Jaynin
4th Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Jul 12, 2003
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Hey.
So I like, never post anything here ever, but with Tickle Theater down and looking sketchy as to when it may come back up... I figured I'd post here, because this is the first new thing I've written in like two years. I had the urge to write a Warcraft story some time ago and I started this one, and then after starting it I got two other, much better ideas, yet I didn't want to leave this unfinished.
So here's a random, mostly plot-less blurb of tickling, and stuff. Yeah.
---
Glory was in the battle against the Iron Horde. Glory was found in combating the threat to Azeroth posed by Garrosh Hellscream's machinations in the land of Draenor, and the new army he had brought forth against his former allies and hated enemies. Glory went to those who even now prepared to combat his hordes, and take the fight to Draenor itself, to the strongest and most well-prepared members of the Horde and Alliance – mostly the Horde, of course – who would soon begin a new campaign. But glory cannot come without hard work, testing one's mettle against progressively stronger enemies, for to face the Iron Horde without sufficient experience was death. Those who had cast down Lei Shen from the Throne of Thunder, who had besieged Orgrimmar, they were the ones who would venture forth soon.
Not everyone could seek glory in this particular battle. Not yet.
It was tradition to trace the footsteps of those who had gone before, to see the evils they had seen, overcome the challenges they had fought against, and indeed sometimes to see how their efforts had changed the face of Azeroth through tireless, grueling battle. But more than that, noxious weeds would always spring up again as soon as the gardeners were gone. Just because a threat was no longer the strongest or the most dire facing the land did not mean that it was not a threat any more. It fell to the newcomers, the novices, and the newly minted warriors who would seek glory to ensure those old evils stayed beaten down, and in doing so to hone one's experience so that, in time, they too could join the effort to fight against whatever might come next.
It was for this reason that a seasoned but not yet elite Orc warrior descended the stone walkway into the ancient, bizarre corridors of Ulduar. The evil of the ancient gods was among the most pernicious, seeping through any cracks in the vigilance of the watchers in the hope that it might yet again take root. The proud Orc female dismounted the ramshackle motor vehicle that took her past the ruins of what had once been an epic battle between massive war machines, striding slowly but with purpose through the walkway that ran between two towering walls on the way to the teleportation device that would take her inside of Ulduar proper.
Damned gadgetry. Or was it wizardry? Sometimes it was hard to decide which form of nonsense was worse, the machines and science peddled by gnomes and goblins, or the myriad magics and mystical forces wielded by mages and warlocks. The teleportation device in front of her was a bronze disc on the stone floor that shone with a bright, welcoming light, beckoning the unwary to step on its surface and... have something happen. She grimaced, yet there was no other way, and one heavy, booted foot clanged down on the disc, followed by the other, and then she waited. Waited, and waited, and this damned thing must be broken, because it didn't do anything. Delivering a growl and a stomp of frustration caused the device to make some noises, clatter a bit, and then she felt something happening, like a tingle spreading through her body.
---
She came to, yet there was utter darkness. A small circle of light that seemed to come from nowhere illuminated her body, limbs heavy and refusing to obey the commands of her brain. It took a few moments of trying to move before she realized two things. One, her arms were sheathed from elbow to fingertips in metal, making it appear that she was half-melted into the wall. Likewise from her knees to her toes, exposing what was the second thing she had noticed – her naked body – from knees to elbows. Nakedness hardly registered with the fierce Orc warrior. Her body was strong, lean with muscle, small but perky breasts topped with dark green nipples on her chest. Her head was shaved save for a ponytail, so that her green skin shone softly in the strange light. Prisoner. This was nothing new. Nakedness, if it was meant to shame her, failed utterly; humans might be ashamed of their soft and weak bodies, as well they should, and the so-called 'ancient' races had developed odd ideas regarding dignity. For an Orc, and moreover for a soldier, nakedness was nothing new.
Nor, for that matter, was sexual desire. As groups of novices and trainees worked from the various Horde outposts, helping hold the line and run supplies, killing monsters and protecting convoys and everything else under the sun, they stayed in generally rough places without amenities, which meant that bathing happened in the nearest clean river or lake, and if you were shy about your naked body you would never get to clean off. But trying to pretend that one felt no desire from the opportunity to freely gaze upon the bodies of an attractive being was a lie. Of course there were prudes, or those who were too injured or tired to seek that sort of entertainment, yet those bathing encounters frequently became sexual free-for-alls. Thus, simply displaying this Orc warrior's naked female body meant precisely nothing to her; instead, she began to exert her not inconsiderable strength towards the goal of breaking free.
Whatever trick held her in place was clearly a shoddy one, for as soon as she applied her tremendous physical strength to the problem, she heard the creaking and groaning of stressed metal, feeling it start to give slowly under her onslaught. Yet just at that time, when she felt the metal start to move, she failed to notice two shadowy pseudopods that had seemed to grow out of the wall, and touch themselves to her ribcage on either side. What followed was a sensation that shocked her so much that she loosened her muscles all at once, feeling the pliable metal retake its shape holding her against the wall, and that bizarre feeling stroked through her upper body. A laugh inexplicably bubbled up through her lips, a simple and quick expression of surprise, but she soon focused more on trying to remember that sensation, somehow familiar, but vague. It had ceased once she stopped struggling against her restraints, giving her a moment to think. Why did it remind her of fingernails?
