Mastertank1
2nd Level Yellow Feather
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Katya’s Ordeal In The Sex Slave Traffic
By Mastertank1
Caution; this one is not basically light like most of my other stories. This is very dark, totally nonconsensual, and does not involve any pleasure or enjoyment at all for the victim. There is no happy ending.
Unfortunately, it is based on a very, horribly true story which I saw on the PBS series Frontline on the evening of February 8, 2006. No, the Frontline story did not involve tickling. Further research in non Internet sources brought up that possible connection.
The Frontline story was about the fact that between 200,000 and 300,000 girls and young women every year disappear from the former satellite states and component republics of the old Soviet Union, to be sold into sexual slavery all over the world. This story is typical of what happens to some of them; those who are not lucky enough to get rescued but are relatively lucky in the fate they meet. The stories of the overwhelming majority of them are far, far worse than this, and have no place on TMF, because they are completely off topic.
Half of the women who vanish into the insatiable maw of the Sex Slave Traffic from eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union to the rest of the world are lured by lies and misinformation. They think they are going somewhere for a job as a farm worker, domestic servant, office worker, waitress or exotic dancer. The first time they find out about what they’re really in for, they are far from home, all alone in a country where they know no one and don’t speak the language. That’s when they discover that they are being sold into sexual slavery.
The other half are outright kidnapped, by force. Katya was one of those. She was a lovely 20 year girl old from the western Ukraine. She stood 5’7”, with a slender, sexy build. She weighed about 125. Her hair was shoulder length and the color of clover honey. Her face was a very wide oval, her complexion a much lighter shade of the same honey, with tilted green eyes. Her mouth was about average width, but her lips formed an elongated cupid’s bow, making her intensely kissable. Katya’s feet were size six and a half double wide, with extremely high and wide arches. Her toes were medium length with cute, round pads at the end of the stems. At age 20, she still had the legs, arms and torso development resulting from her high school training in gymnastics. She was a stunner.
Katya had been on her way to a party, wearing an open necked almost see through blouse with a wide frill around the neckline. Her jeans were worn very thin and looked sprayed on. She wore 3” heeled sandals, held on by a single, broad strap of transparent vinyl that crossed each foot just above the toes. She was looking amazingly sexy, but that wasn’t why she was taken.
The kidnappers had been sicced on Katya by one of their regular scouts. They had been stalking the girl for the past three weeks while they lined up their other victims. Their usual M.O. was to divide into 2 three man teams. Each team would strike five times in a single night, nabbing a total of ten girls in one night.
Katya was the last to be grabbed by team B. The scout who turned her in to them had been tailing her all afternoon and evening, but Katya, immersed in her own concerns, was oblivious. When team B had secured their other four targets for the night, they beeped the scout, whose beeper was set on vibrate.
The scout whipped his cell phone out, called in, and guided the team to an intercept position. One man was dropped off behind her, the second ahead of her, the third drove the van. The man in front of Katya smiled and waved as if he knew her. While she was trying to remember who he was, the man behind her whipped a hood over her head and pulled the drawstring tight around her neck. The man in front ran up and slipped a pad soaked in chloroform under the drawstring in front. She gasped, and in seconds was unconscious. They tossed a hundred ruble bill to the scout, bundled Katya into the van and roared off into the night.
Katya awoke the next day, hogtied and gagged in the back of a truck that had just crossed the Ukrainian border into Moldova, the poorest country in Europe, where entire police forces could be bought for less than what one corrupt cop in New York would demand. After dark she was brought to the docks and loaded onto a ship.
On the ship they untied her and walked her around a bit several times every day. They gave her food and drink, and let her wash daily. Three days later the slow ship docked across the straits from Istanbul, Turkey.
They bound and gagged Katya again. She kept trying to fight, but they were too many, too strong, and too experienced at keeping unwilling female captives under control. They unloaded her from a truck in front of a villa. She two uniformed police on the corner, and ran toward them, grunting through her gag. The police grabbed her and frog-marched her back to her captors, receiving a 20 Dinar bill apiece for their trouble.
Katya was thrown in a room with 39 other Russian speaking girls and young women. All had similar stories to tell. The next day a Turkish man came in and looked them all over carefully. The best looking 20, including Katya, remained in the room. The other 20 were taken away to be sold into brothels in a lawless part of Istanbul called Anikiaya.
The day after that another Turk segregated the best looking ten, leaving them in the room while the others were trucked east. There they were sold to the rulers of mountain tribes which had never acknowledged the authority of the central government in Ankara.
On the third morning in the big room, the girls were taken out one by one. Each returned looking very embarrassed and straightening her clothing, as though she had undressed and was now dressing again. Katya was the seventh girl taken.
As she had every step, Katya resisted. As it had been at every step, it was futile. Four men dragged her into a smaller room, with other men seated against the far wall and a table in the middle. This table had straps along one edge and in the middle of the top. Some kind of pulley arrangement was attached to the ceiling above it, with ropes dangling down.
When they told her to strip, Katya stood with arms folded and glared at them all. Four men got up from their chairs. They joined the four who had dragged her in. Between them the eight men got her stripped, forced her to kneel on the top of the table, and bound her in place.
Katya’s ankles were strapped down, with her bare feet dangling over the edge of the table. Her knees were strapped down the middle of the surface. Her wrists were cuffed in leather and stretched overhead by the pulleys.
