Jaynin
4th Level Red Feather
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Another thing I've written. Thus far I haven't really hit upon any ideas for a continuous story, rather just individual scenes, which is why these aren't that long. But if there's anything I have learned about writing, it's that I should go with what I'm inspired to do, rather than forcing myself to do something I'm not. Naturally, this leads to inconsistency in writing and leaving lots of things unfinished. Such is the writing life, I suppose.
None of that has anything to do with the next story. Like the previous one I posted here, this one is in the World of Warcraft setting, but people playing the game right now might have a few chuckles at the small references I've included. Those of you who don't, enjoy the fact that two girls are about to get the shit tickled out of them.
Enjoy!
---
Deep within the Everbloom, an infestation was growing, nurtured by the Botani growers and tenders that had secured for themselves a foothold on the eastern coast of Gorgrond. In contrast to the activities of the Iron Horde to the north, where a massive pit scarred the barren earth and a dark, brooding fortress of iron stood guard over their docks and shipyards, here the works of nature were out of control, a dense thicket of vines and flora, within which nameless dangers lurked. Naturally, such challenges were to be met head-on by the mages of the Kirin Tor (and when those ran into trouble, of course, Archmage Khadgar would employ the services of the countless adventurers who roamed the ancient world of Draenor) and they enjoyed initial success in pushing through the thicket of plant life that sought to block them at every turn with poisons and the like.
Yet initial success turned to crisis as the overgrowth claimed the encampment and portal that the mages had set up, some sort of nameless parasite corrupting the bodies of the mages and turning them into mindless slaves. But a mindless slave only has so much utility, be it in combat or for other tasks, easily fooled and usually operating with but a fraction of the power wielded by the being in question before the loss of their mental faculties. To bend the mind to its will was a more difficult task, yet there were ways in which coercion was more effective than simple brainwashing. The chore was, of course, to discover which method of coercion would produce the desired effects without reducing the ability of the host in question. For the luckless Archmage Sol, leader of the Kirin Tor detachment which now found itself wandering the Everbloom in mindless patrol, she had provided the vines with an alternate method of control which they exploited mercilessly.
Eyes wide with wild emotions that surged dangerously high, the human female had her staff pointed at the terrified Draenei paladin of the Sha'tar who had doubtless come in an attempt to help. “Flee! The vines! They control us all!” she shouted, uselessly, too late, for this battle was already concluded; goaded by the vines, the Archmage had wielded her considerable power to great effect, and her defeated foe was sprawled in the grass before her. “Yes, fire! Fire will burn away the contagion!” In a flash of desperate lucidity, Sol raised her staff to deliver the final blow to this female paladin, a stroke of mercy lest she suffer the same fate, but her hand was suddenly stayed by the mindless command of the vines which now controlled her every move, and she could not bring herself to cast the spell, trying to lower her arms in her own desperate attempt to save herself, but it was too late.
For the mindless drones, the vines were visible as a sort of parasite growing out of the back of the subject, undoubtedly tethered into the nervous system of the unfortunate victim, but Sol was different. The vines covered her from neck to ankles, and their way of reprimanding her was simple; the vine tips that were inside of her Kirin Tor robes began to stroke at her helpless underarms, prompting a burst of wailing laughter that led to the interruption of her planned spell, and indeed as the marauding foe was defeated, there was no need to allow her to concentrate any longer. Her staff was plucked from her unresisting grip by another set of vines, and she was compelled to return to the middle of the stone casting circle the mages had been setting up before their unfortunate encounter with this malicious flora, whereupon her wrists were encircled by vines and Archmage Sol was hoisted up into the air. More vines grew out of the ground and wrapped firmly around her ankles, so that the torment could continue anew without the hapless human being able to resist in the slightest.
“NOOHOHOHOHOOOO!!! I did as you asked!” she howled in despairing protest as the vines covering her body shifted, attacking her perfectly vulnerable underarms, and by extension the ribs beneath. Though the tips of the vines that scratched her armpits were only slightly rough and moved softly, the ridged undersides of the vines that stroked against her ribs were more forceful, causing that ribcage to shake with helpless laughter as Archmage Sol tossed her head this way and that in a despairing attempt to somehow break free or lessen her own torment. “PleheheheheheehEHEHEHEheheeheh please I didneheheh-didn't meeheehahahahehehe mean it! I'm sororeheheheheheee!” she shrieked, not for the first time, wondering if there was some malevolent hive mind watching her from the hidden recesses of the tangled growth that could actually hear her. The alternative, that she was being tormented by some unseen entity that acted purely on instinct and could not hear nor comprehend her cries for mercy, was too terrible to think about, yet as the vines' motions upon the Archmage's body brought her laughter to a new height, the most evil machination of all revealed itself, one that had made her quail with hopelessness upon first realizing what it did.
