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Day of the Wer-Tickler (werewolf/F feet)

ElFewja

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Non-conish, nonsexual, licking/footworship type tickling

Day of the Wer-Tickler (werewolf/F feet)

As is the case with most of these recantations, these letters as I've come to call them, my name is Tracy and I'm a Private Investigator by trade. Usually these scraps of thoughts are about my cases and serve as a personal recollection, or at the very least a personal log of sorts; the former is certainly not true in this particular instance, though the latter is. Well, of course that is unless I've gone and imagined the whole thing, at least. This part, I really hate this part, so I'm moving on.

This particular, ah, instance? This isn't necessarily a case. It is and it is not at the same time, a curious thing indeed. It is likely linked to a case I took on a few years ago, but one can never be sure; at the very least I do not presently have enough information to say with certainty, though I do believe it likely to be the case.

The job this harkens back to is the Wer-Tickler I had described in another document. Truthfully, I don't recall much of the job. The pay was poor despite coming from the city council and I had to leave the case as... – well, that's not a whole truth, the case was marked as resolved by the counsel, however there was no resolution, for the case or myself. The night had been, hm, wonderful, but the details do escape me. The flood of emotions does not, but the details... I just can't get at them, at least I would never do them the justice I could have on the night the events had occurred. Ah, but I'm rambling now, reminiscing. I was unable to track down the beast a second time and the following day the counsel had informed me the case was, as far as they were concerned, closed. Personally, I never heard of anything after. My... personal interests in the case led me to continue searching, though the counsel intervened frequently. Over the course of the few years since I have not had an individual tell me anything useful. I hit a wall and as such the case ran dry: I could not find a single person to attest to the beast.

That isn't to say I gathered no information. Every now and then, a young woman or a gentleman would become... agitated at my questions, or else blush or perform some bodily tick that informed upon their inner world, yet every time they would fade into their own world and act as though I didn't exist, or walk away entirely without answering a single question.

However, I am a busy person, and these jobs, well, they neither pay particularly well nor are they frequent. You do what you can to get by, and that of course takes up time you would otherwise spend searching after... personal interests. So the years went and I began to forget about the Wer-Tickler.

Now, I cannot say for certain, but I believe I have a lead. It began, hm. You know, I hadn't thought about it much, but there are only a handful of types of nights, and of course, if its stormy then it has to be dark, due to the clouds and all. Ah, well, it was a dark night, windy and lots of rain. I had been sitting at the office most of the day, pretending to work while twirling a pen, hoping for a call. I had just put on my coat, shut off the lights and locked the door, and then the receiver rang. By the time I unlocked the door and picked it up the person on the other end had already hung up. Cursing, I slammed the thing down and stood up when it rang again. I frantically lunged at the thing and brought it to my mouth, but then pushed it away and took in a deep breath before drawing it back, giving the preserved greeting I always do.

Here's the thing, it wasn't a job. Any time I investigate, I ty to give out my card to anyone I speak to. This guy that called me – and at the time I didn't know this, this is information that came to me after I met him – he was absolutely, completely worthless at the scene of a crime. Ah, right, it was a burglary and he had been in the area a bit afterwards, hadn't seen anything. But, well, here he was, calling my office at this time of night, and asking me to dinner none the less. After he introduced himself and told me why he was calling I just about hung up on him right there, decent looking guy or not. My hand held the receiver just above the housing arm, thoughts bouncing around in my skull. I grumbled and said yes, told him when and where to meet me and then hung up. After I went back into the hallway the phone rang again just as I inserted the key into the lock. Just shook my head and left after that.

It... ah, I wasn't interested, really. Well, I was to a limited extent, but mostly – mostly – I said yes so I would at least have something to tell my parents. They're always complaining, telling me it isn't right for a lady to work a job like this, always saying I should find a man and settle down. I don't like lying to them, so I don't, and this way at least I can talk about some details of an awful dinner and get by unscathed for a few days.

