Admiral Trouser
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Just a thing I did to while away the hours. There's more talking than tickling here, so be warned, and it's all rather obvious. But first post and all. Enjoy.
----
Helen whimpered as she tried to move out of her restraints and realised that she was almost completely immobile. She was blindfolded, and therefore oblivious to how exactly she was being held down so fast, but she knew that she was sitting in some sort of wide, straight-backed chair, her chest bound by soft but sturdy straps to the back and her arms attached to the arm-rests either side of her. Her legs had been secured to something at the ankles that sat a foot or so in front of the chair forcing them to stick out at a right angle. She moved her legs against the ankle restraints once more, and found that nothing would give. Exasperated and scared, she whimpered loudly and gripped the armrests with her fingers until she felt that they might break with the strain. Instead, she felt the leathery fabric beneath her nails give way and tear. It made a little hissing noise.
“Try not to ruin the furniture, Ms Basse. You may have to be sitting on it for quite some time yet.”
And with that, a slender hand removed Helen’s blindfold and she could see once more.
The voice, obviously a woman’s, came from the only occupant that shared the room with Helen. She was young, perhaps late twenties, with flat auburn hair that ran in two neatly-parted sheets of colour either side of her face down to her cheeks, which were chiselled and high. Her eyes were the eyes of a cat’s in their demeanour: Sly, inquisitive, knowing and somehow…oddly cold. They looked, in this dim light Helen thought, quite cruel.
Which brought Helen’s attention to the rest of the room, such as it was. It was a typical interrogation chamber, mused Helen. Although this would have been the first time that she’d actually been in one, but all the clichés were present and accounted for: The dull, spartan decoration, the dim lighting from a single bulb…and the bench full of implements.
Which brought Helen’s attention even closer to home: She could finally see what was holding her down so damned tight. Her initial introspections had been correct, for she was indeed bound into a large, metal chair that had straps coming out of it from all positions so that her upper-body was completely immobile save for her head, which she could turn and tilt without much impediment. Her legs, bare thanks to her summer college uniform, stretched out before at a neat right angle, but her shoes she could not see, because her ankle restraints were a bit more than she had anticipated them to be: Her feet seemed to be encased in a set of wooden stocks, circular and about half a meter or so in diameter, with padding lining the holes that held her ankles so that the wood didn’t chafe. She scrunched her toes and felt the smooth soles of her shoes beneath them.
She was clearly, she thought, going to be tortured. She looked up at the woman, who seemed to be waiting for her to catch up on the whole situation before she proceeded. Helen tried not to look afraid, and succeeded: She looked terrified. The woman smirked and pulled up a chair, neatly placing it in front of the stocks before sitting down on it. She began to busy herself with the black cases that rested on the bench, cases which somehow Helen had managed to overlook. The smile dropped off the woman’s face as she fiddled with the bench and brought it closer to her and the stocks, making sure that the open cases obscured whatever it was they were holding. She spoke, but never looked up.
“That fabric is expensive, you know. I think they buy it in Persia and sow it on somewhere else, maybe China, or something. If you don’t co-operate like a good little girl, I might just use it as an excuse to make you suffer a little bit more during the session, even though I don’t actually care. Oh, and you can call me Sally, by the way. I’m here to torture you until you tell me the code to your journal so I can give it to my client, who didn’t tell me why he wanted it, so don’t ask. The only noises I want to hear from you, little missy, are code-like noises and pitiful screams for mercy. And I’m never sure which one of those two I like the most, so watch out. I do enjoy my work, y’know.”
Helen was stunned. She simply shook her head numbly and tried to say something, anything, that might just get her out of this mess. Code? She didn’t even keep a journal, let alone hold a code that could open it. Nothing interesting ever happened to her, so she never felt the need to record it. She thought they were silly. Moments passed, and Sally finally seemed to have finished up with her fiddling and looked up at Helen, an indifferent, passive look upon her face.
“So, you want to tell me the code and make this a short one for me? I have a five-forty-five down at Guantamino, but if you’re end up being as stubborn as you are pretty I’ll make ‘em wait. I always go the distance with the pretty ones.”
And at this, she winked her cat’s eye at Helen. It made her want to retch.
“I….I don’t have a journal. So I guess…I don’t have a code, either. Please, don’t torture me, don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything.”
Sally sighed.
“Well, I suppose you could be right…maybe you don’t know the code at all and some terrible mistake has been made. But, you see, I’ve only got your word for that, and, well…I just don’t believe you. I’m going to have slip off these pretty little shoes of yours and find out if your telling the truth…”
And at that, she slowly, deliberately, slid off Helen’s shoes, holding them at the ankle and tugging at them gently, so that the black leather slip-ons revealed her small feet inch by inch until they were totally bare. Sally took a foot in each hand and began to knead them slowly, letting the thumbs rub lazy circles around her soles. Helen’s body, almost by reflex, began to relax and loosen up.