The sweet, rejuvenating nectar of the flower that was pressed to her mouth tasted like heaven; it was cool, refreshing, soothing her parched throat and easing the strains of battle and ticklish torture both. It was also hellish, because since she had first been forced to partake of the substance, she had not slept, and had not been granted the mercy of unconsciousness to provide her with breaks, however fitful, from the tickling. Softer vines stroked featherlike tips across her navel, tormenting that sensitive hollow without rest, and stronger ones that had almost fingerlike knobs at their ends next attached to her hips and kneaded with cruel, ticklish purpose. She tried to twist her body away, somehow to contort or shift and inhibit the relentless sensations that coursed through her nerves, but the precise vertical way in which she was held denied her even that respite as the vines warmed to their task, going even lower.
The defeated Draenei paladin looked on in horrid fascination as the foe who had just overpowered her with intense magics was reduced to a shrieking, giggling mess by the mass of vines that covered her body, diving into her robes at every available opportunity; the paladin was herself too weak to resist as the bothersome plate mail she protected herself with was wrenched, tugged, pulled and yanked off of her body, the vines that grew from the ground to engulf her seeming to have trouble with the catches and fasteners that held her armor together, but making up for that with sheer number and brute force, and soon she was down to her white undershirt and short cotton trousers that reached to just above the knee, no defense against these nefarious vines. She, too, found herself treated to the rejuvenating effects of the nectar, the scars and fatigue of battle melting away, yet all that strength for naught as the vines took control of her limbs and pulled her into a strange position.
The stones that the mages had been setting up were short pillars in an unfinished circle around the inner design that had already been completed. That inner circle now housed the unfortunate Archmage Sol as her ticklish torment continued unabated, the human female seeming to oscillate between pleading, hysterical thrashing and sobbing with screaming laughter, then sinking into a defeated, deep sort of belly laughter intermixed with coughing now and again. The robes she wore hid the true nature of her torment from the Draenei paladin, but she was now treated to a front-row seat as she was dragged to one of those short pillars, her wrists wrapped with vines which then somehow tethered themselves to the top of the pillar. Whatever magic had been meant for them was clearly not yet active, as evidenced by how the vines had overgrown and toppled another of the stones nearby.
With the oppressive presence of vines and flowers and trees that grew to massive proportions looking over the clearing of torment, the ticklish game began for the paladin, whose constant reminder of what was to come came in the form of Archmage Sol's endless hysteria. With her wrists tethered to the short column of stone, she had some freedom of movement, but not enough to truly defend herself as ticklish vine tips started to explore her body. Like Sol, they had wrapped loosely around her body from neck to waist, during which time the human female let loose another scream of hysterics – for what reason she could not fathom, but her exertions were such that the rejuvenating nectar had to be forced down her throat once again, restoring her briefly to lucidity:
“NOHOHOHOHO!!! NOT THERE! NOO! NEHEHEH NO GET OUT!” she pleaded, rocking her belly this way and that before thrusting it forward and back in a perverse mockery of a belly dance. No longer content with simply tickling the rim of her navel, three thin but strong vines contrived to pull her navel as wide open as it would go, and the horrifyingly soft cilla of the tickler vine probed all the way to the back of her bellybutton. The deep, hidden recesses of flesh were terribly sensitive, and as the soft hairs stroked slowly back and forth in those forbidden crevices, Archmage Sol nearly lost her mind with laughter, an overpowering flow of sensation that radiated outward right from her core. It overwhelmed everything else in those long moments, the world seeming to blur before her, then going dark; she did not realize this was due to ticklish tears and squeezing her eyes shut. For long seconds, the wicked vine plumbed the woman's most sensitive depths, its soft hairlike bristles stroking ever millimeter of ticklish flesh as its gentle undulating motion produced tickling like she had never known.
Finally, whatever it was that motivated the vines relented, and she was allowed the relative luxury of simply laughing with uncontrollable sobbing, barely conscious of the fact that the Draenei she had just defeated was adding her own giggles to the discordant symphony of laughter. Just the 'normal' tickling of her underarms and ribs and hips was bad enough without the malevolent threat of another bellybutton exploration, so it was almost a relief when the next target area on her body was revealed to be the crack of her ass, plumbed by a soft-bristled vine similar to the one that had pushed the mage to the brink of insanity. Too wrapped up in her own suffering, burying her face against one of her upraised arms, Sol was not aware of what was happening to the Draenei, despite the fact that her former foe was fully aware of how thoroughly the Archmage was under the vines' control.
The illusion of being able to resist was insidious, and one the female paladin could not stop herself from indulging in. When the rough, tickly tips of the vines tried to squirm into her underarms, she squealed with laughter and used the little bit of leeway she had to try and cover her armpits. That not quite being enough to squeeze out the wriggling, insistent tips that felt suspiciously like fingernails, she hugged the column even tighter to allow herself to use the maximum amount of available slack in the vine-leash wrapped around her wrists. This seemingly succeeded in pushing the vine tips out, but it resulted in the Draenei curled awkwardly over the top of the short stone pillar, panting. When the next attack came, it focused on the backs of her legs and thighs: “Nohhhhheheee! Noooo don't do thahhaahhaaat!” she objected, trying to shift left, then right, then dance all the way around to the other side of the pillar – still wrapped around the top of it, protecting her underarms – only to realize that the vines were attached to her, and no amount of moving would shake them free.