Ah, it didn't work, by the by. The questions instead moved on to when was I going to see this guy again and the pace of their prattling increased. That said it was… difficult to speak of the night at all with them.

So a few days passed, nothing interesting, no work and just small jobs around town, helping farmers with their harvest and such. Bartended a night, that was... interesting. The smells people are capable of is, yes, I suppose interesting remains the word. Again, you do what you can to get by, put up with what you have to. Ah, but the day of the dinner... it was about 5 pm on a crisp, fall evening. The sun hung deliriously over the horizon of trees to the west as if it were drunk and unsure whether to stay or go. There were clouds, blown this way and that by the fresh winds that loitered the streets. The leaves, though. The leaves. Every year with them, blowing in from the outskirts and just covering – covering – the roads with their forgotten orange hues.

I crunched my way down the block, slipping on the sidewalk here and there, the leaves conspiring beneath me. It was only a night or two ago but I can't remember which dress I wore. They're all the same, really, tight things running down to my ankles. Some show a little more back, some expose my shoulders. I believe I was wearing a pink or a red because I only have one pair of high heels, shiny red ones. Haha, I should get more, I do like how they look but I can't justify the cost for something I never wear. Red was a bad choice for them, but I really love that color! It just, it doesn't go with any of my other dresses, the shimmering black one, maybe. Oh, these ramblings really shouldn't be in this. I walked down the street from my office to the small nook in a wall of an establishment. Like I said, it was windy, so I wore my brown trench coat over top the dress. What a sight I must have been!

He showed up, eventually, running down the street, huffing and puffing. He wasn't wearing anything special, a red, plaid shirt that was only haphazardly tucked into his pants. The belt at his waist was chipped, tearing here and there, the insides of the loops drooping outward. Oh, his hair was a mess and the wind didn't help, and then he just stood there, staring at me. I grabbed him by the wrist and drug him into the near-empty restaurant.

Not that it ever was crowded, but the place was empty bar the two or three employees that walked about. As the door slammed shut behind us the host spun to greet us, whisking a cigarette away as he waved towards the tables. I took to the closest one, took off my coat and set it on the backside while my comrade sheepishly rubbed at the back of his neck. Sitting down, I stared at him while he looked around, as if waiting for someone to pull his seat out for him. He did pull it out and sit. Eventually.

We talked for a bit about his work – something uninteresting for the council that he danced around without giving details – and quickly ordered food. Ah, he was nice enough, didn't talk too long when asked a question and had plenty of questions for me. Now that I think of it he had too many questions. In fact, that he knew anything of any of my cases should have alerted me then, but I suppose I was too fixated upon not acting nervous. Oh, I was nervous, not very and I don't think I gave it away much. Dropped my fork once or twice, slipped on my words while ordering, that sort of thing, but nothing ah, nothing like him. I could hear the bartender covering her mouth and giggling every time the man rumpled his hair, and then his watch! He watched the thing incessantly! Every few seconds his eyes would dart at his wrist, and his arm was always twitching. His fingers kept rapping at the table and I just kept thinking that if he had had plans that he should have negotiated another day or time. Still, he smiled and laughed enough, and I suppose his eyes only glanced at the watch rather than staring at it incessantly like I describe. Just my eye for detail, I suppose. I suppose a normal woman would have been charmed that he was so interested in her.

It was a short event, we ordered our food, ate and left. He... it was strange. He asked for honey with his spaghetti. I don't want to say he doused the noodles but he certainly lobbed more onto them than he should have. I politely – as politely as one could! -- asked about it and he immediately went red in the face, muttering something about honey being on his favorite dish, and that just having the honey reminded him of it. I now realize that alone should have tipped me off, but I didn't think much of it other than it was weird. I was tired from all of the nothing I accomplished during the day and I just wanted to go home and rest.