One of the men who had not gotten up to help strip her and bind her had a pen and a clipboard. He barked a question in some unknown language. In reply, one of the Turks said her name, Katya. The stranger wrote it down.
Now the stranger rose from his seat. He walked around Katya slowly, visually inspecting her and taking notes on what he saw. When he resumed his seat, he poised the pen over his clipboard and spoke a single word. A woman, whom Katya had not noticed until she moved, walked up to Katya and started to tickle her!
The tickling was only few seconds in each place, but the man with clipboard kept making notations and saying a word that sounded like “Yoy!” Each time he said “Yoy!” the woman moved her tickling hands to a new location or used a different technique in the current location.
Katya was furious. She HATED to be tickled. It made her keep giggling or laughing when she wanted to punch, kick and scream in hatred and anger. When the woman had tickled Katya every possible way in every possible place, she walked back to her seat.
Katya screamed curses in Russian, which nobody else in the room understood. Rather than sitting back down, the woman took something from her huge handbag and turned to walk back to the table and Katya. When she saw what the woman now held in her hand, Katya almost swallowed her tongue in fear.
The woman was holding a feather. It was teardrop shaped. Pointed. 14 inches long, 3 inches wide near the base. It was silky and soft as the woman stroked her own palm with it and smiled.
Katya was one of those relatively rare girls whose ticklishness responded far more strongly to feathers than fingers. Katya was starkly terrified; even the briefest brush of the feather on any of her many tickle spot would drive her crazy, and she knew it.
When the woman began tickling Katya with the feather she laughed uncontrollably and begged for mercy. The tickler relentlessly repeated the whole list of places to test, and every one of them made poor Katya react helplessly to the touch of the feather.
The smile on the face of the man with the clipboard kept widening. When the feather caressed Katy’s helpless bare foot, she went wild with laughter. She started to cry. The tickler woman said something to clipboard man, pointing to Katya’s nipples and labia, both which were showing signs of involuntary arousal.
Clipboard man drew a big checkmark on the clipboard and said something interrogatory in the strange language. The head Turk held up all ten fingers four times, expecting that to be an opening point for a bargaining session. He was shocked when clipboard man nodded his head and wrote down the number 40,000 on the sheet of paper that held information about Katya.
The Turk shrugged. He wished he had flashed the ten fingers six times, because then the bargaining might have ended up at 50,000. Struck by a sudden thought he looked hard at the clipboard man and said; “Dollars, no Dinars!”
The clipboard man shrugged and nodded, his expression saying ‘of course dollars.’
Katya was unbound and given her clothing to put back on. As soon as she was done, they hustled her back to the big room and the next girl was brought out. At the end of the day, Katya and two other girls were hogtied again and hustled into the back of a huge white Mercedes stretch limo. As they felt the car moving, the girls spoke to each other.
They turned out to have several things in common. All three were beautiful. All three hated to be tickled. All three experienced involuntary arousal when tickled. Most of all, all three were desperately, frantically, insanely, unbearably ticklish virtually everywhere! When these facts were clear to the three girls, all three fell silent, because all three were utterly terrified.
The girls were able to see out the windows to a limited extent. They saw the signs for an airport, recognizable despite language differences by the universal symbols. The car drove into a hangar and the hangar doors closed.
The girls were transferred to a large private jet with Arabic script on the side. They were left in the hogties until after takeoff, then they were partially released. Their hands still remained tied behind their backs. Members of the all male crew of the jet gave them water to drink and a few bites of food without untying them. When they were allowed to go to the bathroom, their hands were retied in front of them.
Staring out the windows, two of the girls gave way to despair. One of them knew enough geography to tell the others that they were flying south across Syria. They then continued south over Jordan, threading between the U.S. no-fly zone over Iraq and the Israeli air security zone. The geography buff recognized the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River out the windows to the right. Then they flew on past the Dead Sea, across an area of empty desert, and passed the head of the Gulf of Aqaba. They were now in Saudi Arabian air space. Only Katya had kept her resolve to resist.
The jet flew on, hundreds of miles into Arabia. They finally landed at a remote desert airstrip. They were unceremoniously bundled into the back of a military looking truck and taken to a long, low white adobe building. The truck drove around to a side entrance.
The three girls were taken to a room where about a dozen young women, all very lovely and dressed as harem girls, were engaged in various activities. The new arrivals, however, were greeted by a half dozen less attractive women and four men uniformed as security guards. The ranking guard, one of the women, addressed the new girls as the group of guards menacingly surrounded them. The chief guard addressed the girls in heavily Arab accented Russian; “In case you were wondering, you are now the property of Sheik Ahriman Ibn Mahmoun Al Alhazri. You are all slave concubines. You have been paid for, and you are his. The only purpose of your continued existence is to keep yourself as attractive as possible to delight his eye, and on those nights when he chooses you, to exert every effort you are capable of to delight his loins. This will not happen very often. The Sheik has four wives and four free concubines, and you three are numbers 13, 14 and 15 among his slave concubines. On any given night, he may choose any of 23 women to share his bed. He may also choose one of you to slake his needs in the afternoon or the morning, or early in the evening. He has a very active libido, which is why you were purchased.”
Two of the three girls, the ones who had mentally given up, kept nodding meekly as they listened. Katya had kept looking more and more angry. Now Katya burst out; “I am NO ONE’s property! I am a free woman, and I DEMAND to be returned to my home, from which I was kidnapped by force!”