Instead, she tried to pull herself even higher up onto the pillar and use her hands to push at the vines without uncovering her armpits. This, naturally, did not work as planned, and with a squeal of ticklish dismay she went over the top and tumbled onto the ground, now with her back against the pillar, her wrists caught by the tether and pulled over her head, and ticklish armpits wide open. Moreover, the leash had been twisted by her gyrations, and now its slack was even less than it had been, so when the stroking tips attacked her soft, blue underarms, she couldn't bring her arms down far enough to protect herself. “NOHEHEHEEHEH! HAHAHAHHEHEHEHEH! STOPHE HEHEHEHE STOPPIT!!” she howled, and in a frenzy of movement, tried desperately to figure out how to re-cover her armpits. Hooves churned frantically at the ground as she tried to rise to her feet, pulled down again because of the tether restraining her ability to move, its short length and her awkward position forcing an undignified scramble in the soil. Her desperate movements eventually did shift her out of the fully exposed and awkward position with her back at the base of the pillar, but the thrashing had so exhausted her that for a moment she found herself facing the cool stone with arms in front of her, but she was starting to regain her coordination when the vines came again.
Purposeful movement once again devolved into hapless flailing, and the Draenei had a hard time regaining her feet, especially with the tickling to her legs and armpits never ceasing. Moreover, the top-heavy paladin was not in any position to easily regain her balance, and she suffered for it, as the vines found new targets along her ribcage and, noting that her chest was far more ample than the Archmage's, dispatched feather-tipped vines to dip into her undershirt and start exploring the soft curves. This didn't obviously tickle more than anywhere else, yet seemed to cause the Draenei undue amounts of distress. The mental confusion caused by the disparate reactions of mind and body seemed to be the cause of this; knowing that she was going to suffer ticklishly if she could not protect herself, the paladin was forcing herself to keep trying, resisting, fighting... but the touches to her breasts seemed to send her body's reactions off in a different direction. Energy for now spent, she slumped forward against the stone pillar, wrists pulled up against her head, laughing helplessly into the cool stone of what was meant to be a magical focus for the spells of the Kirin Tor. Not that the Archmage would have much use for them now.
Sol's navel remained pulled wide open as a reminder to her of what would happen if she tried too hard to resist again. It was always like this, first the intense and mind-blowing torment to reduce her to a sobbing wreck, and then the reminder that if she did not do as she was told, it would come again, and probably worse than the first time. Yet could it really be worse than her situation as it was? The vines crawled over her body, sliding into her clothing at a half dozen different points, slithering down her neck and through her sleeves, up through the bottom of her robes, and managing somehow to worm their way in near the waist, giving them access to every section of her sensitively ticklish body. It was worse when the vines chose places that had no natural defense against tickling. Even bound, she could kick her legs a little, or pull at the restraints on her arms, or suck her stomach in or arch her back. Even if all of these little resistances were useless at best and sometimes made things worse, the knowledge that she was able to at least try lent her a little bit of strength. But when the vines chose areas like her navel, or the ticklish crack of her ass, what was she to do, except laugh until her head was swimming?
“Naahhahaah, no please, no, nohoheoeheheheh no I'm sorry, pleehheeze, NAHAHAhehehHEHEHE NO NO NAHAHAHEHEE!! DON'T!!! NOOOOOEHEEHEHEH NOT THERE!!! STEEHEHEHAAAAAAAP!” she begged, feeling the softness of those little hairs on the vine caress the extra-sensitive canyon between her somewhat ample posterior. If one can be honest, the vocation of 'archmage' naturally implies little in the way of physical activity, and while Sol was not fat, her body was soft and pliable in places that the Draenei, who wore heavy armor and swung an enormous mace for a living, would be hard and toned. Not that the vines particularly cared either way, and since all of the tickling happened inside of Sol's robes, even the gratuitous jiggling of her ticklish ass would go unappreciated even if someone were to be watching from within the thick overgrowth. But there was not even that. The other mages of the Kirin Tor had only blank looks upon their faces, wandering the dirt paths of the camp mindlessly, on guard for intruders that might seek to save the human female from her ticklish torment.
Another refreshing drought of the nectar brought renewed hysteria, at the same time she became somewhat conscious of the Draenei undergoing the same treatment, wrapped against the pillar. Sol could feel the vines beginning to slide against the tender insides of her thighs, maddeningly soft and sensitive, but for those moments of lucidity brought on by the refreshing substance she found her curiosity drawn by the form of the nearly-naked paladin, her top obviously crawling with vines at this point. From her sitting position with arms wrapped around the stone column, it was evident that the prior leash-like arrangement had been changed, and that her wrists were now simply tethered together on the other side of the stone column. Theoretically, if she could stand upright, she could lift her arms over the top of the pillar, perhaps. With the way the vine tips tickled her ribs and her sides, stroking even her short blue tail and the aforementioned tighter rear end, the Draenei's hooves simply were churning uselessly at the soil, digging twin furrows instead of helping her back to an upright position. From the way she struggled with her knees and back to get upright, it seemed that the possibility of untethering herself from the thick post of stone had occurred to her, but she was bound tightly. The illusion of escape hovered just out of her reach.
