oneortheother
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Dany and Missandei Tickled (Season 4)
DAENERYS
If the Great Masters of Meereen would surrender, she would be merciful, Dany had decided, but that was before all this. She remembered starting negotiations, talking for close to an hour while a sickly-sweet incense jar burned beside her, and then, everything had started to spin… and here she was, with a fierce aching in her knees and in her back. She blew a lock of blonde hair out of her face. She was in the most humiliating position for a Queen—kneeling. And she would have risen off her knees to strike her captors had the heavy manacles not kept her in place. The chains dangled from the ceiling to force her pale arms to remain upright while her ankles were trapped in some strange restraints behind her. Strangely, she could feel the air on her soles. The room was chilly, and Dany’s blue cloak had been stripped off her, as had her high leather boots. They had even removed her trousers, so her legs were bare with nothing protecting her womanhood aside from her woollen smallclothes. They had left her only her sleeveless blue gown.
As she blinked and her pale eyes grew used to the torchlight in this room, she feared she might wake in some dungeon, but the room was too ornate with carvings, statues, and fine Myrish carpets. It looked more like some audience receiving room, though that didn’t explain her bondage. Dany twisted and tried to look behind her in order to get the measure of her situation. She was secured by the ankle and knee to some kind of heavy bench of marble. Her bare feet dangled off it, secured in cuffs that prevented her from escaping and forced her to remain in the submissive position.
Missandei lay limp beside her with her head pitched forward in a similar state of undress—her sandals had been discarded on the floor alongside her cloak, leaving her only in the short, pale leather halter top that showed her bare stomach. Dany tried to whisper to her, but then the room’s heavy doors slid open.
“Ah, you have woken,” said Great Master Mazdhan, a white-bearded man in elegant purple robes with emeralds sown into the sleeves. Mazdhan had the pursed lips and squinting eyes of a lifelong miser. He was flanked by a younger man who had attended the same meeting. “Greetings, Daenerys Stormborn. I pray you suffer no after-effects from the toxins, but we wished to continue our discussions in a… different setting.”
“Is this your idea of Meereenese hospitality?” Dany thundered, her wrist manacles shaking. “You invited me to discuss your surrender!”
“Well, about that,” said the younger man, who had introduced himself as Great Master Zharaq. He was clothed in short robes of gold. During the meeting, he had stared at Dany with a pathological intensity. The look of lust was not an unknown one to Daenerys, whom so many called the most beautiful woman in the world. “You are a Targaryen, are you not? Your fight is in Westeros, not here, surely.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Dany said through gritted teeth.
“We are content to deal you the way we would any Dothraki horde,” Mazdhan said, stroking his long white beard. “We will offer you ships and gold if you go on your way and leave us be.”
“I’m not a Khal looking to sell you slaves.” It still rankled that Dany’s brave husband, Drogo, had condoned such behaviour. “I’m going to free them.”
“Yes, about that,” Zharaq scratched his chin. He had strangely long fingernails for a male. “Do you know what you’re doing? We care little for your wars westwards. What matters is the spice must flow.”
“Is that a threat? My dragons will burn your city to the ground if you kill me. I’m the only one who can control them.”
“And what makes us think we want to kill you? You’re not listening. We are simply trying to communicate a truth to you.”
“And what truth might that be?”
“Sometimes, the purest path to victory is the battle not fought,” Mazdhan said.
“Meereen is not worth it,” Zharaq said. “Trust us. Sail west with our blessing, rather than soil yourself here in the East.” He smiled a lecherous grin at her.
“You do not decide what matters to me.” Am I to ignore the children you massacred to point my way here? Dany thought.
As Missandei began to stir and rattle in her chains, Mazdhan said, “In fact, have you considered that not all the slaves want to be freed?” He whistled. “Girls, come in.”
Doors opened behind Dany, and there was the shuffle of footsteps. She tried to twist around to see who was coming in, but the shackles around her wrist prevented her from getting a good view. But she thought there about six of them, six young women scarcely older than her with brown skin and dark eyes. Some of them had the same frizzy dark hair as Missandei.
“I know what you are thinking, Queen Daenerys. Do I bring you my pillowslaves to insult you? No! These girls were trained in the fine art of torture. Not only do they have an affinity for it, but it makes them as wet as the Rhoynar to set about their work!” Mazdhan burst into throaty laughter. Why would you deprive them of their passions?”
“And what passions might these be? They sound an awful lot like crimes.”
“I can see by your face you may be wondering what this room is—too grand to be a dungeon, yet too… shall we say… restrictive to be a true audience chamber. This is where we negotiate with the more, shall we say, truculent.”
“Your grace, what is…” Missandei began to say, her head bobbing up and down. Then she shuddered and yelped. Dany had felt it too, a tingle down her left foot. She tried to push her foot back, to kick away whatever was touching her, but the shackles kept her from going anywhere.