We paid, he tried to cover my bill and we argued about that for a while before I left in a huff, throwing my coat over my shoulder. That was a mistake because the wind had gotten worse and tore at me as soon as I got outside, forcing me to put it on. There was thunder in the distance and the sun had begun to set, not that you could see it because of the splotches of grey that hovered to the west, flickering purple here and there. That man stumbled out after me, extending his arm as though to escort me. Sniffing, I raised my chin and huffed away slowly so that he could catch up. Listen, it wasn't that awful to have some attention, I just wish he had given me more than he gave his watch. Well, truthfully he did, just, ah. I suppose I am over reacting.

When he looked at it after catching up to me he began to sweat, rubbing at his neck and muttering something about needing to leave. That caught my eye. Even if I wasn't that interested in him – well, I was to an extent but even if I wasn't – when someone acts that way, you don't let them go. He was stammering and insistent and kept trying to step away, walking halfway across the vacant street, but I followed with him, arguing that he should escort me home after all. We spoke in hushed tones in the street and I played my part, rubbing the toe of my shoe against the asphalt while looking down and away like the women in the pictures. He finally agreed and we crossed the street, him walking ahead of me hastily while I took my time, stopping to eye at the fancy shoes in a nearby store window.

Whatever he was up to, I wanted to keep him from it. Private eye trained instincts told me he was up to something, at least, so I took my time, watching him for any sort of tells as he grew increasingly rabid about needing to hurry. As we neared the forest it started to rain above us, the clear night sky still visible to the east as the moon rose, it's light piercing the canopy, lighting the frivolous path that led into the depths.

The light spilled over, bathing me as the rain formed a wet shroud around my shoulders. He fret for a bit, a breeze bumbling through the trees, the branches fretting and casting the silver glow this way and that. A single ray touched his hand and he hissed, rubbing at the hairs on the back of his hand. I would say, here, that I hadn't noticed them before, but let's be honest with one another: they weren't there before and I'm about to reveal why. It wasn't immediate; we walked for a bit, him skirting around the puddles of silver and me dodging the pools of water. I shirked my coat above my head as we walked for several minutes, or maybe a half hour, skirting around the woods. The rain stopped at some point but the dirt had long since turned to mud, it greedily snapping at my heels so that I had to hasten my steps 'lest I be trapped. I really hate high heels, useful as they are for garnering attention.

At some point the wind started howling again, a chasm forming in the sky above, a waterfall of robbed light creaking down the hills towards us. He slipped behind a tree and I stopped, crossing my arms. That's when the pointed ends on my heels sank into the ground, slow enough that I didn't notice right away, deep enough to remain stuck but not so deep that you would discern with a glance. After watching him huff and cringe in the shadows for a minute – a full minute! -- I moved to drag him along, lifting my legs. My foot moved, slipping out of my shoe and I wavered there, the cold encapsulating it before I shoved it back in. Well, he was within reach so I grabbed him and drug him out anyway. The light hit him and he hissed, throwing his arms up. His muscles grew and expanded, hair breaking through the rips that crackled in his shirt.

I gasped and shifted my weight back just as his nose transformed into a snout, fangs piercing his mouth. He was there, and without warning I was suddenly in the air, stripped straight out of my shoes as he bounded away. He sniffed at the air a bit, then turned and looked at the mud that had stolen away my heels, bumbling back and snatching them before barreling into the forest, away from anyone that could have saved me. I suppose – well, nobody will read this anyway – that I didn't want to be saved, that this was exactly what I had been searching for.

He ran long enough that I had time to think about the events, where we were going and so on. I deliberated on the dinner and the weather while trying to force down any sense of anticipation. After all, I didn't know – couldn't know – that it would be the same, that some sort of tragedy wouldn't befall me. I guess you know that it didn't now, but try to understand my feelings then, how hard it was to suppress them and think clearly despite being overwhelmed by them. I bounced on his shoulder but barely moved, the arm that held me aloft warm and welcoming while I stared at my compact toes, their ruby nails glinting angrily in the moonlight. I suppose it is worth mentioning somewhere that I don’t particularly care for polish but I’m not opposed to drawing attention that way if possible, not that it ever has an opportunity to do so. Running deeper and deeper so as to keep me to himself, he finally stopped at a nondescript tree several feet apart from any others.