But rather than trying to stand up, the paladin had been trying to do something different – pushing forward, as high up on the column as she could reach, she sought to topple the unsecured stone. A cry of ticklish triumph burst forth from her lips as the short stone simply wobbled and then fell onto the ground with a short thud, and then she was laying atop it with her wrists on the other side, a far different position than being bound awkwardly while sitting on the ground. With an energy born of desperation the Draenei propelled herself forward, her bound wrists secured to each other but not to the pillar, and she was free and running for her sanity. That run, however, lasted all of about three steps before the vines that were still slithering all over her body pressed their tips into all of her sensitive places at once and wiggled fiercely, sending her sprawling on the ground in a giggling heap. “Nohohoh-ohohoahahahaha! NO! Nahahahahahaheeheheh heneeeh neehheeh no heheheheelp!” she implored, uselessly, as the vines decided to take a stricter line with the attempted runaway.
Without warning a tangle of thicker vines burst from the ground beneath the Draenei, ensnaring her arms and legs, hauling her up into the sky where they forced her into an arch, wrists and ankles down, back supported by a thick pillar of green plant life that prevented her from defending herself in any way, and then the vines came. Feather-tipped vines to brush on her now bare breasts, bouncing in a way that would have lead the Archmage to envy had she not been so delirious with hysteria right now. Firmer vines wiggled at her ribs, probing deep into the firm, muscled flesh, as well as scratching at the hollows of her underarms and sides. “NEHEHEHE! Oh! HoehehHEHEHEEH OH PLEASE IHEHEEH I'M SORREHEHEHEHEEE!” the Draenei cried, an eerie echo of Sol's own apologies to the presence which might or might not have been able to hear them. But there was no mercy, only tickling. The rejuvenating flower was pressed to her face once more, and the torment continued.
Her tail was snared from beneath and pulled taut so that the softly bristled vines could explore the spot where it joined her rear, as well as delve deeper into the more traditionally ticklish gaps between her cheeks, and explored her thighs as well, even teasing into her undershorts with an incredibly soft vine that worked wonders on the incredibly soft flesh there was beneath. Muscles tensed, flexing and then relaxing as the Draenei screeched in unbearable hysteria. Her navel was given the same treatment as Sol's, pulled apart and then drilled into by a special vine, yet it did not stop after a few seconds. No, the runaway had to be punished, and for good measure, Sol felt the same fate coming her way, in case she had contemplated any such naughtiness as trying to escape.
Feeling it coming was pure torture. “Nohoheeehhehe! NO PLEASE! Nahahheeheh not that again!” she cried, feeling that ticklishly soft vine work its way up over her hip, undulating like a snake as it stroked across her stomach, and then passing just above the navel, tickling onto the other side of her stomach, bristles just barely touching the upper rim of her navel. Even that sent her into electric shocks of tickle overload, but the rapid breathing and frantic shaking of her midsection could not shake the ticklish vine's slow but certain descent into her navel. Yet the teasing persisted, the devastatingly soft hairs teasing along her soft belly, which jiggled ever so slightly with her laughter, and then it even tickled down along the curve beneath her navel, where it faced a choice to go north or south. But north it had to be, and as Archmage Sol moaned out another helpless apology, the tip suddenly shot into her navel and began to swirl and plumb, like a coiled snake striking suddenly.
“NOOOHOHOHOOOHOHOHOOOO!!!” she screamed, eyes closing again, the flower rejuvenating her body so that she would not miss even a second of the mind-bendingly ticklish attack. Her entire universe disappeared, such that even though there were moving shapes and colors and light in her vision, her mind registered none of it. Everything was her midsection, the ticklish depression of her navel, that had those dozens, hundreds, of fine little hairs brushing themselves against ultra-sensitive nerve endings, transmitting constant messages of tickle panic to her brain. But the involuntary reactions of her body to pull away from this sensation were blocked, restrained by the vines which had control of her body, stretching her out in mid-air like this so as to take away every avenue of escape, and tickle her further into submission.
For indeed, now their task was complete. For the tickling to stop, she would do anything. Who she fought, and why, it didn't matter. When there were enemies to face, there was no tickling. She could not make the mental leap of logic to see that if her adversaries triumphed, they might be able to reach the source of the vines and destroy it, freeing her from this tickle prison. But that insight required thought. All Sol had was tickling, and a powerful desire to do anything to make it stop. Soon, the Draenei would be with her, and they would be twice as powerful, fighting with the panicked frenzy that came with the fear of being tickled again. From each and every adversary that came to contest the will of the Everbloom, the weakest would be turned into mindless slaves, and the strongest would be turned to do the bidding of... whatever it was. Was there even a mind, a consciousness, in charge? Or were the vines simply working off of some bizarre and devilish animal instinct, such that this would simply continue forever, with no rhyme or reason other than the dictates of instinct?
---
“No... You can't... It's... I can't FIGHT IT!”
Five more had come to plumb the depths of the botanical hell. The Draenei was not yet reliably broken – she was suffering ticklishly behind the magical circle, leaving Archmage Sol to confront her foes alone. But that was all right. There was no tickling now, and as the male Blood Elf clutched his sword and his allies prepared to do battle behind him, he could see that desperate drive in her eyes... that need to avoid being tickled again.