The four male guards moved in and seized Katya by her arms and legs, lifting her off of her feet. The guard chief looked at the information sheets she had been given on the three new acquisitions; “Hmm. Not the brunette, not the redhead, aha! You’re the honey blonde. My my my! How amusing that the most vulnerable of all should be the only one who continues to show resistance. You will regret that very shortly, my dear. Very shortly and very very bitterly. Get them all cleaned up. They stink.”
The two cowed and compliant girls were led away. Katya was locked into a quadruple shackle. It held her wrists and ankles all next to each other, ringed in bands of stainless steel. The men carried her into a damp, steamy room, with shower heads along one wall. They dropped her on her butt on the wet floor and left.
Two large, muscular 30 something women in one piece bathing suits came in with scissors in hand. They removed Katya’s shoes, and over her loud protests scissored off all of her clothing, leaving Katya naked except for her shackles.
Then they proceeded to launder Katya. They soaked her under the showers. They soaped her thoroughly. They rinsed the soap off, then they soaped her and rinsed her a second time. They held her in front of a powerful warm air blower and dried her off. They did her hair, made her up and perfumed her. They even moved the shackles farther up her limbs to cleanse the skin under them. But the shackles never came off.
Throughout the processing, Katya kept shouting, yelling and screaming. The burden of her utterances was that she was not anyone’s slave or property, that they had no right to hold her, and that she demanded to be returned home and released. They took her to the head guard’s office and deposited her on the desktop, on her shapely, naked ass.
The head guard consulted the information sheet on Katya one more time. The guard chief said; “Room 3. The feet. Feathers. Start with 12...” At that moment Katya emitted a particularly shrill scream of defiance and anger. Every guard in the room winced. The guard chief went on; “No, 18, make that 24 hours. To start with.”
They Katya down a long corridor as far as a door labeled 3, and into a room. They sat her down on a well padded table, with a well padded chair back in the middle of it.
One at a time, they unshackled her hands and plunged each one into a heavily padded mitten permanently affixed to the base of the chair back. They tightened straps to seal each mitten so Katya’s hands couldn’t be pulled free.
The seat she was in faced a wall. It was so close that if her legs had not been bent at the knees over the edge of the table, they would have bumped the wall. Directly facing her, at the same height above the floor as Katya’s bent knees, was a set of stocks actually built into the wall.
The upper bar of the stocks slid straight upward. Katya’s ankles were unshackled and placed in the holes of the stocks. The upper bar was then lowered and locked into place.
Katya’s bare feet were held fast at the ankles and sealed from her sight. On the other side of the wall, a toe restraint frame was adjusted for proper positioning. Then, the surface plate was smeared with an adhesive and Katya’s toenails were pressed against it.
Once pressed against the adhesive, the toenails were stuck, with toes widely splayed. The men who had brought Katya to room 3 and locked her in place abruptly left. There was an ordinary chair in the room, but it was unoccupied. Katya was alone. Or at least, she was alone from the ankles up.
When it suddenly dawned on Katya what they must be planning to do to her, the stream of invective dried up. Her mouth went dry and her palms began to sweat in the mittens. What had that head guard bitch said? “12, No, 18, make that 24 hours?” “24 hours?!!! Oh, my GOD! 24 hours of TICKLING? On my FEET?! With FEATHERS?!!! I’ll DIE!!!!!”
Katya had just begun frantically examining the stocks for a way to free herself when it started. The tip of a sharp pointed, medium firm feather began making circles on her right heel.
Poor Katya had no resistance at all to the touch of a feather, especially not on her feet. She at once started laughing. She just couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t stop. Somehow, the fact that there was no one there to argue with, no one to scream at, no one to yell at or threaten or plead with, nobody even to gloat over her helplessness and loss of control, only made the horror even worse.
And it went on and on, and it kept getting worse. The feather moved to her left heel. Then it went up to the ball of her left foot. It made figure eights around the greater and lesser balls of that foot. It lingered excruciatingly in the little valley between them. The tickling sensations themselves were driving Katya mad, but the effects the tickling had on her body were worse.
Katya had never before in her life been so angry. She was furious! She asked nothing more than to scream out her anger and hatred and defiance at these evil people who had stolen her from her life, but each time she opened her mouth only laughter came out! The frustration was unbearable!
The feather now moved to the ball of her right foot. She laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed. How much time had elapsed since the tickling began, Katya had no idea. To her it seemed like hours, but she knew it might just have been minutes. Room 3 contained no way to tell time.
The point of the feather now moved to the flat of her right sole. It painted long strokes up and down the ticklish expanse. The strokes went from just below the balls of the foot to just above the heel.
When these vertical strokes had covered the entire area, they were followed by horizontal strokes. Each stroke went from the edge of her helpless foot to the edge of her arch, then moved a millimeter down and went back the other way. In her mind Katya started to beg; “No more! Please! No more! Let me stop laughing, please! Just for a minute! A few seconds! Please let me stop! I can’t take it! I really can’t stand any more! I’m too ticklish! It’s terrible! Please, please, please! Not on my feet! No, please! Not with a feather! Oh God please no, not on my feet with a feather! You’re killing me! Help! Murder! Please, mercy!”
What came out of her wide open mouth was more like; “Ha ha ha! Ah ha ha! Hoo hoo hoo! Oh ho hoo! Hee hee hee! Yeeeeee hee hee! AHH haa hah hah hah! Whee yeee hee hee hee! Awwwhawhawhaw! Nyahhhh haah haah haah haah haah haah! Oooooohhooooohoooohoooohooohoooo! Wahhh haaaaah haaah haaaah haah! Haw haw haw haw! Whoooo hooooo hoooo hoooo! Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah! Hi hihihihihihihihi! Ha ha ha!”
