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Renfaire

Phantom

TMF Novice
Joined
Mar 5, 2002
Messages
71
Points
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here's another one.



BEGIN:

When you open your eyes, the first things you notice are your legs,
bent at a 90-degree angle with your knees only inches away from your face.
Your eyes instinctively examine the situation for clues, moving from your
knees to your ankles. But you can't see your ankles! It's as if the
massive wood structure in front of you has swallowed them whole. Your
muscles reflexively pull back, but your legs do not move an inch. You look
to your left and right, your eyes following your arms up to where they too
are encased in wood. Defiantly, you pull back your arms in one sweeping
effort. But your wrists refuse the momentum of your arms, the resulting
clash of movements tossing your head forward with a jolt as your hair falls
forward. The wooden structure that pinions your limbs, however, is
oblivious to this motion. In fact, it did not move an inch.
Shifting your position on the padded bench, you notice for the first
time that your bonds go beyond the wood. Though you cannot see your
ankles, you can feel the soft cloth that cinches them together. Over the
top of the stocks, you are able to see your toes. Tugging, flexing,
spreading them--you look in disbelief. Your big toes have been tied into a
neat little bundle. Worse than that, the ropes joining your toes were
pulled backward until tied to a steel eyelet screwed into the top of the
stocks. From the effect of these well-placed bonds, your two soles have
been effectively transformed into one big sole. Suddenly they seem like
one big target. The nerve endings of your feet seem to be at high alert to
potential danger, tingling with anticipation. You find yourself yanking at
the toe tie, trying to free them. If only your feet weren't joined there,
you could at least cover one foot with the other. Seeking separation, you
move your left foot away front the right. To your amazement, the big toe
of your right foot moves with your left. It's as if they were joined by
bone. Even more distressing, the movement of the feet only separates the
big toe from your little toes, fully exposing the hypersensitive flesh at
the base of your toes.
In frustration, you blurt out "come off it!" However, the actually
words never reach the air. You were so focused on the multitude of
bindings that hold you in place that you only now taste the flavor of a
small balled handkerchief in your mouth, sealed behind tight lips by a wide
strip of white tape. "Mmmpph!" Every sound you make is now indecipherably
muffled. The helplessness of your situation makes you more determined to
free yourself. Your unseen fingers beyond the wood flail out in odd
positions and shift and twist your wrists in their confining holes. If
only you could pull one wrist out; maybe you'd have a chance. Of course,
you know that all the bindings on you feet would never allow them to be
pulled back through their holes. But maybe . . . just maybe . . . you
could get one wrist out. Maybe then you could reach over to unlatch the
upper stock from the lower. You'd be free! As you continue to twirl your
wrists, trying to find a position that will allow one of them to squeeze
out, you glance to the end of stocks to find the latch you'll need to
release your ankles. There it is! But you instantly see that even two
free hands couldn't help you: The latch is held with one of the largest
padlocks you have ever seen. Drained of energy, you go limp.
"Mmawmph!" What? What was that sound? You look to your right and
notice for the first time that you are not alone. Sitting on the same
bench with her feet pilloried in the same fashion, is a young woman with
large doe-like eyes. They are even wider than normal as they dart in every
direction at once, desperately trying to figure out what happened. For a
moment, you almost speak out to her. Then you remember that your voice is
as muffled as hers. You sigh instead.
For the moment resigned to your fate, you look around the rolling
countryside surrounding you. Although no one is closer than 25 feet, you
see at least fifty people scattered over the midway of the Faire. Knights
in armor lean their lances against a building (one of them is smoking).
Their horses, covered with coat-of-arms riding blankets, lazily chew on
grass. Further down the midway, you see craftsmen of various trades
readying their display areas. A glass blower stokes his fire. A
blacksmith lays his hammer on an anvil. A weaver places a large spool of
thread into her loom. All are wearing period clothing of the Renaissance,
as are the various food vendors. One such vendor taps a keg of a
distinctively out-of-place beer, Budweiser.
In the far distance, more than two football fields away, a large iron
gate is being unlocked. Moments later, everyone in sight begins to take
predetermined positions as hundreds of people start to fan out from the
gate. Without provocation, you find your toes are scrunched together.
Your heart beats louder as the crowd disperses into the Faire. Many
move straight over to the knights as they prepare for their first joust.
Many others drift toward the crafts. Still others are ready to eat and
drink. "Maybe no one will notice us," you wishfully think to yourself. No
sooner do you think this than a young boy taps his sister's shoulder and
points . . . at you! He turns toward his parents and appears to say
something. Suddenly they look your way with perplexed eyes and laughing
mouths. "Oh no!" you think.
The kids seem charged with electricity as they approach you. The
parents follow still with curious expressions. Arriving in your area, the
dad notices a large, hand-lettered scroll hanging on a tree about five feet
away from you. As he calls his wife over to read it, your eyes follow
along in disbelief:
"Hear ye! Hear ye! The two prisoners before ye have been found
guilty of wanton disregard of the laws of the land. Therefore, by order of
the magistrate, it is thy duty as citizens to punish the lawless so they
might learn the error of their ways. Thou art thusly compelled to poke,
slap, and tickle the soles of their feet, until justice is fully served."
Surely, they won't do that, you think to yourself. These other costumed
people are actors-- paid to entertain the crowds. But that's just it!
These people are going to assume that you are paid actors too!
A dazed shock takes over your body as the realization of your fate
sinks in. For a few frantic moments, you thrash back and forth in one more
futile attempt to free yourself. Exhausted, you bow your head with tousled
hair. Only then do you see the implements, arranged neatly on the ground
in front of the stocks: An earthen vase holding dozens of feathers of
various sizes ranging from a stiff quill to a fluffy ostrich plume.
Several thin sticks, whittled to a point. A selection of wooden spoons. A
large pouch overflowing with powder with the words "Itching Powder" printed
on the side.
"Mmoww!" Your glazed stare at the tools of torment is shattered by
the sound of your fellow prisoner. The little boy had picked up a wood
spoon and smacked its large flat surface into a stinging thud against her
helpless sole. The distraction of your neighbor's plight is ended by your
own: the little girl, probably no more than eight, reaches down to pick up
a quill feather. While standing directly in front of you, she runs the
feather edge against the palm of her hand as if to test its tactile
possibilities. Not satisfied, she turns the feather around and scrapes her
palm with the sharpened quill point. With an impish grin, she then looks
right at you.
At this point, you are livid. You are a grown woman! No
eight-year-old brat is going to torment you and get away with it. Once
again you frantically flex your muscles, desperately trying to somehow save
your soles from certain torment. Little do you know, you are only making
matters worse! With your tender feet held in stocks at a conspicuous and
accessible four feet off the ground, all your struggles only made it look
like you are wiggling your toes. Already convinced you are an actor, the
growing crowds will assume you are only asking for more tickling. As the
little girl raises the quill point toward your trembling toes, you have to
look away. Unfortunately for you, the crowds entering the Faire seem to be
heading your way.

--
[email protected]
 
Nice one! I remember that one from the old Tom's Adult Tickling Chat. Thanks for posting, it's been quite a while since I've seen it.
 
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