Fingernails. Childhood. That was it. She had not felt tickling in so long, nor was she especially ticklish. It was simply the surprise of such an old feeling floating back up out of her memory. No sooner had she started pulling on the metal again than the pseudopods touched themselves to her underarms. They did not move or particularly look like they were doing anything, but the feeling of fingernails stroking one after another in the hollows of her arms started. At first merely bothersome, it swiftly escalated to the point where focus became difficult; eyes were shut and teeth gritted in an attempt to retain that focus, but the tickling seemed to serve as a sort of counteracting force, urging her muscles to waste energy in useless spasms instead of applying their considerable strength to break free.
“Ha... ahaha... haa...” she gasped in the process of trying to breathe, strain showing on her face as the sensation of fingernails in her underarms grew to feel more like hands crawling in her exposed spot. Keeping herself moving properly, and not wasting her time and effort on useless things like her hips swaying and back arching as they seemed to want to do, was too difficult, and the creaking metal settled back into place, solidly pinning her against the wall. “Ahaha, haa, haha, haa...” Her laughter seemed to continue long after the effort and tickling had stopped – indeed, it seemed that whenever she did not struggle, the tickling sensation ceased, but it took longer to fade the second time than the first. It was about when she was preparing to try again that the Orc warrior realized what she had heard was not her own laughter.
There, seemingly right in front of her, was a naked Night Elven female, saying something in her own language, but the tone of voice and appearance translated perfectly for the Orc. Kneeling upon a metal platform, her knees spread wide to show off her nakedness as well, two of the shadowy pseudopods wandering back and forth across her bared feet while two more were poised just below and behind her shoulders. Her wrists were bound together, and the cord that tied her wrists together was itself was hooked to the front of the metal table, with a pull-switch dangling in front of her face. The cord's length forced the elf to keep her hands down and in front of her, but it didn't look rigid and immobile; instead, there was a feeling of elasticity about it, like it could be stretched. She shook her head desperately, tears flowing down her cheeks as she laughed, and somehow the Orc female could perceive what she was feeling; two other Night Elves, expressions of bored and amused cruelty on their faces, stroking long and stiff feathers upon her helpless soles. Her sisters? It was as if the Night Elf's mind was somehow open to her. Unlike her own experience, in which tickling had been a vague childhood memory, this woman had been tormented with it for her entire life, as her sensitivity was such that her siblings would pounce on any opportunity to exploit it – and to disseminate the information to others.
With a low, strangled cry of laughter, the Night Elf's hands began to move, showing that the cord which bound her wrists was indeed elastic. Slowly, tortuously, she reached for the triangular pull-switch that dangled before her, lean body straining as if making an enormous effort. Her hands crept closer and closer to being able to grasp the switch, straining against the elastic but pulled taut cord, fingertips so close... when the tendrils at her shoulders sneaked into the underarms that were exposing themselves, and resolved into the sensations of two other Night Elves, male and female, teasing her with some sort of scratching tool, gently mocking her for her inability to reach the lever. Mother and father. The elf's fingertips trembled within reach of the triangular handle on the end of the rope, straining, trying to overcome the ticklish sensations, before she failed, body giving out, frenzied laughter growing in volume accompanied by shrieks of madness. “NOOHOHHOHOHOOO!!! I'm sorrhehehehehe! I'm sorry I'm sorrehehHEEHEHEHEHEH E hehehehe ple-hehe-HHEEEEEEEZE!!” It made no sense. She must have lost her mind.
That display of insanity spurred another attempt to escape, immediately. Expecting now the stroking sensations of fingers under her arms when she tried, the Orc was able to block out the teasing for the most part, and was rewarded with the sound of creaking, stressed metal once again. “Wow, you're so strong!” she heard, but it seemed like the voice was inside of her head, and all at once there was a callow Blood Elf male standing before her in the robes of an apprentice mage. No, she had to focus. This was just part of the insanity seeping through this place. It wasn't real – except as the image of the young man drew something short, looking like a small rod with a fuzzy tip, out of his robe pocket, she felt her stomach seem to tremble involuntarily. The feeling of his hand gently resting on her hard, straining stomach, leaning in to inspect her navel closely, then slipping the little thing inside... it felt like her entire soul was being tickled, an electric sensation that ran from her fingertips to toes and back, sapping her of her strength in an instant. “Ghh-hahaha-hahaha! You damned brat!” she snarled before she could stop herself, and anger flooded her mind, prompting her to try again immediately in spite of that awful, soul-destroying ticklish sensation that was making her twitch like crazy.