“What are you doing…this isn’t torture…”
Sally grinned and cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, it is, you just don’t it yet. I’m feeling you out, getting to know your soft spots. We’ve all got them, somewhere….little places that, when you touch them in the right way, can make you do all sorts of things. I’m going to find all your little soft spots, and then I’m going to tease them until you squeal. And then, I’ll make you squeal until you talk. You cool with that? How does this feel?”
She dipped her head low and slipped one of Helen’s toes into her mouth before she could reply. A little gasp escaped her mouth as she felt Sally’s lips rhythmically slide up and the base of her toe while her tongue licked and swirled around the delicate tip. She withdrew for a moment, only to move down to another digit and take that one into her mouth to repeat the process, causing Helen to squirm increasingly more in her chair as time went on: Her feet were very, very sensitive, and she couldn’t deny how good all this kissing and sucking actually felt. Sally seemed to know it, too, because she became ever more playful, probing and teasing, focusing on the spots that got a reaction from Helen that she just couldn’t stifle, which was mainly when Sally’s tongue got anywhere close to her creamy, soft soles. When she began to nibble up along her insteps with her lips and teeth Helen arched her back and sighed, and when her tongue finally began to lick the soles of her feet, heel to toe and pushing gently into her arches, she couldn’t stop the quiet moans.
After a while, Sally stopped, and whiped Helen’s feet dry with a towel taken from the case. She looked squarely at Helen, a look of unbridled delight dancing upon her features.
“Oh, you and I are going to have some real fun, Ms Basse. I’m not even going to ask you the question anymore, I’m just going to tease you until you beg me to stop…and then I’ll have some proper entertainment.”
In her hand, withdrawn from an open case, was a long, stiff black feather, broad of width and sharp at the point, and in a very slow movement Sally lowered it so that it went out of Helen’s sight, obscured by the stocks. When she felt the tip of the feather draw a long, slow line down her left arch towards the taught skin of the heel, she gasped without a laugh and arched her back against the restraints. Feeling the feather’s pointed tip carve a patient path down the soft flesh of her soles and drag against the delicate skin was maddening, and although she knew it was going to get much worse, she couldn’t imagine how it would feel. She tried to cry, but her mouth betrayed her as she conspired to let out an anguished sob, and instead she heard herself scream out a high, piercing laugh that only rose in pitch as the feather-tip began to work in earnest against the sensitive soles of her feet.
----
Helen whimpered as she tried to move out of her restraints and realised that she was almost completely immobile. She was blindfolded, and therefore oblivious to how exactly she was being held down so fast, but she knew that she was sitting in some sort of wide, straight-backed chair, her chest bound by soft but sturdy straps to the back and her arms attached to the arm-rests either side of her. Her legs had been secured to something at the ankles that sat a foot or so in front of the chair forcing them to stick out at a right angle. She moved her legs against the ankle restraints once more, and found that nothing would give. Exasperated and scared, she whimpered loudly and gripped the armrests with her fingers until she felt that they might break with the strain. Instead, she felt the leathery fabric beneath her nails give way and tear. It made a little hissing noise.
“Try not to ruin the furniture, Ms Basse. You may have to be sitting on it for quite some time yet.”
And with that, a slender hand removed Helen’s blindfold and she could see once more.
The voice, obviously a woman’s, came from the only occupant that shared the room with Helen. She was young, perhaps late twenties, with flat auburn hair that ran in two neatly-parted sheets of colour either side of her face down to her cheeks, which were chiselled and high. Her eyes were the eyes of a cat’s in their demeanour: Sly, inquisitive, knowing and somehow…oddly cold. They looked, in this dim light Helen thought, quite cruel.
Which brought Helen’s attention to the rest of the room, such as it was. It was a typical interrogation chamber, mused Helen. Although this would have been the first time that she’d actually been in one, but all the clichés were present and accounted for: The dull, spartan decoration, the dim lighting from a single bulb…and the bench full of implements.
Which brought Helen’s attention even closer to home: She could finally see what was holding her down so damned tight. Her initial introspections had been correct, for she was indeed bound into a large, metal chair that had straps coming out of it from all positions so that her upper-body was completely immobile save for her head, which she could turn and tilt without much impediment. Her legs, bare thanks to her summer college uniform, stretched out before at a neat right angle, but her shoes she could not see, because her ankle restraints were a bit more than she had anticipated them to be: Her feet seemed to be encased in a set of wooden stocks, circular and about half a meter or so in diameter, with padding lining the holes that held her ankles so that the wood didn’t chafe. She scrunched her toes and felt the smooth soles of her shoes beneath them.