“Now, there should be an hour or two before your captains wonder where you’ve gone—the original negotiations were only set for three hours, after all. So, till then, stay and enjoy the service of our girls. Consider our arguments.” Mazdhan turned to leave and as he was halfway out the door said, “Consider if you wish to become our enemies.”
“I shall stay and observe,” Zharaq declared. “Repeat a few of our points to our silver queen and her trusted advisor.” He gave them a grin that was not reassuring. Reclining on a bench at the far side of the room, he waved a hand at the female slaves. “Pleasure for Queen Daenerys I think, and something a bit more intense for her companion.”
“Yes, Great Master,” the women chimed in turn, and they took up their positions.
“You do not need to do this,” Dany said, though the persuasive effect of her words was reduced because of the nervous quaver in her voice. There was no denying the shiver that came up her neck as she felt hands begin to brush up and down her bare feet. Once upon a time, her feet had been tough, callused things, back when she walked the red wasteland in the aftermath of Drogo’s death. But nowadays, if she were not on dragonback, she would be on horseback, and all her plunder had won her a snug shadowcat carpet to sleep on, soft boots to walk in, and the finest oils to keep her looking Queenly. Dany’s small, pale feet were sensitive, a fact her late husband had actually taken account during their pillowplay—one of those otherworldly Dothraki traditions she had not quite understood.
There were two girls at each foot, and their small, skilled hands would have made Dany cry with pleasure if not for the situation. Their hands were tender as they rubbed and caressed her feet as if they were in love with them. But she could sense a dark undercurrent to this massaging—as they brushed their fingers up and down her scrunched up feet with the very tips of their fingers, there was more than a few undertones of nefarious intentions. The fingers would ‘accidentally’ brush into her sensitive feet with their nails, pressing into her high Targaryen arches, stroking that sensitive point at the base of her toes to make her want to squeak with girlish giggles.
The reason Dany was so sure of this was for poor Missandei, it seemed they had skipped a few stages. The former slave girl was well-past giggling already—she was roaring with laughter. Five fingers were wiggling hard into each armpit, while a black-haired slave girl whispered something too low for Dany to hear in Missandei’s ear. At her bare brown soles, the two slave girls were taking advantage of her long, receptive feet. Because of their length, it was easy to fit all ten fingers on the sole at once, and they were taking good advantage of that fact to jam as many cruel fingers as they could on all the soft spots they were discovering rapidly with every passing moment.
“Don’t worry, your radiance,” whispered a voice by Dany’s right ear. It must have been the third slave girl assigned to her, the one that wasn’t being making Dany’s feet feel more tender and sensitive by the moment. This girl had embraced the dragon queen from behind like a lover and kissed on the neck. She smelled of spice and wild berries.
“What are you do-ho-ing?” Dany’s voice shook as she felt something new on her right foot that made her shiver. It was something warm, soft, and wet, slowly dragging its way along her arches that made her face twitch. “Stop that right now! I am a Queen!”
“I know,” purred the slave girl whose hands were stroking slowly down hips to armpits, taking care that her feather-light touch brushed past Dany’s breasts through the fabric of her gown on the way. The insolence made her want to choke with rage, if not for the fact laughter and something else was starting to choke up her throat. Although she couldn’t look behind her because of the way she was tied down, she was pretty certain she recognised the sensuous touch on her feet now—she spread her toes then pointed them again. It was tongues, one on each foot, and they had quickly made their way to her toes. “How lucky am I that I get to do this to the Mother of Dragons herself…”
Over the sound of her friend’s snorts and cries, Dany heard the girls currently raking their sharp fingernails up and down Missandei’s bare feet shout something about being jealous that the other girls got to tickle such a famous figure, and how they demanded to be the ones to get that honour next time a Great Master’s wife or a Green Grace was brought to this chamber.
“You thought we were joking, didn’t you, Queen Daenerys?” said Zharaq, who was smirking from his seat across the hall, which afforded him a superb view of all that was transpiring. “Slaves trained in the art of torture are our speciality in Meereen. And they all delight in our work.”
“Is this your idea of torture?” Dany said in a strained voice. Despite the growing tension in her loins, she wasn’t sure if this could be said to be that torturous, though she deeply resented being fondled by such strangers in front of this foul man. So far, the only real humiliation was how nice those tongues felt as they stroked up and down her flexing feet and lovingly sucked on her toes.
Though she knew the same could not be said for Missandei, whose voice was starting to get hoarse from the three demonesses tormenting her trapped and exposed body.
“Torture that rots the mind yet leaves the body pure can be very useful.”
“When I take your city, I will outlaw such barbaric practices,” Dany said, willing herself to not let her voice tremble as the tongues wandered down to her arches, tracing their way through the wrinkles of the scrunching feet.