She held onto her anger. Illusion though it might be, the notion of being taunted by some damned little boy – a mage boy, even worse! - allowed her to gather her resolve. Yet when she closed her eyes to try and work on dealing with the tickle impulses skittering all throughout her body, the image became clearer. Herself, wielding her massive two-handed battle axe, standing in the middle of one of Orgrimmar's dirt fighting arenas. Her arms raised over her head, gripping her axe hard, ready to smash it down upon the head of this insolent brat, but she couldn't move! Jeers from the watching crowd reached her ears, only making her angrier, but her inability to do anything about it whipped up a rising tide of impotent rage. Her armor somehow lacked a midsection, exposing her navel to him, and as long as that fuzzy little tool played around inside of her navel, her muscles felt like water, barely able to keep from dropping her weapon on herself, much less swing it at this whelp.
Her eyes opened, and her straining muscles relaxed once again, the metal that bound her to the wall slowly forming itself once more into an unbroken sheet that covered her from knees to toes and elbows to fingertips. It wasn't actually metal, she realized, as that tendril which had moments before had been a youthful elf mage simply kept its tip in her navel, stroking and exploring, and the warrior had to fight down a growing sense of panic. No longer content with punishing her for trying to escape, this... thing, whatever it was, now continued tickling her, and despite the fact that the illusions of madness had faded from her mind, the ticklish sensation had not diminished very much. It wasn't just the teasing play of her childhood, something that prompted a swing of her fist and an aggressive growl before engaging in the more rough-and-tumble amusement of wrestling with one of her peers. Something about this creature, it seemed like it was able to reach into her very soul, and those electric spasms of laughter relentlessly coursed through her nerves, from bottom to top and back again.
To the right and somewhat closer than the pleading and howling female Night Elf there suddenly appeared a male, also naked, and his body was stretched out tight as he lay on his back, the tendrils at first not evident on his body, but the Orc knew they must be there, for he too laughed and struggled like everyone else. Then she spotted them, little fine tendrils exploring his manhood and between his legs, keeping him standing at attention and displaying something that under normal circumstances would have led the proud warrior of the Horde to subdue and then use this male for her own pleasure. He was an enemy, after all, and if she could get a little use out of him before she killed him, so much the better. But there would be no glorious combat right now, not with the humiliation of madness swirling around each of them. His hips continued to thrust upward, but his stretched-out pose made it so that he could strain only a few inches upwards, stomach and thigh muscles flexing as he desperately drove upwards towards something, though she knew not what, and having already dismissed the male's actions to madness, the Orc was treated to the second half of this particular torment.
Suspended in the air above him, her flexibility fully on display by how cords spread and extended her legs in a V-shaped pose, was a female Blood Elf. The irony of this would be fully clear to someone in control of their mind – implacable enemies straining with every fiber in their bodies to engage in intimacy, while laughing themselves into insanity. For these two the theme seemed to center around lewdness. The tickling sensations of the male resolved themselves into the Orc's mind as a sort of revenge, a merciless payback from all the women this male had slept with, their fingernails stroking along his sensitive genitalia and teasing along his broad and firm chest, touching so lightly it seemed as if the sensation should be no more than the kiss of the breeze or the annoyance of a fly. Yet this big, strong Night Elf man was beside himself laughing as the fingernails gently stroked along his skin, swirling in his underarms, exploring behind his balls and all along his shaft, teasingly tracing the patterns in his skin that were made by his muscular definition. But his ultimate desire was withheld from him; sexual release, she realized, would not be granted by these illusory females, and the only hope for relief hovered just bare inches above his swollen manhood...
The much smaller, less defined, and flexible Blood Elf female was no saint in this regard. She had lain with as many males of the Horde as her would-be partner had taken women, but her punishment was altogether different. Though her body was slight, strong fingers dug deeply into her ribcage and sides, prompting gales of laughter and shrieking to burst forth from her lips, the woman's hair tangled and disheveled from her head tossing about in dismay. The one exception to the strong hands that dominated her sensitive skin was the two featherlike sensations that teased her, stroking along her labia and gently stirring her up towards greater desire, although the Orc could sense that somehow this rough, merciless tickling was all that the woman required. She, too, desperately wished for a release, and strained her body down against the cords that bound her in mid-air, wrapped around her ankles and wrists to support her, wrists tied behind and against the small of her back. Her hips strained downward, breasts quivering with her nonstop laughter, two mortal enemies throwing aside all sense of allegiance, of old racial hatreds, in a futile attempt to sate the physical desires run rampant through their bodies. The visions faded, images of teasing females and rough males returning to those same tendrils being extruded from the darkness for the purposes of ticklish torment.
Yet these displays of mental tickle torment were only of peripheral concern to the Orc warrior now, as she felt a rising sense of desperation, straining her body and pulling at the bonds that held her powerful limbs at bay, the single tentacle tip inching its way into her navel and causing all sorts of havoc with her body. How could one little sensation in the soft depression between her muscled abdomen overwhelm an entire body's worth of muscles, hardened by combat? It would have been infuriating if she wasn't so busy laughing, struggling, and trying to figure out how to escape this nightmarish tickling trap. The cries of laughter from the others never ceased, though they were too far gone in their own ticklish illusions to have noticed the newcomer, and one by one more victims of this nefarious trap were revealed. None were spared, no species nor gender ignored.