Katya was trying with all of her might and with all of her strength and with all of her willpower to stop laughing. None of it did any good. Katya’s insanely ticklish body betrayed her. The feeling of that feather teasing her tender foot forced her to laugh, want to or not, and that’s all there was to it. There wasn’t a thing she could do. The feather moved on to the flat of the sole of her other foot, lingering there while it repeated the crosshatching technique so recently practiced on the first foot.
The feather then moved to the toes of her left foot. Her toes were completely defenseless! Restrained by the powerful adhesive, Katya’s poor, tender, sensitive toes were unable to so much as twitch. The pitch of her laughter went up half an octave. The terrible tickling was driving her crazy!
After playing among her left toes for what felt like forever, the feather moved on to the toes of Katya’s right foot. The first tears appeared in her eyes. They slowly gathered, then started to trickle down from the corners.
Katya thought; “Why are they doing this? Why won’t they stop? Oh God, please, let me stop laughing! I can’t take this tickling! It’s too much! I’m only a girl, I’m not strong enough! Mercy, mercy, mercy please!. Please, mommy, make them stop tickling me! Waaaaaaaaaah!”
The next move the feather made was to Katya’s right arch. This was her absolute worst spot and Katya just screamed. She continued to scream for what seemed to be longer than human lungs could sustain a single sound. Then she took in one huge, quick gasp and emitted another long scream.
First the feather painted Katya’s right arch with vertical strokes, then horizontal strokes, then swirls, then flutters. Her horrible, desperate screams turned to laughter again. The laughter was wild and despairing. The sound of a girl who’d been tickled too long, one who just couldn’t cope any more. Then the feather moved on to the arch of her left foot.
The tears were now streaming from both Katya’s eyes in a flood. She had no control left whatsoever. All of her muscles were desperately, frantically, futilely straining to move her unbearably ticklish feet out of the reach of that damnable, terrible, utterly maddening feather. The torture was just unendurable.
Makeup streaked by tears and sweat, hair flung about and sticking to her slicked skin, Katya was a mess. The beautiful young girl looked absolutely pitiful. But, there was nobody watching to pity her.
The absence of any person to talk to or interact with only increased the horror that Katya was feeling. The fact that she was all alone pointed up the awful facts of her situation. This was not an interrogation that she could stop by giving up information. This was not a brainwashing that she could bring to a halt by submitting. This was a punishment. Punishment pure and simple, to go on for a fixed length of time, no matter what. There was nothing that Katya could do or say that would shorten her torment. There wasn’t even anyone to say anything to or do anything for.
Then it stopped. People came into the room. They sponged her off and dried her with towels. She had peed herself several times, and they cleaned her. They gave her all she wanted to drink, and she wanted a lot.
It was some kind of sports drink, with sugar for energy, potassium to keep the electrolytes balanced and sodium to stave off heat prostration. They sprayed her raw throat with soothing Chloraseptic. They rubbed her aching muscles with liniment to take away the aches and pains and stave off incipient cramps.
The head guard came in. Just to make sure everything was clear in Katy’s mind, the guard chief explained in detail that she was being punished for her recalcitrant behavior and resistance. No more resistance or bad behavior would be tolerated. She would have a life of luxury, with all kinds of amusements and learning opportunities provided, but she must accept without question that she was now property.
This was her first offence. The punishment for a second offence would be doubled. For a third it would be quadrupled, then octupled. They would continue as long as they had to. Eventually, Katya would either be broken and correct her behavior or else driven out of her mind. If the latter, she would be given as a toy to the officers of the Sheik’s private army, many of whom liked to tickle torture a girl while they had her sexually.
As soon as the head guard was finished, a thoroughly chastened Katya asked permission (!) to speak. When permission was given, she promised at great length that from now on she would be perfectly obedient and would eagerly do everything and anything she could to please and pleasure the Sheik when he chose her.
The head guard nodded in satisfaction; “That was the goal Katya. That was what we needed to accomplish. It is good that you have finally realized your situation.”
“Then the tickling is over? All done?” Katya inquired anxiously.
Rising to leave, the head guard said; “Oh, no girl. You have been sentenced to 24 hours of tickling. This was only six hours. Just to make sure that you realize; once you commit an offence and are sentenced, there is nothing you can do or say to make it shorter.
The only thing you can do, the only way you can control how much tickling you have to endure, is by perfect obedience, never committing any infraction in the first place. And when you are with the Sheik, be compliant and never annoy him.
He sometimes gives a girl who annoys him to his younger brother for a weekend. If you think the tickling you’ve been through and are yet to endure is bad, you do not ever want to experience tickling all over at once while being raped at the same time. That’s what the Sheik’s brother likes to do.
The second six hours will involve two feathers. The third six hours there will be four feathers tickling you. For the final six hours, there will be eight feathers tormenting your ever so sensitive feet, girl. And you will not know who is using them on you. It might be males. It might be females. It might be adults. It might children. It might be machines. You will never know; it might even be me. Ha ha ha.”
Then the head guard walked out and the door closed, just as poor Katya felt it. The touch of two feathers at one time. One on the heel of each of her poor, defenseless, helpless, immobile, incredibly ticklish bare feet. She had time for one heartbroken sob before starting to laugh uncontrollably again.