Rolling his shoulder, he shook me to the ground limberly and gracefully, a hand ripping my coat away as I fell. He cast the thing beneath me before I landed, his hands leaping to the arms of my coat. With a snap like thunder he whisked them upwards then plucked my wrists and ankles together, forcing my hands beneath my feet as he wrapped them as one with the cracked material that protected me from the cold air moments ago. Holding my limbs in front of his face, his yellow eyes met mine, a refined determination of steel clamping around them. I felt my resistance melt away as he leaned in, his nose wiggling as I imagined a smile crease up his snout.

Most everything from here on is a blur, really. I can remember how I felt pretty strongly, but the actual events sort of mesh together. I could simply say he licked my feet and it tickled but that would in no way do the event justice. Still, the words are difficult to come by. I'll try.

He had to have leaned in but it was like he had always been there, always waiting to strike. The very first touch was warm and surprising. It startled me, more than anything, and I do remember shrieking and tugging against his grip, but his hands were so strong. Even just holding my feet around the heels I couldn't pull away; they twisted a bit and tried to struggle despite what I wanted, but they couldn't escape. It was a strange sensation because I had the memories of the last event piling up, and while those memories have always felt so real – and possibly more intense than the reality that had occurred – they in no way prepared me for this night. If anything, their memory was a disservice to what was happening, as though they had lulled me into a false state of preparedness, leading me to expect one thing and receive an entirely different feeling. Somehow it tickled so much more than I remembered, more than it should have or could have or that I could have possibly imagined, and yet his tongue carried with it some sense of justice or righteousness that, hm, I'm not sure really. I don't want to say it was welcoming, but it felt like returning to a place you had spent a long amount of time at many years ago, and then stopped visiting for a few years. That's what his tongue felt like, what it made me feel like: like I was returning home for the first time in a decade, like I was where I belonged. It just felt right, a warm, fuzzy feeling of belonging, something you don't really find in my line of work.

The whole time he stared straight ahead, right in my eyes. It was unnerving and yet calming how he watched me suffer with such intensity. I couldn't force myself to look away, it was as though he had cast some sort of spell on me that kept our vision locked together. Even if I had, I didn't want to: some part of me, a large part of me, wanted to stare back, to watch the fiend that tortured me, out of some delirious pleasure. Oh, his gaze, it was... ahh. His eyes were a sharp, golden yellow that glowed in the darkness shrouding us in privacy from the rest of the world. His irises had become elongated, kind of like a cat's, and they held a mix of extreme hunger and satisfaction all at once. It felt as though he drained me of some unfathomable light through his gaze alone; truly, I felt weaker looking into his gaze, yet at the same time it instilled within me a sense of safety.

It was... it was... I wish I could describe it perfectly, with the utter clarity that I let myself suffer through. It tickled, it tickled so wonderfully and with such purity that at the time I wondered if he had some additional power to either strike past my flesh and straight at my nerve endings or else to directly imprint how he wanted me to feel onto my soles. In all truthfulness, the clarity of those feelings is so hot within my mind that even right now I can feel it, my hand shaking, making writing all the more difficult. I’ve had to take several breaks to calm myself during the last few passages, but I don't want to stop writing or remembering, however the effect of the memories is so crippling upon me that I might fall down, weeping.

The dedication to his artform was so complete and perfect, from start to finish though he labored endlessly at my feet his pace never seemed to waver. Sure, his focus shifted, but the rate at which he tortured me was maintained throughout. When he first began – again, my clearest thoughts are of the beginning, before he drove me entirely mad – were of how simple his licks were. His tongue was extremely long, smooth and venomously wet. The first time, and every time from there on, he started with my small heels, his wide tongue wrapping around both of them before he slowly moved straight up, the middle of his tongue bending into my arches. His tongue was wide enough that he could wrap the sides of his tongue around the edges of my feet as he went up, and it was so long that he wouldn't leave my heels un-harassed until he had passed by the ball of my foot, so that there was this extremely wet mount of wiggling flesh moving across my feet all at once. Oh! Through some demonic -- or angelic -- gift, he managed to send earthquake like wiggles throughout his tongue, it felt like they were everywhere, all at once. That, no matter how much I liked it, that was pure evil. The motion of his tongue moving upwards was enough to have me laughing and screaming, but the tiny wiggling bits of insanity he sent shocking through me... oh. Oh my. Oh my indeed.