“If,” he said. “And perhaps once you’ve seen the power of our methods, you will change your view.” He snapped his fingers, and Dany jolted as her three tormentors promptly adopted a more aggressive approach.
Soon, they were only licking her toes but nibbling on them as well, and their teeth proved to tickle terribly, especially when they began to relocate to other areas—the ball of her feet proved to be particularly vulnerable to such an approach, as Dany let loose a squeal and tossed her head back when she felt it for the first time.
Instead of the light caresses and gentle grazes she had come to expect, the fingers at her feet were soon decidedly less nice as well. They were scribbling across her bare feet now, pressing in deep with their fingernails. Their spittle meant the sole was nice and slick and sensitive for the fingers to skate along, and they seemed to have a keen understanding that all the spots that had made her gasp and grunt before would be good spots to torment now, like her arches. Dany tried to wiggle her feet together so one could protect the other, but they were too far away.
Out of the corner of her eye, Dany saw that the slave girls at Missandei’s feet had grabbed them by the toes, yanked them back, and started to scrub them mercilessly with some kind of brush, despite the poor girl’s wails and squeals. And before long, Dany’s husky laughter and her lighter one merged together into so sick symphony as tools, fingers, and tongues forced more mirth out of them.
At her upper body, she found herself pressed by the three-way attack. At her right armpit, she had a finger digging deep into that pale, soft hollow, her left had a marauding tongue to make her squirm, and the slave girl’s remaining hand had reached down between the queen’s legs to stroke along her inner thighs or squeeze her knees, more than once coming perilously close to her tingling womanhood. She tried to swing her body around to shake off the girl, but the shackles at her wrists and legs kept her pinned in place.
“What are you thinking, Queen Daenerys?” Zharaq said. “Is this giving you some perspective?”
Dany shook her head, partly in denial, partly in frustration from being trapped in such an awful scenario, and partly because of the growing bud of tension in her belly. It was difficult to come up with witty retorts when such distracting things were being done to her hypersensitive feet and toes.
“Let’s step things up a notch, girls,” he called, laughing. “I’ll even come help to give her radiance a personal touch.”
The girl hugging Dany from behind disappeared, which should have been a good thing had Zharaq not appeared in front of her. With his short brown hair, round dark eyes, neatly trimmed beard, and elegant robes, he was far from homely, but his look was a sinister one. He reached his hands for Dany’s armpits, those long devilish-looking things, but as Dany quivered at chomped down on her lip as she prepared for the moment of impact, he reached past her and kept on leaning closer till their faces were inches apart. He gave her a wink and pulled back and he suddenly had brightly coloured feathers in his hand. One of the slave girls must have handed it to him? But that meant…
“These belong the indigenous Meereenese Parrot,” he said, twirling a feather in each hand. It was stiff and longer, and it appeared to be varnished. “It’s said that they claim some relation to the great harpy, though I doubt it myself.”
Dany jumped and barely suppressed an unqueenly scream when two feathers suddenly licked up her knees and spun their way towards her bare thighs. Because of the way her legs and ankles were shackled, she couldn’t even close them as they wondered to her womanhood, which was more than a little moist on account of those damnable teasing tongues at her feet.
And before she could even get used to those feathers teasing down there, she had two more feathers to contend with, fluttering up and down bare armpits. Their points were sharp and bristly yet soft, and Dany could do naught but rattle the chains that pinned her arms to the ceiling as the Meereenese feathers brushed up and down the pinkening flesh.
Those feathers danced where the slave girl’s mouth had been before, where blossoming sensitivity had sprouted from the sowing of an erotic tongue. The other feathers at her thighs—which was where that slave girl must have gone, Dany realised, for the tongues and fingers are her sensitive pale feet had most certainly not stopped—were tracing the skin where her thighs met her pelvis despite Dany’s legs tensing and struggling as best she could. More than once, these feathers brushed along Dany’s womanhood through the thin fabric of her smallclothes. She would have shouted in outrage if this hurricane of tickling had not already gusted away her words.
“Do you want us to stop, your radiance?” Zharaq’s grin was smug and wide. “Or is us continuing that which you desire?”
Dany recognised the look on his face—no matter what she said, he would not grant it to her. So, she abstained from answering, instead focusing her efforts on a tentative grasp on dignity, though it was not easy, especially as the two slave girls at her feet had discovered how sensitive her big toes were to a tongue and teeth combination. For the last few minutes, they had kept those toes trapped in their mouths, a watery, sensual prison. They swirled their tongues all over them the pads and the gaps between toes, occasionally nibbling and biting along the tips of them to keep things fresh.
Combined with the feathering at her thighs, there was no ignoring how the growing tingle between her legs was becoming more and more powerful with every lick and every flick of those feathers, even despite the ordeal at her armpits and the pesky nails scampering across her soles.
“I think Queen Daenerys is getting bored with her current treatment. Perhaps she even looks at her handmaid with a hint of envy.”