By Mastertank1
Caution; this one is not basically light like most of my other stories. This is very dark, totally nonconsensual, and does not involve any pleasure or enjoyment at all for the victim. There is no happy ending.
Unfortunately, it is based on a very, horribly true story which I saw on the PBS series Frontline on the evening of February 8, 2006. No, the Frontline story did not involve tickling. Further research in non Internet sources brought up that possible connection.
The Frontline story was about the fact that between 200,000 and 300,000 girls and young women every year disappear from the former satellite states and component republics of the old Soviet Union, to be sold into sexual slavery all over the world. This story is typical of what happens to some of them; those who are not lucky enough to get rescued but are relatively lucky in the fate they meet. The stories of the overwhelming majority of them are far, far worse than this, and have no place on TMF, because they are completely off topic.
Half of the women who vanish into the insatiable maw of the Sex Slave Traffic from eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union to the rest of the world are lured by lies and misinformation. They think they are going somewhere for a job as a farm worker, domestic servant, office worker, waitress or exotic dancer. The first time they find out about what they’re really in for, they are far from home, all alone in a country where they know no one and don’t speak the language. That’s when they discover that they are being sold into sexual slavery.
The other half are outright kidnapped, by force. Katya was one of those. She was a lovely 20 year girl old from the western Ukraine. She stood 5’7”, with a slender, sexy build. She weighed about 125. Her hair was shoulder length and the color of clover honey. Her face was a very wide oval, her complexion a much lighter shade of the same honey, with tilted green eyes. Her mouth was about average width, but her lips formed an elongated cupid’s bow, making her intensely kissable. Katya’s feet were size six and a half double wide, with extremely high and wide arches. Her toes were medium length with cute, round pads at the end of the stems. At age 20, she still had the legs, arms and torso development resulting from her high school training in gymnastics. She was a stunner.
Katya had been on her way to a party, wearing an open necked almost see through blouse with a wide frill around the neckline. Her jeans were worn very thin and looked sprayed on. She wore 3” heeled sandals, held on by a single, broad strap of transparent vinyl that crossed each foot just above the toes. She was looking amazingly sexy, but that wasn’t why she was taken.
The kidnappers had been sicced on Katya by one of their regular scouts. They had been stalking the girl for the past three weeks while they lined up their other victims. Their usual M.O. was to divide into 2 three man teams. Each team would strike five times in a single night, nabbing a total of ten girls in one night.
Katya was the last to be grabbed by team B. The scout who turned her in to them had been tailing her all afternoon and evening, but Katya, immersed in her own concerns, was oblivious. When team B had secured their other four targets for the night, they beeped the scout, whose beeper was set on vibrate.
The scout whipped his cell phone out, called in, and guided the team to an intercept position. One man was dropped off behind her, the second ahead of her, the third drove the van. The man in front of Katya smiled and waved as if he knew her. While she was trying to remember who he was, the man behind her whipped a hood over her head and pulled the drawstring tight around her neck. The man in front ran up and slipped a pad soaked in chloroform under the drawstring in front. She gasped, and in seconds was unconscious. They tossed a hundred ruble bill to the scout, bundled Katya into the van and roared off into the night.
Katya awoke the next day, hogtied and gagged in the back of a truck that had just crossed the Ukrainian border into Moldova, the poorest country in Europe, where entire police forces could be bought for less than what one corrupt cop in New York would demand. After dark she was brought to the docks and loaded onto a ship.
On the ship they untied her and walked her around a bit several times every day. They gave her food and drink, and let her wash daily. Three days later the slow ship docked across the straits from Istanbul, Turkey.
They bound and gagged Katya again. She kept trying to fight, but they were too many, too strong, and too experienced at keeping unwilling female captives under control. They unloaded her from a truck in front of a villa. She two uniformed police on the corner, and ran toward them, grunting through her gag. The police grabbed her and frog-marched her back to her captors, receiving a 20 Dinar bill apiece for their trouble.
Katya was thrown in a room with 39 other Russian speaking girls and young women. All had similar stories to tell. The next day a Turkish man came in and looked them all over carefully. The best looking 20, including Katya, remained in the room. The other 20 were taken away to be sold into brothels in a lawless part of Istanbul called Anikiaya.
The day after that another Turk segregated the best looking ten, leaving them in the room while the others were trucked east. There they were sold to the rulers of mountain tribes which had never acknowledged the authority of the central government in Ankara.
On the third morning in the big room, the girls were taken out one by one. Each returned looking very embarrassed and straightening her clothing, as though she had undressed and was now dressing again. Katya was the seventh girl taken.
As she had every step, Katya resisted. As it had been at every step, it was futile. Four men dragged her into a smaller room, with other men seated against the far wall and a table in the middle. This table had straps along one edge and in the middle of the top. Some kind of pulley arrangement was attached to the ceiling above it, with ropes dangling down.
When they told her to strip, Katya stood with arms folded and glared at them all. Four men got up from their chairs. They joined the four who had dragged her in. Between them the eight men got her stripped, forced her to kneel on the top of the table, and bound her in place.
Katya’s ankles were strapped down, with her bare feet dangling over the edge of the table. Her knees were strapped down the middle of the surface. Her wrists were cuffed in leather and stretched overhead by the pulleys.
One of the men who had not gotten up to help strip her and bind her had a pen and a clipboard. He barked a question in some unknown language. In reply, one of the Turks said her name, Katya. The stranger wrote it down.