A female Troll shrieked as her broad, soft feet came under attack from dozens of stroking, scratching tips like little twigs, pulling the flesh on her ticklish soles this way and that, making temporary ridges with the force of their motions. A male human was wrapped from nose to ankles in darkness, the only exposed flesh being that beneath his arms where a pair of small holes admitted two tentacles, and on his feet, which twisted helplessly to try and avoid the nest of fine tendrils assaulting him. A female Draenei, lacking feet but compensating for it with an impossibly huge chest that was the focus of a number of tentacles – her body was embedded in the wall in a chest-forward pose, meaning that lower than her ribs and above her elbows, she was not visible to the naked eye, those enormous blue breasts the entirety of the nightmare's focus. Still others – even one of the Forsaken was somehow a victim, memories of her human life haunting her as a blindfold stole her sight, leaving her to dance, dangling by chains, every time one of the tentacles surrounding her teased one spot or another. A male Tauren and his incredibly impressive manhood suffered the same fate, though he was pressed up against a wall with his member disappearing inside of it where hundreds of soft little tendrils stroked his sensitive length from tip to base while he hammered on the unyielding surface with huge fists and cried out in ticklish agony.
By now the female Orc was losing herself in her own madness, the sight of all the other suffering tickle victims fading, though their laughter could still be heard in the back of her mind, a cacophony of mad hysteria playing over and over again like some broken Goblin device. But it paled in comparison to her own humiliating laughter, caused by this young Blood Elf male and his two compatriots tickling her; axe raised overhead, she nonetheless could not muster the strength to bring it down and strike her opponent, whose soft probing of her navel made her entire body quiver, robbing her muscles of the strength needed to deliver a crushing blow, to smite these impertinent, city-soft little mages...! Her raised arms exposed her underarms to the devious fingertips of the other two that stood to either side, tracing the contour of skin and muscle, those gentle sensations blown entirely out of proportion by a traitorous body that was reacting to this childish torment in spite of increasingly frantic protestations of her conscious mind. Her fingers quivered on the haft of her battle-ax, the heavy blade seeming like it weighed as much as three adult male Orcs put together, a weapon so unwieldy not even a Tauren could use it, or so it felt.
“She can't even swing her axe. Some warrior,” one of the grinning young males teased her, trailing his fingertips along the inside of her soft, exposed underarm before exploring down along her torso to her ribcage, just beside her breast. Her armor had somehow disappeared, and she was entirely naked before an arena of jeering spectators, laughing at the helpless warrior who couldn't even so much as manage a strike with her weapon! The soft bristles of the brushlike tool the mage standing directly in front of her wielded seemed to have a life of their own, searching into the irregular crevice of her navel, finding the deepest, most secret nerve endings and teasing them with just the right amount of friction, tickling her into hysterical submission. She could take it no more, body shaking with laughter that was impossible to suppress, and the haft of the axe finally slipped from her fingertips, sliding backwards out of her grip and landing with a heavy thud behind her, raising a small cloud of dust as it did so. Having abandoned pride, her only thought to stop the tickling, the warrior tried to flail with her arms and bat away these insufferable wretches, but the ticklish torture had sapped her strength to the point that each one of the males to either side of her propped a hand beneath her elbows, preventing her from lowering her arms, and the uncoordinated Orc could do nothing to stop them as their fingers grew increasingly more brazen in exploring her body.
Once started it was impossible to stop, this laughter. Once she had submitted to it, it only grew stronger, wracking her body with unwanted spasms of giggling, reducing the proud Orc warrior to a mess of quivering, weak jelly. She could only stand there, arms up and head tossed back with wild laughter, as they moved their probing from her underarms, to her ribs, tickling her perked-up nipples with gentle strokes, sliding down towards her hips and grabbing at her body to knead at the powerful muscle beneath. This, too, was ticklish, as though the flesh being weak was not enough of a humiliation but the stimulation of her powerful figure was even moreso. She, like all of the others she had witnessed, was now one more victim lost in the labyrinth of her mind, shadowy influences corrupting and exploiting her body so that not even death or true madness was a release. She, like the others, was now doomed to suffer this tickling until someone could find the source of the evil and put a stop to it. Her eyes, glazed over with illusion, gazed out over the massive cavern full of ticklish suffering, unseeing as she struggled in a vain attempt to pull free of the material which kept her firmly secured to a wall.
Yet the heroes of Azeroth had already moved beyond the Titan ruins of Ulduar. The only ones that would come exploring were those still in training, like herself. Could someone alert those able to come to their assistance that something was deeply amiss? Or was she condemned with all these other poor souls to laugh away her life in the service of an ancient and deeply twisted god?
“Haaa, ahhahahaa, ahahahaha... hahaha, no, please... please stop, sthahaheehhee, stop, you... ahahah, brahaha-haha-hahahAHAHAHAA brats! Lehe-heeheheh let me go, you hahaheehe... haha... hee-heeeh-have no idea what I'll dohoh-hohoooo when I get free!”
Her cries joined the others, railing against their personal demons and illusions, perhaps only to make sense for the brief period of time in which a fresh victim, still in possession of their sanity, was there to observe... whenever that might be.