No matter the cost.
None of that has anything to do with the next story. Like the previous one I posted here, this one is in the World of Warcraft setting, but people playing the game right now might have a few chuckles at the small references I've included. Those of you who don't, enjoy the fact that two girls are about to get the shit tickled out of them.
Enjoy!
---
Deep within the Everbloom, an infestation was growing, nurtured by the Botani growers and tenders that had secured for themselves a foothold on the eastern coast of Gorgrond. In contrast to the activities of the Iron Horde to the north, where a massive pit scarred the barren earth and a dark, brooding fortress of iron stood guard over their docks and shipyards, here the works of nature were out of control, a dense thicket of vines and flora, within which nameless dangers lurked. Naturally, such challenges were to be met head-on by the mages of the Kirin Tor (and when those ran into trouble, of course, Archmage Khadgar would employ the services of the countless adventurers who roamed the ancient world of Draenor) and they enjoyed initial success in pushing through the thicket of plant life that sought to block them at every turn with poisons and the like.
Yet initial success turned to crisis as the overgrowth claimed the encampment and portal that the mages had set up, some sort of nameless parasite corrupting the bodies of the mages and turning them into mindless slaves. But a mindless slave only has so much utility, be it in combat or for other tasks, easily fooled and usually operating with but a fraction of the power wielded by the being in question before the loss of their mental faculties. To bend the mind to its will was a more difficult task, yet there were ways in which coercion was more effective than simple brainwashing. The chore was, of course, to discover which method of coercion would produce the desired effects without reducing the ability of the host in question. For the luckless Archmage Sol, leader of the Kirin Tor detachment which now found itself wandering the Everbloom in mindless patrol, she had provided the vines with an alternate method of control which they exploited mercilessly.
Eyes wide with wild emotions that surged dangerously high, the human female had her staff pointed at the terrified Draenei paladin of the Sha'tar who had doubtless come in an attempt to help. “Flee! The vines! They control us all!” she shouted, uselessly, too late, for this battle was already concluded; goaded by the vines, the Archmage had wielded her considerable power to great effect, and her defeated foe was sprawled in the grass before her. “Yes, fire! Fire will burn away the contagion!” In a flash of desperate lucidity, Sol raised her staff to deliver the final blow to this female paladin, a stroke of mercy lest she suffer the same fate, but her hand was suddenly stayed by the mindless command of the vines which now controlled her every move, and she could not bring herself to cast the spell, trying to lower her arms in her own desperate attempt to save herself, but it was too late.
For the mindless drones, the vines were visible as a sort of parasite growing out of the back of the subject, undoubtedly tethered into the nervous system of the unfortunate victim, but Sol was different. The vines covered her from neck to ankles, and their way of reprimanding her was simple; the vine tips that were inside of her Kirin Tor robes began to stroke at her helpless underarms, prompting a burst of wailing laughter that led to the interruption of her planned spell, and indeed as the marauding foe was defeated, there was no need to allow her to concentrate any longer. Her staff was plucked from her unresisting grip by another set of vines, and she was compelled to return to the middle of the stone casting circle the mages had been setting up before their unfortunate encounter with this malicious flora, whereupon her wrists were encircled by vines and Archmage Sol was hoisted up into the air. More vines grew out of the ground and wrapped firmly around her ankles, so that the torment could continue anew without the hapless human being able to resist in the slightest.
“NOOHOHOHOHOOOO!!! I did as you asked!” she howled in despairing protest as the vines covering her body shifted, attacking her perfectly vulnerable underarms, and by extension the ribs beneath. Though the tips of the vines that scratched her armpits were only slightly rough and moved softly, the ridged undersides of the vines that stroked against her ribs were more forceful, causing that ribcage to shake with helpless laughter as Archmage Sol tossed her head this way and that in a despairing attempt to somehow break free or lessen her own torment. “PleheheheheheehEHEHEHEheheeheh please I didneheheh-didn't meeheehahahahehehe mean it! I'm sororeheheheheheee!” she shrieked, not for the first time, wondering if there was some malevolent hive mind watching her from the hidden recesses of the tangled growth that could actually hear her. The alternative, that she was being tormented by some unseen entity that acted purely on instinct and could not hear nor comprehend her cries for mercy, was too terrible to think about, yet as the vines' motions upon the Archmage's body brought her laughter to a new height, the most evil machination of all revealed itself, one that had made her quail with hopelessness upon first realizing what it did.
The sweet, rejuvenating nectar of the flower that was pressed to her mouth tasted like heaven; it was cool, refreshing, soothing her parched throat and easing the strains of battle and ticklish torture both. It was also hellish, because since she had first been forced to partake of the substance, she had not slept, and had not been granted the mercy of unconsciousness to provide her with breaks, however fitful, from the tickling. Softer vines stroked featherlike tips across her navel, tormenting that sensitive hollow without rest, and stronger ones that had almost fingerlike knobs at their ends next attached to her hips and kneaded with cruel, ticklish purpose. She tried to twist her body away, somehow to contort or shift and inhibit the relentless sensations that coursed through her nerves, but the precise vertical way in which she was held denied her even that respite as the vines warmed to their task, going even lower.