Dany glanced over to Missandei. There were flat brushes the size of her hand working over her soles in a blur, while smaller brushes around the size of her fingers wove across her armpits and bare stomach. The scratching of the bristles on her soft skin was audible even all her laughter. Her face was red and tear-streaked, and her voice had gone hoarse from the nonstop all-out assault on her worst spots.
“Pleheehehehease, your grahahahace! Mahahahake thehehm stahap!” Missandei managed despite the overloading sensations.
Zharaq clapped his hands together. “So, it is agreed! Kindly switch places, my dears. It is known a man tires of the same meal day after day.”
Dany tried to ignore as the girls at her waist and feet grumbled and slid off, muttering how upset they were that they hadn’t gotten the “honour” of pushing her over the edge. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered that they consider her toes tasty and her reactions delicious. And the eagerness of the girls coming over from a panting Missandei was worrying. They were giggling and cheering and flexing those menacing-looking brushes in their hands. They were evidently delighted to get their hands on the Mother of Dragons herself.
“My pardons, your radiance,” Zharaq said to Dany with a flourish, “but perhaps I should have a word with your confidant. I ought to communicate to her how preferable it is to stay away from Meereenese feathers and those who wield them.” He stared at Missandei’s bare belly, smiling.
Dany did not even have a moment to prepare herself, as the slaver girls scurried over and set into her immediately. She felt a twinge of unfairness at the fact Missandei’s torment had not started yet, but she instantly felt bad about wishing her friend and comrade was suffering just so things were ‘equal’.
But there was no equal to the small brushes scrubbing away in her armpits. Dany never thought she would miss the feeling of feathers in her armpits, but the brushes were something different entirely. She was tugging and tugging at her arm shackles, pulling so hard her shoulders felt close to popping out, but there was no escaping those bristles as they worked little circles in her helpless underarms.
And down at her feet was hardly any better. Her feet had grown used to the tender kisses and caresses of the slaver girl’s tongues, and the rough bristles of the big scrub brushes were a completely different story. It was like her feet were being attacked by hundreds and hundreds of tiny sharp fingers, and these things overwhelmed her defences which had been softened by the slaver girls and their devastating touch. From the ferocity in which their strong, nimble hands worked, and from the tenacity they worked the brushes through every nook and cranny along the top, bottom and sides of her terribly ticklish feet, they treated her appendages as if they were dirty plates that needed to be cleaned.
Dany screamed and shouted commands at them to stop, but that would just make the girls giggle to themselves and make snide little comments like how they thought “dragons couldn’t laugh” and “oh, look, she can’t stand it there!”, so she soon chose to bite down on her lip and save her breath instead. They were more talkative than the girls who had ‘tended’ to her before, but perhaps they were all this way, and it was only because the others had been too busy with their tongues to talk amongst themselves.
She could hear Missandei moaning as the tongues and feathers did their work. Dany never thought she would miss those either, as the merciless, ceaseless brushing brought her from so close to ultimate relief to crashing all the way down to zero. Zharaq was kissing Missandei’s stomach, worming his tongue into her navel while his feathers wandering along her taut armpits. The foot girls were working hard on treating Missandei’s curling toes to a thorough tonguing.
Dany shrieked, her hands clenching uselessly into fists as her feet writhed and struggled, but the slave girls were stronger than they looked, and they pulled them back by the toes to force her foot straight to really punish her arches. And if they weren’t doing that, they would grab them around the ball of the foot to present her tender, tiny toes to the brushes innumerable bristles. One brush alone was enough to make her wail in ticklish distress, but one for each foot? And two smaller ones in her armpits? It was unspeakable agony. And all the whole, her weeping womanhood throbbed in disappointment
For a while, Dany's whole world turned black and mute except from the scritching of remorseless bristles against powerless flesh—the steady scrape, scrape, scrape.
But Dany had learned from this, had learned from Zharaq and his taunting words. When she and Missandei were free, she would show them what it meant to mock the dragon. The Great Masters would be served with Fire and Blood. And the girls? Perhaps Dany would have a hand at their ancient craft, see how they handled the tongues, feathers, and brushes they had so eagerly unleashed on them. Missandei would be eager to assist. And afterwards, Dany would forgive them, hire them, and bring them with her when they sailed across the Narrow Sea to Westeros. Let Cersei Lannister go mad with laugher, she thought, and for a while, she imagined it was not her writhing in these chains with the sore back and the hoarse voice, but another. She was watching this torture from afar, sitting where Zharaq had been sitting not so long ago. It was not her with the small brushes in her hollows. It was not her with hundreds of bristles tormenting her toes and arches. It was someone else, another blonde queen, Cersei, screaming to the mother for mercy and begging them to stop.
And that made things a bit better. Till her time was up and she would be released, that was all she could do. She would picture fire, blood, and tickle torture.