If ever.
So I like, never post anything here ever, but with Tickle Theater down and looking sketchy as to when it may come back up... I figured I'd post here, because this is the first new thing I've written in like two years. I had the urge to write a Warcraft story some time ago and I started this one, and then after starting it I got two other, much better ideas, yet I didn't want to leave this unfinished.
So here's a random, mostly plot-less blurb of tickling, and stuff. Yeah.
---
Glory was in the battle against the Iron Horde. Glory was found in combating the threat to Azeroth posed by Garrosh Hellscream's machinations in the land of Draenor, and the new army he had brought forth against his former allies and hated enemies. Glory went to those who even now prepared to combat his hordes, and take the fight to Draenor itself, to the strongest and most well-prepared members of the Horde and Alliance – mostly the Horde, of course – who would soon begin a new campaign. But glory cannot come without hard work, testing one's mettle against progressively stronger enemies, for to face the Iron Horde without sufficient experience was death. Those who had cast down Lei Shen from the Throne of Thunder, who had besieged Orgrimmar, they were the ones who would venture forth soon.
Not everyone could seek glory in this particular battle. Not yet.
It was tradition to trace the footsteps of those who had gone before, to see the evils they had seen, overcome the challenges they had fought against, and indeed sometimes to see how their efforts had changed the face of Azeroth through tireless, grueling battle. But more than that, noxious weeds would always spring up again as soon as the gardeners were gone. Just because a threat was no longer the strongest or the most dire facing the land did not mean that it was not a threat any more. It fell to the newcomers, the novices, and the newly minted warriors who would seek glory to ensure those old evils stayed beaten down, and in doing so to hone one's experience so that, in time, they too could join the effort to fight against whatever might come next.
It was for this reason that a seasoned but not yet elite Orc warrior descended the stone walkway into the ancient, bizarre corridors of Ulduar. The evil of the ancient gods was among the most pernicious, seeping through any cracks in the vigilance of the watchers in the hope that it might yet again take root. The proud Orc female dismounted the ramshackle motor vehicle that took her past the ruins of what had once been an epic battle between massive war machines, striding slowly but with purpose through the walkway that ran between two towering walls on the way to the teleportation device that would take her inside of Ulduar proper.
Damned gadgetry. Or was it wizardry? Sometimes it was hard to decide which form of nonsense was worse, the machines and science peddled by gnomes and goblins, or the myriad magics and mystical forces wielded by mages and warlocks. The teleportation device in front of her was a bronze disc on the stone floor that shone with a bright, welcoming light, beckoning the unwary to step on its surface and... have something happen. She grimaced, yet there was no other way, and one heavy, booted foot clanged down on the disc, followed by the other, and then she waited. Waited, and waited, and this damned thing must be broken, because it didn't do anything. Delivering a growl and a stomp of frustration caused the device to make some noises, clatter a bit, and then she felt something happening, like a tingle spreading through her body.
---
She came to, yet there was utter darkness. A small circle of light that seemed to come from nowhere illuminated her body, limbs heavy and refusing to obey the commands of her brain. It took a few moments of trying to move before she realized two things. One, her arms were sheathed from elbow to fingertips in metal, making it appear that she was half-melted into the wall. Likewise from her knees to her toes, exposing what was the second thing she had noticed – her naked body – from knees to elbows. Nakedness hardly registered with the fierce Orc warrior. Her body was strong, lean with muscle, small but perky breasts topped with dark green nipples on her chest. Her head was shaved save for a ponytail, so that her green skin shone softly in the strange light. Prisoner. This was nothing new. Nakedness, if it was meant to shame her, failed utterly; humans might be ashamed of their soft and weak bodies, as well they should, and the so-called 'ancient' races had developed odd ideas regarding dignity. For an Orc, and moreover for a soldier, nakedness was nothing new.
Nor, for that matter, was sexual desire. As groups of novices and trainees worked from the various Horde outposts, helping hold the line and run supplies, killing monsters and protecting convoys and everything else under the sun, they stayed in generally rough places without amenities, which meant that bathing happened in the nearest clean river or lake, and if you were shy about your naked body you would never get to clean off. But trying to pretend that one felt no desire from the opportunity to freely gaze upon the bodies of an attractive being was a lie. Of course there were prudes, or those who were too injured or tired to seek that sort of entertainment, yet those bathing encounters frequently became sexual free-for-alls. Thus, simply displaying this Orc warrior's naked female body meant precisely nothing to her; instead, she began to exert her not inconsiderable strength towards the goal of breaking free.
Whatever trick held her in place was clearly a shoddy one, for as soon as she applied her tremendous physical strength to the problem, she heard the creaking and groaning of stressed metal, feeling it start to give slowly under her onslaught. Yet just at that time, when she felt the metal start to move, she failed to notice two shadowy pseudopods that had seemed to grow out of the wall, and touch themselves to her ribcage on either side. What followed was a sensation that shocked her so much that she loosened her muscles all at once, feeling the pliable metal retake its shape holding her against the wall, and that bizarre feeling stroked through her upper body. A laugh inexplicably bubbled up through her lips, a simple and quick expression of surprise, but she soon focused more on trying to remember that sensation, somehow familiar, but vague. It had ceased once she stopped struggling against her restraints, giving her a moment to think. Why did it remind her of fingernails?