Calm down. Deep breaths. Now, as I said his tongue was long, slimy and long, and he was only very slowly moving upwards, granted with all of his intent and purpose devoted to tickling me. Time was, is, a very difficult concept, and I certainly couldn't put a number to it while under such duress. Each methodic lick was like an eternity of suffering all balled up into the seconds that it lasted, and then he would close his mouth, move his snout down, and begin it again. It wasn't exactly the same every time – damned wiggling tongue – but it was extremely predictable. Don't think for a second that helped! My goddess, no, if anything that was the worst part! Every lick was the same length! He started the same way and ended the same way! Every time! EVERY TIME! I grew to know how much time I would laugh and scream, how much time I would have to breath and beg for his mercy to no avail at the same intervals, for the same amounts of time; the words, the pleading and begging, came whether or not I wanted them to, though he and I both seemed to delight that he pulled them from me. Ohhhh, those licks, those painful, predictable licks! You have no idea how much I suffered, from the tickling for sure but from the anticipation, the knowing of what was coming, and that it was indeed coming no matter my best efforts.

I've been tickled before, here and there, and even including the last event, nothing compares. Absolutely nothing. His gaze never wavered, though I could tell he derived a great amount of pleasure in making me feel the way I did. It didn't take long – maybe even midway through the first lick – but I was a complete mess. My throat was hoarse from the laughing and screaming, sooty black tears scattered my mascara beneath across my cheeks, my stomach burned from laughing so much, but more than anything I felt... I felt... hm. I can't really quantify it into a single word, it was like being hungry or starved, a desire or need, being warmer than the sun and colder than absolute zero all at once. It was overwhelming and unbearable, but I felt like I needed more, that I needed it to end immediately but also that it should never end, that we forever be trapped in that endlessly repeating series of moments.

Even here, in the privacy of my own thoughts and writing, I hate to admit how wonderful it was and how much I enjoyed it.

Saved by and tortured by them at the same time, despite the severe sensations that ricocheted across them and how much my body struggled with me to fight against them, I managed to spread my toes wide apart, keeping them as far extended as I could manage so that there was all the more room for him to graze. Somehow, some part of me held on because of that, holding them taught gave me focus, even agency over the situation. Sure, within minutes the muscles in my arms and legs had struggled so hard that they felt like gel, and sure, my neck gave up on holding my head aloft, but at least I could control my feet, the polish giving me strength,

I don't remember it exactly but there was some movement at my arches during one lick that was unbearable. I shrieked so loudly, I tugged so hard, and my toes curled shut. After that point I was, more or less, mentally exhausted, and fortunately – unfortunately! Not fortunately! -- it seemed to empower him. He raised his second hand and cupped both of those fury claws around my feet, and I was truly in trouble then. I could wiggle them before to some extent, not that it mattered, but his grip was so strong they only quivered in place after that. Even if he didn't look at my feet directly, I could see in his gaze that he watched them throughout, and it was apparent that the red polish brought him an unending amount of glee as though he had bested me. I did say earlier that his licks never changed, and that's entirely true, but he caught me off guard after I clenched my toes by prying at them with his tongue, little flaps invading underneath and in-between my toes. Oh my goddess. Sorry, I had to take a deep breath, but those sensations were just too much.

It's the strangest thing, how real these memories are. Well, the memories too, but how well my body remembers the feeling, how well it’s recreating them. It's almost as if he did manage to imprint his will onto my feet, and that by thinking of him I'm invoking him. Even after several breaks, I can't anymore. This paper is starting to get wet with tears, and I've been laughing maniacally to myself.