Now the stranger rose from his seat. He walked around Katya slowly, visually inspecting her and taking notes on what he saw. When he resumed his seat, he poised the pen over his clipboard and spoke a single word. A woman, whom Katya had not noticed until she moved, walked up to Katya and started to tickle her!
The tickling was only few seconds in each place, but the man with clipboard kept making notations and saying a word that sounded like “Yoy!” Each time he said “Yoy!” the woman moved her tickling hands to a new location or used a different technique in the current location.
Katya was furious. She HATED to be tickled. It made her keep giggling or laughing when she wanted to punch, kick and scream in hatred and anger. When the woman had tickled Katya every possible way in every possible place, she walked back to her seat.
Katya screamed curses in Russian, which nobody else in the room understood. Rather than sitting back down, the woman took something from her huge handbag and turned to walk back to the table and Katya. When she saw what the woman now held in her hand, Katya almost swallowed her tongue in fear.
The woman was holding a feather. It was teardrop shaped. Pointed. 14 inches long, 3 inches wide near the base. It was silky and soft as the woman stroked her own palm with it and smiled.
Katya was one of those relatively rare girls whose ticklishness responded far more strongly to feathers than fingers. Katya was starkly terrified; even the briefest brush of the feather on any of her many tickle spot would drive her crazy, and she knew it.
When the woman began tickling Katya with the feather she laughed uncontrollably and begged for mercy. The tickler relentlessly repeated the whole list of places to test, and every one of them made poor Katya react helplessly to the touch of the feather.
The smile on the face of the man with the clipboard kept widening. When the feather caressed Katy’s helpless bare foot, she went wild with laughter. She started to cry. The tickler woman said something to clipboard man, pointing to Katya’s nipples and labia, both which were showing signs of involuntary arousal.
Clipboard man drew a big checkmark on the clipboard and said something interrogatory in the strange language. The head Turk held up all ten fingers four times, expecting that to be an opening point for a bargaining session. He was shocked when clipboard man nodded his head and wrote down the number 40,000 on the sheet of paper that held information about Katya.
The Turk shrugged. He wished he had flashed the ten fingers six times, because then the bargaining might have ended up at 50,000. Struck by a sudden thought he looked hard at the clipboard man and said; “Dollars, no Dinars!”
The clipboard man shrugged and nodded, his expression saying ‘of course dollars.’
Katya was unbound and given her clothing to put back on. As soon as she was done, they hustled her back to the big room and the next girl was brought out. At the end of the day, Katya and two other girls were hogtied again and hustled into the back of a huge white Mercedes stretch limo. As they felt the car moving, the girls spoke to each other.
They turned out to have several things in common. All three were beautiful. All three hated to be tickled. All three experienced involuntary arousal when tickled. Most of all, all three were desperately, frantically, insanely, unbearably ticklish virtually everywhere! When these facts were clear to the three girls, all three fell silent, because all three were utterly terrified.
The girls were able to see out the windows to a limited extent. They saw the signs for an airport, recognizable despite language differences by the universal symbols. The car drove into a hangar and the hangar doors closed.
The girls were transferred to a large private jet with Arabic script on the side. They were left in the hogties until after takeoff, then they were partially released. Their hands still remained tied behind their backs. Members of the all male crew of the jet gave them water to drink and a few bites of food without untying them. When they were allowed to go to the bathroom, their hands were retied in front of them.
Staring out the windows, two of the girls gave way to despair. One of them knew enough geography to tell the others that they were flying south across Syria. They then continued south over Jordan, threading between the U.S. no-fly zone over Iraq and the Israeli air security zone. The geography buff recognized the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River out the windows to the right. Then they flew on past the Dead Sea, across an area of empty desert, and passed the head of the Gulf of Aqaba. They were now in Saudi Arabian air space. Only Katya had kept her resolve to resist.
The jet flew on, hundreds of miles into Arabia. They finally landed at a remote desert airstrip. They were unceremoniously bundled into the back of a military looking truck and taken to a long, low white adobe building. The truck drove around to a side entrance.
The three girls were taken to a room where about a dozen young women, all very lovely and dressed as harem girls, were engaged in various activities. The new arrivals, however, were greeted by a half dozen less attractive women and four men uniformed as security guards. The ranking guard, one of the women, addressed the new girls as the group of guards menacingly surrounded them. The chief guard addressed the girls in heavily Arab accented Russian; “In case you were wondering, you are now the property of Sheik Ahriman Ibn Mahmoun Al Alhazri. You are all slave concubines. You have been paid for, and you are his. The only purpose of your continued existence is to keep yourself as attractive as possible to delight his eye, and on those nights when he chooses you, to exert every effort you are capable of to delight his loins. This will not happen very often. The Sheik has four wives and four free concubines, and you three are numbers 13, 14 and 15 among his slave concubines. On any given night, he may choose any of 23 women to share his bed. He may also choose one of you to slake his needs in the afternoon or the morning, or early in the evening. He has a very active libido, which is why you were purchased.”
Two of the three girls, the ones who had mentally given up, kept nodding meekly as they listened. Katya had kept looking more and more angry. Now Katya burst out; “I am NO ONE’s property! I am a free woman, and I DEMAND to be returned to my home, from which I was kidnapped by force!”