Fingernails. Childhood. That was it. She had not felt tickling in so long, nor was she especially ticklish. It was simply the surprise of such an old feeling floating back up out of her memory. No sooner had she started pulling on the metal again than the pseudopods touched themselves to her underarms. They did not move or particularly look like they were doing anything, but the feeling of fingernails stroking one after another in the hollows of her arms started. At first merely bothersome, it swiftly escalated to the point where focus became difficult; eyes were shut and teeth gritted in an attempt to retain that focus, but the tickling seemed to serve as a sort of counteracting force, urging her muscles to waste energy in useless spasms instead of applying their considerable strength to break free.
“Ha... ahaha... haa...” she gasped in the process of trying to breathe, strain showing on her face as the sensation of fingernails in her underarms grew to feel more like hands crawling in her exposed spot. Keeping herself moving properly, and not wasting her time and effort on useless things like her hips swaying and back arching as they seemed to want to do, was too difficult, and the creaking metal settled back into place, solidly pinning her against the wall. “Ahaha, haa, haha, haa...” Her laughter seemed to continue long after the effort and tickling had stopped – indeed, it seemed that whenever she did not struggle, the tickling sensation ceased, but it took longer to fade the second time than the first. It was about when she was preparing to try again that the Orc warrior realized what she had heard was not her own laughter.
There, seemingly right in front of her, was a naked Night Elven female, saying something in her own language, but the tone of voice and appearance translated perfectly for the Orc. Kneeling upon a metal platform, her knees spread wide to show off her nakedness as well, two of the shadowy pseudopods wandering back and forth across her bared feet while two more were poised just below and behind her shoulders. Her wrists were bound together, and the cord that tied her wrists together was itself was hooked to the front of the metal table, with a pull-switch dangling in front of her face. The cord's length forced the elf to keep her hands down and in front of her, but it didn't look rigid and immobile; instead, there was a feeling of elasticity about it, like it could be stretched. She shook her head desperately, tears flowing down her cheeks as she laughed, and somehow the Orc female could perceive what she was feeling; two other Night Elves, expressions of bored and amused cruelty on their faces, stroking long and stiff feathers upon her helpless soles. Her sisters? It was as if the Night Elf's mind was somehow open to her. Unlike her own experience, in which tickling had been a vague childhood memory, this woman had been tormented with it for her entire life, as her sensitivity was such that her siblings would pounce on any opportunity to exploit it – and to disseminate the information to others.
With a low, strangled cry of laughter, the Night Elf's hands began to move, showing that the cord which bound her wrists was indeed elastic. Slowly, tortuously, she reached for the triangular pull-switch that dangled before her, lean body straining as if making an enormous effort. Her hands crept closer and closer to being able to grasp the switch, straining against the elastic but pulled taut cord, fingertips so close... when the tendrils at her shoulders sneaked into the underarms that were exposing themselves, and resolved into the sensations of two other Night Elves, male and female, teasing her with some sort of scratching tool, gently mocking her for her inability to reach the lever. Mother and father. The elf's fingertips trembled within reach of the triangular handle on the end of the rope, straining, trying to overcome the ticklish sensations, before she failed, body giving out, frenzied laughter growing in volume accompanied by shrieks of madness. “NOOHOHHOHOHOOO!!! I'm sorrhehehehehe! I'm sorry I'm sorrehehHEEHEHEHEHEH E hehehehe ple-hehe-HHEEEEEEEZE!!” It made no sense. She must have lost her mind.
That display of insanity spurred another attempt to escape, immediately. Expecting now the stroking sensations of fingers under her arms when she tried, the Orc was able to block out the teasing for the most part, and was rewarded with the sound of creaking, stressed metal once again. “Wow, you're so strong!” she heard, but it seemed like the voice was inside of her head, and all at once there was a callow Blood Elf male standing before her in the robes of an apprentice mage. No, she had to focus. This was just part of the insanity seeping through this place. It wasn't real – except as the image of the young man drew something short, looking like a small rod with a fuzzy tip, out of his robe pocket, she felt her stomach seem to tremble involuntarily. The feeling of his hand gently resting on her hard, straining stomach, leaning in to inspect her navel closely, then slipping the little thing inside... it felt like her entire soul was being tickled, an electric sensation that ran from her fingertips to toes and back, sapping her of her strength in an instant. “Ghh-hahaha-hahaha! You damned brat!” she snarled before she could stop herself, and anger flooded her mind, prompting her to try again immediately in spite of that awful, soul-destroying ticklish sensation that was making her twitch like crazy.