DAENERYS
If the Great Masters of Meereen would surrender, she would be merciful, Dany had decided, but that was before all this. She remembered starting negotiations, talking for close to an hour while a sickly-sweet incense jar burned beside her, and then, everything had started to spin… and here she was, with a fierce aching in her knees and in her back. She blew a lock of blonde hair out of her face. She was in the most humiliating position for a Queen—kneeling. And she would have risen off her knees to strike her captors had the heavy manacles not kept her in place. The chains dangled from the ceiling to force her pale arms to remain upright while her ankles were trapped in some strange restraints behind her. Strangely, she could feel the air on her soles. The room was chilly, and Dany’s blue cloak had been stripped off her, as had her high leather boots. They had even removed her trousers, so her legs were bare with nothing protecting her womanhood aside from her woollen smallclothes. They had left her only her sleeveless blue gown.
As she blinked and her pale eyes grew used to the torchlight in this room, she feared she might wake in some dungeon, but the room was too ornate with carvings, statues, and fine Myrish carpets. It looked more like some audience receiving room, though that didn’t explain her bondage. Dany twisted and tried to look behind her in order to get the measure of her situation. She was secured by the ankle and knee to some kind of heavy bench of marble. Her bare feet dangled off it, secured in cuffs that prevented her from escaping and forced her to remain in the submissive position.
Missandei lay limp beside her with her head pitched forward in a similar state of undress—her sandals had been discarded on the floor alongside her cloak, leaving her only in the short, pale leather halter top that showed her bare stomach. Dany tried to whisper to her, but then the room’s heavy doors slid open.
“Ah, you have woken,” said Great Master Mazdhan, a white-bearded man in elegant purple robes with emeralds sown into the sleeves. Mazdhan had the pursed lips and squinting eyes of a lifelong miser. He was flanked by a younger man who had attended the same meeting. “Greetings, Daenerys Stormborn. I pray you suffer no after-effects from the toxins, but we wished to continue our discussions in a… different setting.”
“Is this your idea of Meereenese hospitality?” Dany thundered, her wrist manacles shaking. “You invited me to discuss your surrender!”
“Well, about that,” said the younger man, who had introduced himself as Great Master Zharaq. He was clothed in short robes of gold. During the meeting, he had stared at Dany with a pathological intensity. The look of lust was not an unknown one to Daenerys, whom so many called the most beautiful woman in the world. “You are a Targaryen, are you not? Your fight is in Westeros, not here, surely.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Dany said through gritted teeth.
“We are content to deal you the way we would any Dothraki horde,” Mazdhan said, stroking his long white beard. “We will offer you ships and gold if you go on your way and leave us be.”
“I’m not a Khal looking to sell you slaves.” It still rankled that Dany’s brave husband, Drogo, had condoned such behaviour. “I’m going to free them.”
“Yes, about that,” Zharaq scratched his chin. He had strangely long fingernails for a male. “Do you know what you’re doing? We care little for your wars westwards. What matters is the spice must flow.”
“Is that a threat? My dragons will burn your city to the ground if you kill me. I’m the only one who can control them.”
“And what makes us think we want to kill you? You’re not listening. We are simply trying to communicate a truth to you.”
“And what truth might that be?”
“Sometimes, the purest path to victory is the battle not fought,” Mazdhan said.
“Meereen is not worth it,” Zharaq said. “Trust us. Sail west with our blessing, rather than soil yourself here in the East.” He smiled a lecherous grin at her.
“You do not decide what matters to me.” Am I to ignore the children you massacred to point my way here? Dany thought.
As Missandei began to stir and rattle in her chains, Mazdhan said, “In fact, have you considered that not all the slaves want to be freed?” He whistled. “Girls, come in.”
Doors opened behind Dany, and there was the shuffle of footsteps. She tried to twist around to see who was coming in, but the shackles around her wrist prevented her from getting a good view. But she thought there about six of them, six young women scarcely older than her with brown skin and dark eyes. Some of them had the same frizzy dark hair as Missandei.
“I know what you are thinking, Queen Daenerys. Do I bring you my pillowslaves to insult you? No! These girls were trained in the fine art of torture. Not only do they have an affinity for it, but it makes them as wet as the Rhoynar to set about their work!” Mazdhan burst into throaty laughter. Why would you deprive them of their passions?”
“And what passions might these be? They sound an awful lot like crimes.”
“I can see by your face you may be wondering what this room is—too grand to be a dungeon, yet too… shall we say… restrictive to be a true audience chamber. This is where we negotiate with the more, shall we say, truculent.”
“Your grace, what is…” Missandei began to say, her head bobbing up and down. Then she shuddered and yelped. Dany had felt it too, a tingle down her left foot. She tried to push her foot back, to kick away whatever was touching her, but the shackles kept her from going anywhere.