She was clearly, she thought, going to be tortured. She looked up at the woman, who seemed to be waiting for her to catch up on the whole situation before she proceeded. Helen tried not to look afraid, and succeeded: She looked terrified. The woman smirked and pulled up a chair, neatly placing it in front of the stocks before sitting down on it. She began to busy herself with the black cases that rested on the bench, cases which somehow Helen had managed to overlook. The smile dropped off the woman’s face as she fiddled with the bench and brought it closer to her and the stocks, making sure that the open cases obscured whatever it was they were holding. She spoke, but never looked up.
“That fabric is expensive, you know. I think they buy it in Persia and sow it on somewhere else, maybe China, or something. If you don’t co-operate like a good little girl, I might just use it as an excuse to make you suffer a little bit more during the session, even though I don’t actually care. Oh, and you can call me Sally, by the way. I’m here to torture you until you tell me the code to your journal so I can give it to my client, who didn’t tell me why he wanted it, so don’t ask. The only noises I want to hear from you, little missy, are code-like noises and pitiful screams for mercy. And I’m never sure which one of those two I like the most, so watch out. I do enjoy my work, y’know.”
Helen was stunned. She simply shook her head numbly and tried to say something, anything, that might just get her out of this mess. Code? She didn’t even keep a journal, let alone hold a code that could open it. Nothing interesting ever happened to her, so she never felt the need to record it. She thought they were silly. Moments passed, and Sally finally seemed to have finished up with her fiddling and looked up at Helen, an indifferent, passive look upon her face.
“So, you want to tell me the code and make this a short one for me? I have a five-forty-five down at Guantamino, but if you’re end up being as stubborn as you are pretty I’ll make ‘em wait. I always go the distance with the pretty ones.”
And at this, she winked her cat’s eye at Helen. It made her want to retch.
“I….I don’t have a journal. So I guess…I don’t have a code, either. Please, don’t torture me, don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything.”
Sally sighed.
“Well, I suppose you could be right…maybe you don’t know the code at all and some terrible mistake has been made. But, you see, I’ve only got your word for that, and, well…I just don’t believe you. I’m going to have slip off these pretty little shoes of yours and find out if your telling the truth…”
And at that, she slowly, deliberately, slid off Helen’s shoes, holding them at the ankle and tugging at them gently, so that the black leather slip-ons revealed her small feet inch by inch until they were totally bare. Sally took a foot in each hand and began to knead them slowly, letting the thumbs rub lazy circles around her soles. Helen’s body, almost by reflex, began to relax and loosen up.
“What are you doing…this isn’t torture…”
Sally grinned and cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, it is, you just don’t it yet. I’m feeling you out, getting to know your soft spots. We’ve all got them, somewhere….little places that, when you touch them in the right way, can make you do all sorts of things. I’m going to find all your little soft spots, and then I’m going to tease them until you squeal. And then, I’ll make you squeal until you talk. You cool with that? How does this feel?”
She dipped her head low and slipped one of Helen’s toes into her mouth before she could reply. A little gasp escaped her mouth as she felt Sally’s lips rhythmically slide up and the base of her toe while her tongue licked and swirled around the delicate tip. She withdrew for a moment, only to move down to another digit and take that one into her mouth to repeat the process, causing Helen to squirm increasingly more in her chair as time went on: Her feet were very, very sensitive, and she couldn’t deny how good all this kissing and sucking actually felt. Sally seemed to know it, too, because she became ever more playful, probing and teasing, focusing on the spots that got a reaction from Helen that she just couldn’t stifle, which was mainly when Sally’s tongue got anywhere close to her creamy, soft soles. When she began to nibble up along her insteps with her lips and teeth Helen arched her back and sighed, and when her tongue finally began to lick the soles of her feet, heel to toe and pushing gently into her arches, she couldn’t stop the quiet moans.
After a while, Sally stopped, and whiped Helen’s feet dry with a towel taken from the case. She looked squarely at Helen, a look of unbridled delight dancing upon her features.
“Oh, you and I are going to have some real fun, Ms Basse. I’m not even going to ask you the question anymore, I’m just going to tease you until you beg me to stop…and then I’ll have some proper entertainment.”
In her hand, withdrawn from an open case, was a long, stiff black feather, broad of width and sharp at the point, and in a very slow movement Sally lowered it so that it went out of Helen’s sight, obscured by the stocks. When she felt the tip of the feather draw a long, slow line down her left arch towards the taught skin of the heel, she gasped without a laugh and arched her back against the restraints. Feeling the feather’s pointed tip carve a patient path down the soft flesh of her soles and drag against the delicate skin was maddening, and although she knew it was going to get much worse, she couldn’t imagine how it would feel. She tried to cry, but her mouth betrayed her as she conspired to let out an anguished sob, and instead she heard herself scream out a high, piercing laugh that only rose in pitch as the feather-tip began to work in earnest against the sensitive soles of her feet.
