and awaiting punishment.
Just then, as he contemplated how perfectly flat the balls of her feet were, her right foot twitched slightly. A breeze had caressed it, perhaps, or an itch dug into it; either way, he knew he could contain himself no longer. Though he wanted to lunge, he silently stepped forward, relishing in the calm moment just before a catastrophic event takes place: the cries of the earth before an earthquake, the screams of the sky before a hurricane. Carefully, he took his left finger, moved gently towards her right foot, and flicked it up her arch, causing her to squeal lightly. Before she could gain any bearing of what had happened he dug in with both hands, dragging them rapidly up and down both quivering soles.
All of the pent up suspense suddenly released itself from within this woman in an absolute shriek, relinquished in a way that was completely unprepared for what had happened. She screamed out as if for the first time aware of herself; of her feet. Like a banshee she howled with a loud aieee before succumbing to the tickling, laughing as hard as he had ever seen a person laugh. Allowing his fingers to take over whatever bit of flesh fancied them, he danced and weaved patterns across her soles, eliciting more and more laughter from the feet’s owner. Both index finger’s down an arch, followed by all of his fingers sliding across her poor soles caused her to buck at her bondage in an attempt to escape. Attacking the toes led to her pointing them forward, scrunching her toes into her soles as much as possible in defense. To this he responded by drawing his finger tips up from her heels, enjoying the feel of her soft foot skin as he did so.
After only a moment of relentless tickling she began to flap her feet quickly in attempts to fend him off. Though unsuccessful, it became hard to simply tickle her. She took up a tactic where she hid the toes of one foot behind another, but to this he simply chose to attack the foot sacrificing itself for the other. Quickly the defended foot would attempt to protect the now victimized one, leading its toes to the front lines where they were tormented by his fingers until the other foot returned. So the repentance continued, until quite frustrated, she began kicking extremely hard at her bondage, almost lifting the wooden block from the table itself.
A new idea surfaced upon his mind, as he grabbed her left foot with his right hand, held it still, and raked down her now completely defenseless foot repeatedly. Howls of laughter greeted this, as well as her free foot beating upon the fingers of the hand holding her still, until that foot was grabbed and tickled in the same manner as punishment for its wrong-doings.
She laughed, she cried out, she begged for it to stop, but he hardly heard her, only half aware of the melody of her screams and laughs. The laughter was most melodious when her toes were scraped upwards, but as she protected these the most, it was difficult to create such joyful sounds. To get at the, he stopped for a brief second, allowing her to catch her breath, truthfully waiting for her to lower her defenses for but a second so that he could have at her toes. With gusto he struck at them as soon as the opportunity arose, causing her to gasp in a large amount of air and scream with laughter again before bending her toes into her soles out of defense. Though the toe bases were now protected, the pads of them were not, which he lightly scratched at with his fingers before turning his attention to the spot just under them, causing her to shriek madly.
As if she had had too much, she clasped the bottoms of her feet together. He was still able to force his hands between them and tickle, which he did, but it proved bothersome, so he let her rest for a minute. Perhaps five minutes had passed since he began, he thought, waiting for her to leave her feet defenseless and ready for another round. However, she did not move, probably knowing that this plan worked. At this point, he remembered when he had first read of this particular form of repentance, and recalled the black string dangling behind her feet. He allowed her another moment of rest before he reached forward and hungrily grabbed the string, using his free hand to gently caress the sides of her feet that projected themselves towards him. Doing this caused her feet to shoot back to where they had been before, which he had hoped for; quickly, so as not to allow her feet to escape, he held them in place against the board with his free hand, so that they were unable to struggle and wrapped the string around both of her big toes, tying them together. With that important part done he took the free end of the string and wrapped it around the hook at the board’s top, pulling it tight and then tying it into a knot so that she could not pull her feet from the board, leaving them exposed and defenseless to the siege he was prepared to lay upon them.
With her feet absolutely defenseless, he began again, striking at the toes that could no longer flex freely. As he dug into her toes, her soles bended and flexed against the string in unison, which he found quite attractive, but she soon realized she was unable to escape its grasp and her light laughter turned to maddened howls. Though she struggled to flex her feet, she was unable to do so in a useful manner, allowing him the freedom of digging all of his fingers into her silken soles, barraging them with feelings. If she had shrieked before, she now screamed at the top of her lungs, unable to escape the torture in any way. For long minutes he ran his fingers across her soles, touching them all over, greatly enjoying how her foot skin felt against his fingers, her laughter growing in desperation with each stroke of the finger. Knowing that her only options were to laugh and to attempt to free her feet of the contraption designed to keep them still sped his motions, until his fingers danced a mad man’s dance of crazed spins and leaps upon her helpless skin while she sat, shrieking and laughing. Again he began a relentless siege upon the toes, but for a much longer period of time than before as she could no longer protect them. At first when he touched them, after tying her toes to the post, she only shrieked in surprise, but now she screamed with what probably was all of her might. Not the toes, she howled, not the toes! It was there that he focused heavily for several minutes, knowing full well that it must be done lest she find herself unable to forgive herself of her sins.
Finally he stopped, knowing that he had gone far beyond a reasonable amount of torture; still, he felt it necessary to tickle her far more than she seemed capable of handling. Beside that, her feet had felt as if they had melted between his finger tips; it took too much of his willpower to find the means to stop. All in all, the event probably only took about fifteen minutes but the woman looked flustered beyond comparison; she almost seemed as if she had undergone labor. As he reached to the top of the board with his left hand to untie her toes, he continued to scratch at the very center of the poor woman’s sole lightly, finding himself unable to resist as he caused causing her to twitch ever so slightly while she giggled the entire time he unlocked her. The string fell loose, and quickly realizing this, her feet fought much harder to escape the scratching than before, but he soon stopped to continue releasing her. Next he moved around and untied her hands while she continued to giggle lightly from the tickling that had but a moment ago occurred. As he unlocked and opened the board once again, she removed her blindfold. She shouldn’t be allowed to remove it but he had long since forgotten the traditions involved and made no attempt to stop her. As soon as she located her shoes and socks, she quickly donned them, welcoming the protection that they provided that she had never before been aware of. While she did this, he took the lantern down from its hook, awaiting her to rise and follow him back out of the crypt, though she sat flexing her feet, guarded by the leather of her boots, as if assuring herself that they were indeed safe; for a excruciatingly long minute he stood, waiting, while she sat and attempted to regain her breath with what energy she retained; eventually she leapt off of the table and walked towards him so that he could lead her out. As they exited, he decided to break the eerie silence of the tomb with conversation.
“How do you feel, Child?”
“Ticklish.” She spoke, giggling still, though much lighter than before.
“Do you feel as though you have repented?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The rest of the march through the crypt was one of silence, save for the soft thuds of their shoes greeting and immediately parting from stones. Up the stone stairs they traveled, she bid thanks and goodbye, and then left.
A few days passed before she came back, speaking of another sin, and asking for further repentance, to which he gladly granted her.
.