“Now, there should be an hour or two before your captains wonder where you’ve gone—the original negotiations were only set for three hours, after all. So, till then, stay and enjoy the service of our girls. Consider our arguments.” Mazdhan turned to leave and as he was halfway out the door said, “Consider if you wish to become our enemies.”
“I shall stay and observe,” Zharaq declared. “Repeat a few of our points to our silver queen and her trusted advisor.” He gave them a grin that was not reassuring. Reclining on a bench at the far side of the room, he waved a hand at the female slaves. “Pleasure for Queen Daenerys I think, and something a bit more intense for her companion.”
“Yes, Great Master,” the women chimed in turn, and they took up their positions.
“You do not need to do this,” Dany said, though the persuasive effect of her words was reduced because of the nervous quaver in her voice. There was no denying the shiver that came up her neck as she felt hands begin to brush up and down her bare feet. Once upon a time, her feet had been tough, callused things, back when she walked the red wasteland in the aftermath of Drogo’s death. But nowadays, if she were not on dragonback, she would be on horseback, and all her plunder had won her a snug shadowcat carpet to sleep on, soft boots to walk in, and the finest oils to keep her looking Queenly. Dany’s small, pale feet were sensitive, a fact her late husband had actually taken account during their pillowplay—one of those otherworldly Dothraki traditions she had not quite understood.
There were two girls at each foot, and their small, skilled hands would have made Dany cry with pleasure if not for the situation. Their hands were tender as they rubbed and caressed her feet as if they were in love with them. But she could sense a dark undercurrent to this massaging—as they brushed their fingers up and down her scrunched up feet with the very tips of their fingers, there was more than a few undertones of nefarious intentions. The fingers would ‘accidentally’ brush into her sensitive feet with their nails, pressing into her high Targaryen arches, stroking that sensitive point at the base of her toes to make her want to squeak with girlish giggles.
The reason Dany was so sure of this was for poor Missandei, it seemed they had skipped a few stages. The former slave girl was well-past giggling already—she was roaring with laughter. Five fingers were wiggling hard into each armpit, while a black-haired slave girl whispered something too low for Dany to hear in Missandei’s ear. At her bare brown soles, the two slave girls were taking advantage of her long, receptive feet. Because of their length, it was easy to fit all ten fingers on the sole at once, and they were taking good advantage of that fact to jam as many cruel fingers as they could on all the soft spots they were discovering rapidly with every passing moment.
“Don’t worry, your radiance,” whispered a voice by Dany’s right ear. It must have been the third slave girl assigned to her, the one that wasn’t being making Dany’s feet feel more tender and sensitive by the moment. This girl had embraced the dragon queen from behind like a lover and kissed on the neck. She smelled of spice and wild berries.
“What are you do-ho-ing?” Dany’s voice shook as she felt something new on her right foot that made her shiver. It was something warm, soft, and wet, slowly dragging its way along her arches that made her face twitch. “Stop that right now! I am a Queen!”
“I know,” purred the slave girl whose hands were stroking slowly down hips to armpits, taking care that her feather-light touch brushed past Dany’s breasts through the fabric of her gown on the way. The insolence made her want to choke with rage, if not for the fact laughter and something else was starting to choke up her throat. Although she couldn’t look behind her because of the way she was tied down, she was pretty certain she recognised the sensuous touch on her feet now—she spread her toes then pointed them again. It was tongues, one on each foot, and they had quickly made their way to her toes. “How lucky am I that I get to do this to the Mother of Dragons herself…”
Over the sound of her friend’s snorts and cries, Dany heard the girls currently raking their sharp fingernails up and down Missandei’s bare feet shout something about being jealous that the other girls got to tickle such a famous figure, and how they demanded to be the ones to get that honour next time a Great Master’s wife or a Green Grace was brought to this chamber.
“You thought we were joking, didn’t you, Queen Daenerys?” said Zharaq, who was smirking from his seat across the hall, which afforded him a superb view of all that was transpiring. “Slaves trained in the art of torture are our speciality in Meereen. And they all delight in our work.”
“Is this your idea of torture?” Dany said in a strained voice. Despite the growing tension in her loins, she wasn’t sure if this could be said to be that torturous, though she deeply resented being fondled by such strangers in front of this foul man. So far, the only real humiliation was how nice those tongues felt as they stroked up and down her flexing feet and lovingly sucked on her toes.
Though she knew the same could not be said for Missandei, whose voice was starting to get hoarse from the three demonesses tormenting her trapped and exposed body.
“Torture that rots the mind yet leaves the body pure can be very useful.”
“When I take your city, I will outlaw such barbaric practices,” Dany said, willing herself to not let her voice tremble as the tongues wandered down to her arches, tracing their way through the wrinkles of the scrunching feet.