The four male guards moved in and seized Katya by her arms and legs, lifting her off of her feet. The guard chief looked at the information sheets she had been given on the three new acquisitions; “Hmm. Not the brunette, not the redhead, aha! You’re the honey blonde. My my my! How amusing that the most vulnerable of all should be the only one who continues to show resistance. You will regret that very shortly, my dear. Very shortly and very very bitterly. Get them all cleaned up. They stink.”
The two cowed and compliant girls were led away. Katya was locked into a quadruple shackle. It held her wrists and ankles all next to each other, ringed in bands of stainless steel. The men carried her into a damp, steamy room, with shower heads along one wall. They dropped her on her butt on the wet floor and left.
Two large, muscular 30 something women in one piece bathing suits came in with scissors in hand. They removed Katya’s shoes, and over her loud protests scissored off all of her clothing, leaving Katya naked except for her shackles.
Then they proceeded to launder Katya. They soaked her under the showers. They soaped her thoroughly. They rinsed the soap off, then they soaped her and rinsed her a second time. They held her in front of a powerful warm air blower and dried her off. They did her hair, made her up and perfumed her. They even moved the shackles farther up her limbs to cleanse the skin under them. But the shackles never came off.
Throughout the processing, Katya kept shouting, yelling and screaming. The burden of her utterances was that she was not anyone’s slave or property, that they had no right to hold her, and that she demanded to be returned home and released. They took her to the head guard’s office and deposited her on the desktop, on her shapely, naked ass.
The head guard consulted the information sheet on Katya one more time. The guard chief said; “Room 3. The feet. Feathers. Start with 12...” At that moment Katya emitted a particularly shrill scream of defiance and anger. Every guard in the room winced. The guard chief went on; “No, 18, make that 24 hours. To start with.”
They Katya down a long corridor as far as a door labeled 3, and into a room. They sat her down on a well padded table, with a well padded chair back in the middle of it.
One at a time, they unshackled her hands and plunged each one into a heavily padded mitten permanently affixed to the base of the chair back. They tightened straps to seal each mitten so Katya’s hands couldn’t be pulled free.
The seat she was in faced a wall. It was so close that if her legs had not been bent at the knees over the edge of the table, they would have bumped the wall. Directly facing her, at the same height above the floor as Katya’s bent knees, was a set of stocks actually built into the wall.
The upper bar of the stocks slid straight upward. Katya’s ankles were unshackled and placed in the holes of the stocks. The upper bar was then lowered and locked into place.
Katya’s bare feet were held fast at the ankles and sealed from her sight. On the other side of the wall, a toe restraint frame was adjusted for proper positioning. Then, the surface plate was smeared with an adhesive and Katya’s toenails were pressed against it.
Once pressed against the adhesive, the toenails were stuck, with toes widely splayed. The men who had brought Katya to room 3 and locked her in place abruptly left. There was an ordinary chair in the room, but it was unoccupied. Katya was alone. Or at least, she was alone from the ankles up.
When it suddenly dawned on Katya what they must be planning to do to her, the stream of invective dried up. Her mouth went dry and her palms began to sweat in the mittens. What had that head guard bitch said? “12, No, 18, make that 24 hours?” “24 hours?!!! Oh, my GOD! 24 hours of TICKLING? On my FEET?! With FEATHERS?!!! I’ll DIE!!!!!”
Katya had just begun frantically examining the stocks for a way to free herself when it started. The tip of a sharp pointed, medium firm feather began making circles on her right heel.
Poor Katya had no resistance at all to the touch of a feather, especially not on her feet. She at once started laughing. She just couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t stop. Somehow, the fact that there was no one there to argue with, no one to scream at, no one to yell at or threaten or plead with, nobody even to gloat over her helplessness and loss of control, only made the horror even worse.
And it went on and on, and it kept getting worse. The feather moved to her left heel. Then it went up to the ball of her left foot. It made figure eights around the greater and lesser balls of that foot. It lingered excruciatingly in the little valley between them. The tickling sensations themselves were driving Katya mad, but the effects the tickling had on her body were worse.
Katya had never before in her life been so angry. She was furious! She asked nothing more than to scream out her anger and hatred and defiance at these evil people who had stolen her from her life, but each time she opened her mouth only laughter came out! The frustration was unbearable!
The feather now moved to the ball of her right foot. She laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed. How much time had elapsed since the tickling began, Katya had no idea. To her it seemed like hours, but she knew it might just have been minutes. Room 3 contained no way to tell time.
The point of the feather now moved to the flat of her right sole. It painted long strokes up and down the ticklish expanse. The strokes went from just below the balls of the foot to just above the heel.
When these vertical strokes had covered the entire area, they were followed by horizontal strokes. Each stroke went from the edge of her helpless foot to the edge of her arch, then moved a millimeter down and went back the other way. In her mind Katya started to beg; “No more! Please! No more! Let me stop laughing, please! Just for a minute! A few seconds! Please let me stop! I can’t take it! I really can’t stand any more! I’m too ticklish! It’s terrible! Please, please, please! Not on my feet! No, please! Not with a feather! Oh God please no, not on my feet with a feather! You’re killing me! Help! Murder! Please, mercy!”
What came out of her wide open mouth was more like; “Ha ha ha! Ah ha ha! Hoo hoo hoo! Oh ho hoo! Hee hee hee! Yeeeeee hee hee! AHH haa hah hah hah! Whee yeee hee hee hee! Awwwhawhawhaw! Nyahhhh haah haah haah haah haah haah! Oooooohhooooohoooohoooohooohoooo! Wahhh haaaaah haaah haaaah haah! Haw haw haw haw! Whoooo hooooo hoooo hoooo! Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah! Hi hihihihihihihihi! Ha ha ha!”