She held onto her anger. Illusion though it might be, the notion of being taunted by some damned little boy – a mage boy, even worse! - allowed her to gather her resolve. Yet when she closed her eyes to try and work on dealing with the tickle impulses skittering all throughout her body, the image became clearer. Herself, wielding her massive two-handed battle axe, standing in the middle of one of Orgrimmar's dirt fighting arenas. Her arms raised over her head, gripping her axe hard, ready to smash it down upon the head of this insolent brat, but she couldn't move! Jeers from the watching crowd reached her ears, only making her angrier, but her inability to do anything about it whipped up a rising tide of impotent rage. Her armor somehow lacked a midsection, exposing her navel to him, and as long as that fuzzy little tool played around inside of her navel, her muscles felt like water, barely able to keep from dropping her weapon on herself, much less swing it at this whelp.
Her eyes opened, and her straining muscles relaxed once again, the metal that bound her to the wall slowly forming itself once more into an unbroken sheet that covered her from knees to toes and elbows to fingertips. It wasn't actually metal, she realized, as that tendril which had moments before had been a youthful elf mage simply kept its tip in her navel, stroking and exploring, and the warrior had to fight down a growing sense of panic. No longer content with punishing her for trying to escape, this... thing, whatever it was, now continued tickling her, and despite the fact that the illusions of madness had faded from her mind, the ticklish sensation had not diminished very much. It wasn't just the teasing play of her childhood, something that prompted a swing of her fist and an aggressive growl before engaging in the more rough-and-tumble amusement of wrestling with one of her peers. Something about this creature, it seemed like it was able to reach into her very soul, and those electric spasms of laughter relentlessly coursed through her nerves, from bottom to top and back again.
To the right and somewhat closer than the pleading and howling female Night Elf there suddenly appeared a male, also naked, and his body was stretched out tight as he lay on his back, the tendrils at first not evident on his body, but the Orc knew they must be there, for he too laughed and struggled like everyone else. Then she spotted them, little fine tendrils exploring his manhood and between his legs, keeping him standing at attention and displaying something that under normal circumstances would have led the proud warrior of the Horde to subdue and then use this male for her own pleasure. He was an enemy, after all, and if she could get a little use out of him before she killed him, so much the better. But there would be no glorious combat right now, not with the humiliation of madness swirling around each of them. His hips continued to thrust upward, but his stretched-out pose made it so that he could strain only a few inches upwards, stomach and thigh muscles flexing as he desperately drove upwards towards something, though she knew not what, and having already dismissed the male's actions to madness, the Orc was treated to the second half of this particular torment.
Suspended in the air above him, her flexibility fully on display by how cords spread and extended her legs in a V-shaped pose, was a female Blood Elf. The irony of this would be fully clear to someone in control of their mind – implacable enemies straining with every fiber in their bodies to engage in intimacy, while laughing themselves into insanity. For these two the theme seemed to center around lewdness. The tickling sensations of the male resolved themselves into the Orc's mind as a sort of revenge, a merciless payback from all the women this male had slept with, their fingernails stroking along his sensitive genitalia and teasing along his broad and firm chest, touching so lightly it seemed as if the sensation should be no more than the kiss of the breeze or the annoyance of a fly. Yet this big, strong Night Elf man was beside himself laughing as the fingernails gently stroked along his skin, swirling in his underarms, exploring behind his balls and all along his shaft, teasingly tracing the patterns in his skin that were made by his muscular definition. But his ultimate desire was withheld from him; sexual release, she realized, would not be granted by these illusory females, and the only hope for relief hovered just bare inches above his swollen manhood...
The much smaller, less defined, and flexible Blood Elf female was no saint in this regard. She had lain with as many males of the Horde as her would-be partner had taken women, but her punishment was altogether different. Though her body was slight, strong fingers dug deeply into her ribcage and sides, prompting gales of laughter and shrieking to burst forth from her lips, the woman's hair tangled and disheveled from her head tossing about in dismay. The one exception to the strong hands that dominated her sensitive skin was the two featherlike sensations that teased her, stroking along her labia and gently stirring her up towards greater desire, although the Orc could sense that somehow this rough, merciless tickling was all that the woman required. She, too, desperately wished for a release, and strained her body down against the cords that bound her in mid-air, wrapped around her ankles and wrists to support her, wrists tied behind and against the small of her back. Her hips strained downward, breasts quivering with her nonstop laughter, two mortal enemies throwing aside all sense of allegiance, of old racial hatreds, in a futile attempt to sate the physical desires run rampant through their bodies. The visions faded, images of teasing females and rough males returning to those same tendrils being extruded from the darkness for the purposes of ticklish torment.
Yet these displays of mental tickle torment were only of peripheral concern to the Orc warrior now, as she felt a rising sense of desperation, straining her body and pulling at the bonds that held her powerful limbs at bay, the single tentacle tip inching its way into her navel and causing all sorts of havoc with her body. How could one little sensation in the soft depression between her muscled abdomen overwhelm an entire body's worth of muscles, hardened by combat? It would have been infuriating if she wasn't so busy laughing, struggling, and trying to figure out how to escape this nightmarish tickling trap. The cries of laughter from the others never ceased, though they were too far gone in their own ticklish illusions to have noticed the newcomer, and one by one more victims of this nefarious trap were revealed. None were spared, no species nor gender ignored.