“If,” he said. “And perhaps once you’ve seen the power of our methods, you will change your view.” He snapped his fingers, and Dany jolted as her three tormentors promptly adopted a more aggressive approach.
Soon, they were only licking her toes but nibbling on them as well, and their teeth proved to tickle terribly, especially when they began to relocate to other areas—the ball of her feet proved to be particularly vulnerable to such an approach, as Dany let loose a squeal and tossed her head back when she felt it for the first time.
Instead of the light caresses and gentle grazes she had come to expect, the fingers at her feet were soon decidedly less nice as well. They were scribbling across her bare feet now, pressing in deep with their fingernails. Their spittle meant the sole was nice and slick and sensitive for the fingers to skate along, and they seemed to have a keen understanding that all the spots that had made her gasp and grunt before would be good spots to torment now, like her arches. Dany tried to wiggle her feet together so one could protect the other, but they were too far away.
Out of the corner of her eye, Dany saw that the slave girls at Missandei’s feet had grabbed them by the toes, yanked them back, and started to scrub them mercilessly with some kind of brush, despite the poor girl’s wails and squeals. And before long, Dany’s husky laughter and her lighter one merged together into so sick symphony as tools, fingers, and tongues forced more mirth out of them.
At her upper body, she found herself pressed by the three-way attack. At her right armpit, she had a finger digging deep into that pale, soft hollow, her left had a marauding tongue to make her squirm, and the slave girl’s remaining hand had reached down between the queen’s legs to stroke along her inner thighs or squeeze her knees, more than once coming perilously close to her tingling womanhood. She tried to swing her body around to shake off the girl, but the shackles at her wrists and legs kept her pinned in place.
“What are you thinking, Queen Daenerys?” Zharaq said. “Is this giving you some perspective?”
Dany shook her head, partly in denial, partly in frustration from being trapped in such an awful scenario, and partly because of the growing bud of tension in her belly. It was difficult to come up with witty retorts when such distracting things were being done to her hypersensitive feet and toes.
“Let’s step things up a notch, girls,” he called, laughing. “I’ll even come help to give her radiance a personal touch.”
The girl hugging Dany from behind disappeared, which should have been a good thing had Zharaq not appeared in front of her. With his short brown hair, round dark eyes, neatly trimmed beard, and elegant robes, he was far from homely, but his look was a sinister one. He reached his hands for Dany’s armpits, those long devilish-looking things, but as Dany quivered at chomped down on her lip as she prepared for the moment of impact, he reached past her and kept on leaning closer till their faces were inches apart. He gave her a wink and pulled back and he suddenly had brightly coloured feathers in his hand. One of the slave girls must have handed it to him? But that meant…
“These belong the indigenous Meereenese Parrot,” he said, twirling a feather in each hand. It was stiff and longer, and it appeared to be varnished. “It’s said that they claim some relation to the great harpy, though I doubt it myself.”
Dany jumped and barely suppressed an unqueenly scream when two feathers suddenly licked up her knees and spun their way towards her bare thighs. Because of the way her legs and ankles were shackled, she couldn’t even close them as they wondered to her womanhood, which was more than a little moist on account of those damnable teasing tongues at her feet.
And before she could even get used to those feathers teasing down there, she had two more feathers to contend with, fluttering up and down bare armpits. Their points were sharp and bristly yet soft, and Dany could do naught but rattle the chains that pinned her arms to the ceiling as the Meereenese feathers brushed up and down the pinkening flesh.
Those feathers danced where the slave girl’s mouth had been before, where blossoming sensitivity had sprouted from the sowing of an erotic tongue. The other feathers at her thighs—which was where that slave girl must have gone, Dany realised, for the tongues and fingers are her sensitive pale feet had most certainly not stopped—were tracing the skin where her thighs met her pelvis despite Dany’s legs tensing and struggling as best she could. More than once, these feathers brushed along Dany’s womanhood through the thin fabric of her smallclothes. She would have shouted in outrage if this hurricane of tickling had not already gusted away her words.
“Do you want us to stop, your radiance?” Zharaq’s grin was smug and wide. “Or is us continuing that which you desire?”
Dany recognised the look on his face—no matter what she said, he would not grant it to her. So, she abstained from answering, instead focusing her efforts on a tentative grasp on dignity, though it was not easy, especially as the two slave girls at her feet had discovered how sensitive her big toes were to a tongue and teeth combination. For the last few minutes, they had kept those toes trapped in their mouths, a watery, sensual prison. They swirled their tongues all over them the pads and the gaps between toes, occasionally nibbling and biting along the tips of them to keep things fresh.
Combined with the feathering at her thighs, there was no ignoring how the growing tingle between her legs was becoming more and more powerful with every lick and every flick of those feathers, even despite the ordeal at her armpits and the pesky nails scampering across her soles.
“I think Queen Daenerys is getting bored with her current treatment. Perhaps she even looks at her handmaid with a hint of envy.”