Katya was trying with all of her might and with all of her strength and with all of her willpower to stop laughing. None of it did any good. Katya’s insanely ticklish body betrayed her. The feeling of that feather teasing her tender foot forced her to laugh, want to or not, and that’s all there was to it. There wasn’t a thing she could do. The feather moved on to the flat of the sole of her other foot, lingering there while it repeated the crosshatching technique so recently practiced on the first foot.
The feather then moved to the toes of her left foot. Her toes were completely defenseless! Restrained by the powerful adhesive, Katya’s poor, tender, sensitive toes were unable to so much as twitch. The pitch of her laughter went up half an octave. The terrible tickling was driving her crazy!
After playing among her left toes for what felt like forever, the feather moved on to the toes of Katya’s right foot. The first tears appeared in her eyes. They slowly gathered, then started to trickle down from the corners.
Katya thought; “Why are they doing this? Why won’t they stop? Oh God, please, let me stop laughing! I can’t take this tickling! It’s too much! I’m only a girl, I’m not strong enough! Mercy, mercy, mercy please!. Please, mommy, make them stop tickling me! Waaaaaaaaaah!”
The next move the feather made was to Katya’s right arch. This was her absolute worst spot and Katya just screamed. She continued to scream for what seemed to be longer than human lungs could sustain a single sound. Then she took in one huge, quick gasp and emitted another long scream.
First the feather painted Katya’s right arch with vertical strokes, then horizontal strokes, then swirls, then flutters. Her horrible, desperate screams turned to laughter again. The laughter was wild and despairing. The sound of a girl who’d been tickled too long, one who just couldn’t cope any more. Then the feather moved on to the arch of her left foot.
The tears were now streaming from both Katya’s eyes in a flood. She had no control left whatsoever. All of her muscles were desperately, frantically, futilely straining to move her unbearably ticklish feet out of the reach of that damnable, terrible, utterly maddening feather. The torture was just unendurable.
Makeup streaked by tears and sweat, hair flung about and sticking to her slicked skin, Katya was a mess. The beautiful young girl looked absolutely pitiful. But, there was nobody watching to pity her.
The absence of any person to talk to or interact with only increased the horror that Katya was feeling. The fact that she was all alone pointed up the awful facts of her situation. This was not an interrogation that she could stop by giving up information. This was not a brainwashing that she could bring to a halt by submitting. This was a punishment. Punishment pure and simple, to go on for a fixed length of time, no matter what. There was nothing that Katya could do or say that would shorten her torment. There wasn’t even anyone to say anything to or do anything for.
Then it stopped. People came into the room. They sponged her off and dried her with towels. She had peed herself several times, and they cleaned her. They gave her all she wanted to drink, and she wanted a lot.
It was some kind of sports drink, with sugar for energy, potassium to keep the electrolytes balanced and sodium to stave off heat prostration. They sprayed her raw throat with soothing Chloraseptic. They rubbed her aching muscles with liniment to take away the aches and pains and stave off incipient cramps.
The head guard came in. Just to make sure everything was clear in Katy’s mind, the guard chief explained in detail that she was being punished for her recalcitrant behavior and resistance. No more resistance or bad behavior would be tolerated. She would have a life of luxury, with all kinds of amusements and learning opportunities provided, but she must accept without question that she was now property.
This was her first offence. The punishment for a second offence would be doubled. For a third it would be quadrupled, then octupled. They would continue as long as they had to. Eventually, Katya would either be broken and correct her behavior or else driven out of her mind. If the latter, she would be given as a toy to the officers of the Sheik’s private army, many of whom liked to tickle torture a girl while they had her sexually.
As soon as the head guard was finished, a thoroughly chastened Katya asked permission (!) to speak. When permission was given, she promised at great length that from now on she would be perfectly obedient and would eagerly do everything and anything she could to please and pleasure the Sheik when he chose her.
The head guard nodded in satisfaction; “That was the goal Katya. That was what we needed to accomplish. It is good that you have finally realized your situation.”
“Then the tickling is over? All done?” Katya inquired anxiously.
Rising to leave, the head guard said; “Oh, no girl. You have been sentenced to 24 hours of tickling. This was only six hours. Just to make sure that you realize; once you commit an offence and are sentenced, there is nothing you can do or say to make it shorter.
The only thing you can do, the only way you can control how much tickling you have to endure, is by perfect obedience, never committing any infraction in the first place. And when you are with the Sheik, be compliant and never annoy him.
He sometimes gives a girl who annoys him to his younger brother for a weekend. If you think the tickling you’ve been through and are yet to endure is bad, you do not ever want to experience tickling all over at once while being raped at the same time. That’s what the Sheik’s brother likes to do.
The second six hours will involve two feathers. The third six hours there will be four feathers tickling you. For the final six hours, there will be eight feathers tormenting your ever so sensitive feet, girl. And you will not know who is using them on you. It might be males. It might be females. It might be adults. It might children. It might be machines. You will never know; it might even be me. Ha ha ha.”
Then the head guard walked out and the door closed, just as poor Katya felt it. The touch of two feathers at one time. One on the heel of each of her poor, defenseless, helpless, immobile, incredibly ticklish bare feet. She had time for one heartbroken sob before starting to laugh uncontrollably again.