The defeated Draenei paladin looked on in horrid fascination as the foe who had just overpowered her with intense magics was reduced to a shrieking, giggling mess by the mass of vines that covered her body, diving into her robes at every available opportunity; the paladin was herself too weak to resist as the bothersome plate mail she protected herself with was wrenched, tugged, pulled and yanked off of her body, the vines that grew from the ground to engulf her seeming to have trouble with the catches and fasteners that held her armor together, but making up for that with sheer number and brute force, and soon she was down to her white undershirt and short cotton trousers that reached to just above the knee, no defense against these nefarious vines. She, too, found herself treated to the rejuvenating effects of the nectar, the scars and fatigue of battle melting away, yet all that strength for naught as the vines took control of her limbs and pulled her into a strange position.
The stones that the mages had been setting up were short pillars in an unfinished circle around the inner design that had already been completed. That inner circle now housed the unfortunate Archmage Sol as her ticklish torment continued unabated, the human female seeming to oscillate between pleading, hysterical thrashing and sobbing with screaming laughter, then sinking into a defeated, deep sort of belly laughter intermixed with coughing now and again. The robes she wore hid the true nature of her torment from the Draenei paladin, but she was now treated to a front-row seat as she was dragged to one of those short pillars, her wrists wrapped with vines which then somehow tethered themselves to the top of the pillar. Whatever magic had been meant for them was clearly not yet active, as evidenced by how the vines had overgrown and toppled another of the stones nearby.
With the oppressive presence of vines and flowers and trees that grew to massive proportions looking over the clearing of torment, the ticklish game began for the paladin, whose constant reminder of what was to come came in the form of Archmage Sol's endless hysteria. With her wrists tethered to the short column of stone, she had some freedom of movement, but not enough to truly defend herself as ticklish vine tips started to explore her body. Like Sol, they had wrapped loosely around her body from neck to waist, during which time the human female let loose another scream of hysterics – for what reason she could not fathom, but her exertions were such that the rejuvenating nectar had to be forced down her throat once again, restoring her briefly to lucidity:
“NOHOHOHOHO!!! NOT THERE! NOO! NEHEHEH NO GET OUT!” she pleaded, rocking her belly this way and that before thrusting it forward and back in a perverse mockery of a belly dance. No longer content with simply tickling the rim of her navel, three thin but strong vines contrived to pull her navel as wide open as it would go, and the horrifyingly soft cilla of the tickler vine probed all the way to the back of her bellybutton. The deep, hidden recesses of flesh were terribly sensitive, and as the soft hairs stroked slowly back and forth in those forbidden crevices, Archmage Sol nearly lost her mind with laughter, an overpowering flow of sensation that radiated outward right from her core. It overwhelmed everything else in those long moments, the world seeming to blur before her, then going dark; she did not realize this was due to ticklish tears and squeezing her eyes shut. For long seconds, the wicked vine plumbed the woman's most sensitive depths, its soft hairlike bristles stroking ever millimeter of ticklish flesh as its gentle undulating motion produced tickling like she had never known.
Finally, whatever it was that motivated the vines relented, and she was allowed the relative luxury of simply laughing with uncontrollable sobbing, barely conscious of the fact that the Draenei she had just defeated was adding her own giggles to the discordant symphony of laughter. Just the 'normal' tickling of her underarms and ribs and hips was bad enough without the malevolent threat of another bellybutton exploration, so it was almost a relief when the next target area on her body was revealed to be the crack of her ass, plumbed by a soft-bristled vine similar to the one that had pushed the mage to the brink of insanity. Too wrapped up in her own suffering, burying her face against one of her upraised arms, Sol was not aware of what was happening to the Draenei, despite the fact that her former foe was fully aware of how thoroughly the Archmage was under the vines' control.
The illusion of being able to resist was insidious, and one the female paladin could not stop herself from indulging in. When the rough, tickly tips of the vines tried to squirm into her underarms, she squealed with laughter and used the little bit of leeway she had to try and cover her armpits. That not quite being enough to squeeze out the wriggling, insistent tips that felt suspiciously like fingernails, she hugged the column even tighter to allow herself to use the maximum amount of available slack in the vine-leash wrapped around her wrists. This seemingly succeeded in pushing the vine tips out, but it resulted in the Draenei curled awkwardly over the top of the short stone pillar, panting. When the next attack came, it focused on the backs of her legs and thighs: “Nohhhhheheee! Noooo don't do thahhaahhaaat!” she objected, trying to shift left, then right, then dance all the way around to the other side of the pillar – still wrapped around the top of it, protecting her underarms – only to realize that the vines were attached to her, and no amount of moving would shake them free.