I had to take a break, and I'm not sure I can bring myself to end this. Relishing in these memories is a very serene event, and I want to take them down while they're still fresh but at the same time they only feel like they're growing in their strength. I'm sort of worried about how this will affect me out in the field, but I'm more worried that they'll only grow stronger and stronger, that they'll leave me a giddy, laughing mess every night. Worse, still, if I find him again – or anyone to tickle me again, with my intent or by mere chance – I'm not sure how I'll react, if these memories will compound on the reality. I might cease being, though that doesn't scare me nearly as much as how much I want the feeling again despite that. It's pulling at my every fiber, every thought. I can't escape it.

But this particular 'case' file has to end, and truthfully, there isn't much more to say. After his lashes began to harbor such a grudge against my toes, I truly lost it. To say I was laughing before was an understatement but you never would have thought that given how I reacted after my feet clenched together. Even if we were miles from anybody that could have helped I'm still amazed nobody heard the racket I made. I was screaming louder than I ever had before, laughing as loudly as I could. I had to let the world know, for sure, but I had to let myself know as well. I had to acknowledge what he was doing to my soles. It was almost cyclical in nature, it tickled more so I laughed harder, which made me focus more on the tickling, which made me laugh harder.

Without diluting the idea any more, I'm sure I went entirely mad. It wasn't even me anymore, just a shell that looked like me, laughing and shrieking and screaming and pleading for an end. Some distant part of me watched from outside and I feel like I knew exactly everything that happened, but as I said earlier, it was a blur. I can't say I fell into darkness but rather that I fell into his eyes, like that yellow light surrounded me, that it pierced my soul. I saw places and people from earlier in the day, from years ago and people I had never met. We chatted in inexplicable settings, under strange colored skies and overtop a rainbow of grass. Things fell upward, the world shook and came undone as though plucked apart string by string, and through it all he stared. He stared and watched as he unfurled my world, unfurled me, all by licking my feet.

In my delirium, I imagined my comrade and opponent as both prosecutor and savior, his human form holding me tight, protecting me while his beast form sought only to see me suffer. It was everything that I never knew I wanted and needed, all at once, clouding my mind with an intense inferno of laughter and love.

I believe I cannot say more on the subject and yet I also feel like I have done absolutely nothing to give it justice. Let me promise you as deeply as I can, with as much sincerity as I can, that what I have written here was but a fraction of what I felt, of what happened. I don't truly know how long the events went on for. The morning sun came and cleared my eyes at some point and I knew he was gone but I couldn't quite comprehend it. I know he stayed through the night, protecting me from the terrors that reside in that dark kingdom with his tongue alone. I think had the night never ended that I would still be there, and as I've indicated elsewhere, I'm not sure I'd have it any other way.

Over the days this has taken me to write I've sought out the man in question. He exists, I have his name and I know his work center and those that know of him, and yet I cannot find him. The people I've questioned – and I have questioned them roughly, pulling them into dark corners and holding them by the shoulders – have all denied his whereabouts and existence. Even the people from the restaurant denied seeing him the night before, so I know he must have backtracked and cleaned up his trail. I should have moved faster, should have chased after him that morning, but, well, as embarrassing as it is to say, I was exhausted and I slept in those woods for I don't know how long. The sun was far past its zenith by the time I left the woods, which I had to walk through barefoot, mind you: the fiend ran off with my heels. Well, the feeling of the leaves and the mud against your bare skin is pleasant, if off-putting. Foreign, but sort of natural relaxing.

I will not give up. This is my declaration of war, if you will. I do not intend to let any other enjoy his presence again. He will be mine, and mine alone.
 
It should have been called "Dawn of the Wer-Tickler" just to keep the Romero tradition going lol
Jokes aside, a wonderful sequel, hopefully we can read more about the growing addiction of our little P.I. soon!
 
Aggggggghh, I am so bad at names haha. I should just change it to Dawn, nobody will notice >>.

Thanks for your kind words, sirs.
 
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