A female Troll shrieked as her broad, soft feet came under attack from dozens of stroking, scratching tips like little twigs, pulling the flesh on her ticklish soles this way and that, making temporary ridges with the force of their motions. A male human was wrapped from nose to ankles in darkness, the only exposed flesh being that beneath his arms where a pair of small holes admitted two tentacles, and on his feet, which twisted helplessly to try and avoid the nest of fine tendrils assaulting him. A female Draenei, lacking feet but compensating for it with an impossibly huge chest that was the focus of a number of tentacles – her body was embedded in the wall in a chest-forward pose, meaning that lower than her ribs and above her elbows, she was not visible to the naked eye, those enormous blue breasts the entirety of the nightmare's focus. Still others – even one of the Forsaken was somehow a victim, memories of her human life haunting her as a blindfold stole her sight, leaving her to dance, dangling by chains, every time one of the tentacles surrounding her teased one spot or another. A male Tauren and his incredibly impressive manhood suffered the same fate, though he was pressed up against a wall with his member disappearing inside of it where hundreds of soft little tendrils stroked his sensitive length from tip to base while he hammered on the unyielding surface with huge fists and cried out in ticklish agony.
By now the female Orc was losing herself in her own madness, the sight of all the other suffering tickle victims fading, though their laughter could still be heard in the back of her mind, a cacophony of mad hysteria playing over and over again like some broken Goblin device. But it paled in comparison to her own humiliating laughter, caused by this young Blood Elf male and his two compatriots tickling her; axe raised overhead, she nonetheless could not muster the strength to bring it down and strike her opponent, whose soft probing of her navel made her entire body quiver, robbing her muscles of the strength needed to deliver a crushing blow, to smite these impertinent, city-soft little mages...! Her raised arms exposed her underarms to the devious fingertips of the other two that stood to either side, tracing the contour of skin and muscle, those gentle sensations blown entirely out of proportion by a traitorous body that was reacting to this childish torment in spite of increasingly frantic protestations of her conscious mind. Her fingers quivered on the haft of her battle-ax, the heavy blade seeming like it weighed as much as three adult male Orcs put together, a weapon so unwieldy not even a Tauren could use it, or so it felt.
“She can't even swing her axe. Some warrior,” one of the grinning young males teased her, trailing his fingertips along the inside of her soft, exposed underarm before exploring down along her torso to her ribcage, just beside her breast. Her armor had somehow disappeared, and she was entirely naked before an arena of jeering spectators, laughing at the helpless warrior who couldn't even so much as manage a strike with her weapon! The soft bristles of the brushlike tool the mage standing directly in front of her wielded seemed to have a life of their own, searching into the irregular crevice of her navel, finding the deepest, most secret nerve endings and teasing them with just the right amount of friction, tickling her into hysterical submission. She could take it no more, body shaking with laughter that was impossible to suppress, and the haft of the axe finally slipped from her fingertips, sliding backwards out of her grip and landing with a heavy thud behind her, raising a small cloud of dust as it did so. Having abandoned pride, her only thought to stop the tickling, the warrior tried to flail with her arms and bat away these insufferable wretches, but the ticklish torture had sapped her strength to the point that each one of the males to either side of her propped a hand beneath her elbows, preventing her from lowering her arms, and the uncoordinated Orc could do nothing to stop them as their fingers grew increasingly more brazen in exploring her body.
Once started it was impossible to stop, this laughter. Once she had submitted to it, it only grew stronger, wracking her body with unwanted spasms of giggling, reducing the proud Orc warrior to a mess of quivering, weak jelly. She could only stand there, arms up and head tossed back with wild laughter, as they moved their probing from her underarms, to her ribs, tickling her perked-up nipples with gentle strokes, sliding down towards her hips and grabbing at her body to knead at the powerful muscle beneath. This, too, was ticklish, as though the flesh being weak was not enough of a humiliation but the stimulation of her powerful figure was even moreso. She, like all of the others she had witnessed, was now one more victim lost in the labyrinth of her mind, shadowy influences corrupting and exploiting her body so that not even death or true madness was a release. She, like the others, was now doomed to suffer this tickling until someone could find the source of the evil and put a stop to it. Her eyes, glazed over with illusion, gazed out over the massive cavern full of ticklish suffering, unseeing as she struggled in a vain attempt to pull free of the material which kept her firmly secured to a wall.
Yet the heroes of Azeroth had already moved beyond the Titan ruins of Ulduar. The only ones that would come exploring were those still in training, like herself. Could someone alert those able to come to their assistance that something was deeply amiss? Or was she condemned with all these other poor souls to laugh away her life in the service of an ancient and deeply twisted god?
“Haaa, ahhahahaa, ahahahaha... hahaha, no, please... please stop, sthahaheehhee, stop, you... ahahah, brahaha-haha-hahahAHAHAHAA brats! Lehe-heeheheh let me go, you hahaheehe... haha... hee-heeeh-have no idea what I'll dohoh-hohoooo when I get free!”
Her cries joined the others, railing against their personal demons and illusions, perhaps only to make sense for the brief period of time in which a fresh victim, still in possession of their sanity, was there to observe... whenever that might be.
If ever.