Instead, she tried to pull herself even higher up onto the pillar and use her hands to push at the vines without uncovering her armpits. This, naturally, did not work as planned, and with a squeal of ticklish dismay she went over the top and tumbled onto the ground, now with her back against the pillar, her wrists caught by the tether and pulled over her head, and ticklish armpits wide open. Moreover, the leash had been twisted by her gyrations, and now its slack was even less than it had been, so when the stroking tips attacked her soft, blue underarms, she couldn't bring her arms down far enough to protect herself. “NOHEHEHEEHEH! HAHAHAHHEHEHEHEH! STOPHE HEHEHEHE STOPPIT!!” she howled, and in a frenzy of movement, tried desperately to figure out how to re-cover her armpits. Hooves churned frantically at the ground as she tried to rise to her feet, pulled down again because of the tether restraining her ability to move, its short length and her awkward position forcing an undignified scramble in the soil. Her desperate movements eventually did shift her out of the fully exposed and awkward position with her back at the base of the pillar, but the thrashing had so exhausted her that for a moment she found herself facing the cool stone with arms in front of her, but she was starting to regain her coordination when the vines came again.
Purposeful movement once again devolved into hapless flailing, and the Draenei had a hard time regaining her feet, especially with the tickling to her legs and armpits never ceasing. Moreover, the top-heavy paladin was not in any position to easily regain her balance, and she suffered for it, as the vines found new targets along her ribcage and, noting that her chest was far more ample than the Archmage's, dispatched feather-tipped vines to dip into her undershirt and start exploring the soft curves. This didn't obviously tickle more than anywhere else, yet seemed to cause the Draenei undue amounts of distress. The mental confusion caused by the disparate reactions of mind and body seemed to be the cause of this; knowing that she was going to suffer ticklishly if she could not protect herself, the paladin was forcing herself to keep trying, resisting, fighting... but the touches to her breasts seemed to send her body's reactions off in a different direction. Energy for now spent, she slumped forward against the stone pillar, wrists pulled up against her head, laughing helplessly into the cool stone of what was meant to be a magical focus for the spells of the Kirin Tor. Not that the Archmage would have much use for them now.
Sol's navel remained pulled wide open as a reminder to her of what would happen if she tried too hard to resist again. It was always like this, first the intense and mind-blowing torment to reduce her to a sobbing wreck, and then the reminder that if she did not do as she was told, it would come again, and probably worse than the first time. Yet could it really be worse than her situation as it was? The vines crawled over her body, sliding into her clothing at a half dozen different points, slithering down her neck and through her sleeves, up through the bottom of her robes, and managing somehow to worm their way in near the waist, giving them access to every section of her sensitively ticklish body. It was worse when the vines chose places that had no natural defense against tickling. Even bound, she could kick her legs a little, or pull at the restraints on her arms, or suck her stomach in or arch her back. Even if all of these little resistances were useless at best and sometimes made things worse, the knowledge that she was able to at least try lent her a little bit of strength. But when the vines chose areas like her navel, or the ticklish crack of her ass, what was she to do, except laugh until her head was swimming?
“Naahhahaah, no please, no, nohoheoeheheheh no I'm sorry, pleehheeze, NAHAHAhehehHEHEHE NO NO NAHAHAHEHEE!! DON'T!!! NOOOOOEHEEHEHEH NOT THERE!!! STEEHEHEHAAAAAAAP!” she begged, feeling the softness of those little hairs on the vine caress the extra-sensitive canyon between her somewhat ample posterior. If one can be honest, the vocation of 'archmage' naturally implies little in the way of physical activity, and while Sol was not fat, her body was soft and pliable in places that the Draenei, who wore heavy armor and swung an enormous mace for a living, would be hard and toned. Not that the vines particularly cared either way, and since all of the tickling happened inside of Sol's robes, even the gratuitous jiggling of her ticklish ass would go unappreciated even if someone were to be watching from within the thick overgrowth. But there was not even that. The other mages of the Kirin Tor had only blank looks upon their faces, wandering the dirt paths of the camp mindlessly, on guard for intruders that might seek to save the human female from her ticklish torment.
Another refreshing drought of the nectar brought renewed hysteria, at the same time she became somewhat conscious of the Draenei undergoing the same treatment, wrapped against the pillar. Sol could feel the vines beginning to slide against the tender insides of her thighs, maddeningly soft and sensitive, but for those moments of lucidity brought on by the refreshing substance she found her curiosity drawn by the form of the nearly-naked paladin, her top obviously crawling with vines at this point. From her sitting position with arms wrapped around the stone column, it was evident that the prior leash-like arrangement had been changed, and that her wrists were now simply tethered together on the other side of the stone column. Theoretically, if she could stand upright, she could lift her arms over the top of the pillar, perhaps. With the way the vine tips tickled her ribs and her sides, stroking even her short blue tail and the aforementioned tighter rear end, the Draenei's hooves simply were churning uselessly at the soil, digging twin furrows instead of helping her back to an upright position. From the way she struggled with her knees and back to get upright, it seemed that the possibility of untethering herself from the thick post of stone had occurred to her, but she was bound tightly. The illusion of escape hovered just out of her reach.