Dany glanced over to Missandei. There were flat brushes the size of her hand working over her soles in a blur, while smaller brushes around the size of her fingers wove across her armpits and bare stomach. The scratching of the bristles on her soft skin was audible even all her laughter. Her face was red and tear-streaked, and her voice had gone hoarse from the nonstop all-out assault on her worst spots.
“Pleheehehehease, your grahahahace! Mahahahake thehehm stahap!” Missandei managed despite the overloading sensations.
Zharaq clapped his hands together. “So, it is agreed! Kindly switch places, my dears. It is known a man tires of the same meal day after day.”
Dany tried to ignore as the girls at her waist and feet grumbled and slid off, muttering how upset they were that they hadn’t gotten the “honour” of pushing her over the edge. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered that they consider her toes tasty and her reactions delicious. And the eagerness of the girls coming over from a panting Missandei was worrying. They were giggling and cheering and flexing those menacing-looking brushes in their hands. They were evidently delighted to get their hands on the Mother of Dragons herself.
“My pardons, your radiance,” Zharaq said to Dany with a flourish, “but perhaps I should have a word with your confidant. I ought to communicate to her how preferable it is to stay away from Meereenese feathers and those who wield them.” He stared at Missandei’s bare belly, smiling.
Dany did not even have a moment to prepare herself, as the slaver girls scurried over and set into her immediately. She felt a twinge of unfairness at the fact Missandei’s torment had not started yet, but she instantly felt bad about wishing her friend and comrade was suffering just so things were ‘equal’.
But there was no equal to the small brushes scrubbing away in her armpits. Dany never thought she would miss the feeling of feathers in her armpits, but the brushes were something different entirely. She was tugging and tugging at her arm shackles, pulling so hard her shoulders felt close to popping out, but there was no escaping those bristles as they worked little circles in her helpless underarms.
And down at her feet was hardly any better. Her feet had grown used to the tender kisses and caresses of the slaver girl’s tongues, and the rough bristles of the big scrub brushes were a completely different story. It was like her feet were being attacked by hundreds and hundreds of tiny sharp fingers, and these things overwhelmed her defences which had been softened by the slaver girls and their devastating touch. From the ferocity in which their strong, nimble hands worked, and from the tenacity they worked the brushes through every nook and cranny along the top, bottom and sides of her terribly ticklish feet, they treated her appendages as if they were dirty plates that needed to be cleaned.
Dany screamed and shouted commands at them to stop, but that would just make the girls giggle to themselves and make snide little comments like how they thought “dragons couldn’t laugh” and “oh, look, she can’t stand it there!”, so she soon chose to bite down on her lip and save her breath instead. They were more talkative than the girls who had ‘tended’ to her before, but perhaps they were all this way, and it was only because the others had been too busy with their tongues to talk amongst themselves.
She could hear Missandei moaning as the tongues and feathers did their work. Dany never thought she would miss those either, as the merciless, ceaseless brushing brought her from so close to ultimate relief to crashing all the way down to zero. Zharaq was kissing Missandei’s stomach, worming his tongue into her navel while his feathers wandering along her taut armpits. The foot girls were working hard on treating Missandei’s curling toes to a thorough tonguing.
Dany shrieked, her hands clenching uselessly into fists as her feet writhed and struggled, but the slave girls were stronger than they looked, and they pulled them back by the toes to force her foot straight to really punish her arches. And if they weren’t doing that, they would grab them around the ball of the foot to present her tender, tiny toes to the brushes innumerable bristles. One brush alone was enough to make her wail in ticklish distress, but one for each foot? And two smaller ones in her armpits? It was unspeakable agony. And all the whole, her weeping womanhood throbbed in disappointment
For a while, Dany's whole world turned black and mute except from the scritching of remorseless bristles against powerless flesh—the steady scrape, scrape, scrape.
But Dany had learned from this, had learned from Zharaq and his taunting words. When she and Missandei were free, she would show them what it meant to mock the dragon. The Great Masters would be served with Fire and Blood. And the girls? Perhaps Dany would have a hand at their ancient craft, see how they handled the tongues, feathers, and brushes they had so eagerly unleashed on them. Missandei would be eager to assist. And afterwards, Dany would forgive them, hire them, and bring them with her when they sailed across the Narrow Sea to Westeros. Let Cersei Lannister go mad with laugher, she thought, and for a while, she imagined it was not her writhing in these chains with the sore back and the hoarse voice, but another. She was watching this torture from afar, sitting where Zharaq had been sitting not so long ago. It was not her with the small brushes in her hollows. It was not her with hundreds of bristles tormenting her toes and arches. It was someone else, another blonde queen, Cersei, screaming to the mother for mercy and begging them to stop.
And that made things a bit better. Till her time was up and she would be released, that was all she could do. She would picture fire, blood, and tickle torture.