But rather than trying to stand up, the paladin had been trying to do something different – pushing forward, as high up on the column as she could reach, she sought to topple the unsecured stone. A cry of ticklish triumph burst forth from her lips as the short stone simply wobbled and then fell onto the ground with a short thud, and then she was laying atop it with her wrists on the other side, a far different position than being bound awkwardly while sitting on the ground. With an energy born of desperation the Draenei propelled herself forward, her bound wrists secured to each other but not to the pillar, and she was free and running for her sanity. That run, however, lasted all of about three steps before the vines that were still slithering all over her body pressed their tips into all of her sensitive places at once and wiggled fiercely, sending her sprawling on the ground in a giggling heap. “Nohohoh-ohohoahahahaha! NO! Nahahahahahaheeheheh heneeeh neehheeh no heheheheelp!” she implored, uselessly, as the vines decided to take a stricter line with the attempted runaway.
Without warning a tangle of thicker vines burst from the ground beneath the Draenei, ensnaring her arms and legs, hauling her up into the sky where they forced her into an arch, wrists and ankles down, back supported by a thick pillar of green plant life that prevented her from defending herself in any way, and then the vines came. Feather-tipped vines to brush on her now bare breasts, bouncing in a way that would have lead the Archmage to envy had she not been so delirious with hysteria right now. Firmer vines wiggled at her ribs, probing deep into the firm, muscled flesh, as well as scratching at the hollows of her underarms and sides. “NEHEHEHE! Oh! HoehehHEHEHEEH OH PLEASE IHEHEEH I'M SORREHEHEHEHEEE!” the Draenei cried, an eerie echo of Sol's own apologies to the presence which might or might not have been able to hear them. But there was no mercy, only tickling. The rejuvenating flower was pressed to her face once more, and the torment continued.
Her tail was snared from beneath and pulled taut so that the softly bristled vines could explore the spot where it joined her rear, as well as delve deeper into the more traditionally ticklish gaps between her cheeks, and explored her thighs as well, even teasing into her undershorts with an incredibly soft vine that worked wonders on the incredibly soft flesh there was beneath. Muscles tensed, flexing and then relaxing as the Draenei screeched in unbearable hysteria. Her navel was given the same treatment as Sol's, pulled apart and then drilled into by a special vine, yet it did not stop after a few seconds. No, the runaway had to be punished, and for good measure, Sol felt the same fate coming her way, in case she had contemplated any such naughtiness as trying to escape.
Feeling it coming was pure torture. “Nohoheeehhehe! NO PLEASE! Nahahheeheh not that again!” she cried, feeling that ticklishly soft vine work its way up over her hip, undulating like a snake as it stroked across her stomach, and then passing just above the navel, tickling onto the other side of her stomach, bristles just barely touching the upper rim of her navel. Even that sent her into electric shocks of tickle overload, but the rapid breathing and frantic shaking of her midsection could not shake the ticklish vine's slow but certain descent into her navel. Yet the teasing persisted, the devastatingly soft hairs teasing along her soft belly, which jiggled ever so slightly with her laughter, and then it even tickled down along the curve beneath her navel, where it faced a choice to go north or south. But north it had to be, and as Archmage Sol moaned out another helpless apology, the tip suddenly shot into her navel and began to swirl and plumb, like a coiled snake striking suddenly.
“NOOOHOHOHOOOHOHOHOOOO!!!” she screamed, eyes closing again, the flower rejuvenating her body so that she would not miss even a second of the mind-bendingly ticklish attack. Her entire universe disappeared, such that even though there were moving shapes and colors and light in her vision, her mind registered none of it. Everything was her midsection, the ticklish depression of her navel, that had those dozens, hundreds, of fine little hairs brushing themselves against ultra-sensitive nerve endings, transmitting constant messages of tickle panic to her brain. But the involuntary reactions of her body to pull away from this sensation were blocked, restrained by the vines which had control of her body, stretching her out in mid-air like this so as to take away every avenue of escape, and tickle her further into submission.
For indeed, now their task was complete. For the tickling to stop, she would do anything. Who she fought, and why, it didn't matter. When there were enemies to face, there was no tickling. She could not make the mental leap of logic to see that if her adversaries triumphed, they might be able to reach the source of the vines and destroy it, freeing her from this tickle prison. But that insight required thought. All Sol had was tickling, and a powerful desire to do anything to make it stop. Soon, the Draenei would be with her, and they would be twice as powerful, fighting with the panicked frenzy that came with the fear of being tickled again. From each and every adversary that came to contest the will of the Everbloom, the weakest would be turned into mindless slaves, and the strongest would be turned to do the bidding of... whatever it was. Was there even a mind, a consciousness, in charge? Or were the vines simply working off of some bizarre and devilish animal instinct, such that this would simply continue forever, with no rhyme or reason other than the dictates of instinct?
---
“No... You can't... It's... I can't FIGHT IT!”
Five more had come to plumb the depths of the botanical hell. The Draenei was not yet reliably broken – she was suffering ticklishly behind the magical circle, leaving Archmage Sol to confront her foes alone. But that was all right. There was no tickling now, and as the male Blood Elf clutched his sword and his allies prepared to do battle behind him, he could see that desperate drive in her eyes... that need to avoid being tickled again.
No matter the cost.
