ElFewja
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Compared to the writing level of some of my other, more recent works, this piece, I believe from March or April of ’09, just isn’t up to snuff. It’s a bit longer than a lot of my more recent stuff, but eh. There was a time when I wanted to write something but didn’t know what to write; I remember asking what sort of story’s people wanted, and the only actual response I got was interrogation, so I did that. This is also the second story in this small universe I started to create, and marks the creation of said universe. Eventually, when I bother to get it up, there is a sort of prequel to this related to a more experimental approach, before tickling had become the standard torture for this company. This story happens some twenty or thirty years after Zucchini* (F/F Feet), well after the serum has been perfected and used mainstream. Although it’s not one of my best, I liked it quite a bit and I hope you enjoy.
Four P.M. (M/F, Goats/F, M/F Feet)
He sat in his office at the crude desk, the sole object of the room, carefully sliding the finishing touches of a ship together inside an elaborately cleaned bottle. It was the sort of thing he always enjoyed; the moment before completion, the compilation of long, arduous work, just over the horizons edge, hissing its serpent song of indulgence. Of course, he only had the time for such indulgences because of his line of employment.
At one point, he knew his name; at one point, he knew his identity, his self. There had been a time where he could differentiate himself from the thousand aliases he took up almost daily. It had not taken long – maybe two years – for those aliases to become his definition. Today, a few hours ago, he was Bob; and now for his next assignment he was Phil. Soon, he anticipated, he would be Joe. Joe was always the best, because that was the name of the persona that would not allow his victims to confess. He was aware, somewhere, that he wasn’t Joe, nor was he Bob or Phil, but that awareness was so distant and minute it hardly mattered. You picked it up, or you went insane, he had realized. There’s no need for individuality.
As he contemplated the meaning of a name, comparing it to flowers and trees, which surely must have names amongst themselves, he completed his ship. A beauty, this one was; a Spanish galleon of the olden days. Five months to complete at least; he had not counted. With a sinister smile on his face, he looked at the completed work, taking it in fully, before throwing it with all of his might at the far wall, gleefully watching the ship and glass shatter into a firework of a mess, spraying glass and plywood about as each shard reflected a single ray of light in its own individual direction. The wait, that briefest of half seconds, before the ship collided with the wall; that was where all of the joy was. That simple moment, just before death, when the ship would become aware of its existence before losing it altogether; it was blissful to witness. Someone would come and clean it up, he decided as he left his office, coming into that perfectly white, entirely vacant hallway devoid of natural light.
Probably, his new toy would be ready soon, if she wasn’t already. Not often was he given a toy to play with; his toys always seemed to break far too fast. She had to be sent to the lab – for her shots, and her scans – before he could play with her. Do whatever you want, the higher ups would say, but make her talk. Such a great job, he thought upon arriving at the door to the first of his few private chambers. Before opening, he lifted the wooden sign hanging upon the door which read Enter, and twisted it around to the side that said In Progress. He entered the room, and became Phil.
She was there – typical black pants, black boots, and black sweater of the covert corps – sitting in his chair. He thought his chair, but he never sat in it; it merely was his personal chair. Not to waste a moment, he began immediately.
“I’m sure they told you you’ll get off easy. They talk. I know they do. Let me tell you, those nurses? They wouldn’t tell you that if I got hold of them.” All of this he said simply, as he had a hundred thousand times before while striding across the room, to the metal table that held a single vanilla folder on its surface. Flipping through the papers, he heard her attempt to fight back those urges as they blossomed and leapt about within him. Patience, he thought, I must be professional.
“What… what are you…” she began, fierce brown eyes attempting to bore holes into him, with touches of fear expertly hidden within their fire.
“It’s not so gruesome. But its fun.” Excellent. The scans showed that the shots had increased sensory receptors in her feet a hundredfold like he knew they would.
“That.. that shot..?”
“Special serum I had invented. Notice a tingling?” He asked as he set down the folder, walking towards her feet.
“..Yes.”
“It’s natural. Anyway, let’s not waste a moment. The McGuffin.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Please. You wouldn’t have made it to me if you didn’t. Honestly, whether or not you really do know, I don’t care. I’ll have my fun either way.”
“I don’t-“
“Don’t care.” He carefully removed her left boot, revealing a nylon-clad foot; the fear in her eyes became more noticeable.
“I’ve withstood training. I can handle any-“
“Again, don’t care.” For a second he savored the moment; the time just before the torture, when the victim sits, knowing it will come. That anticipation was his favorite part of the job, next to the actual torture anyway. “You know,” he said, feeling his sinister smile appear, “I love it when you dames come in nylons. It’s so precious; they give the false sense of protection.” Time to begin, he thought, tracing his index finger slowly up the velvety sole of his victim, causing the trapped foot to flail wildly to the left and right, clenching its toes in order to deal with the tickling, revealing toes painted a wildfire red. Clenched toes in nylons and the polish on them; it drove him wild, causing him to want to tickle her to insanity, far beyond her limitations. But that would come in due time he thought, listening to the musical sound of her laughter combined with that of her struggles against the iron; slowly, carefully, build up the anticipation until neither of us can take it any longer, and then overwhelm her with the sensations.
One stroke upwards, then a second, and finally a third before he laid all five finger tips against her sole, wiggling them wildly without moving his hand. She never unclenched her toes, giving her soles that lovely wrinkled look that he adored so much. “Just so amusing how they bind you more than anything and yet you wear them willingly,” he explained over her screams of wild laughter, enjoying the wide eyed look she now had. Dragging all five fingers down to the heel, he let them flail wildly again, causing her to buck and jump against her bondage.
“It will only get worse, you know. Feet are already so sensitive, and then the serum… agonizing, isn’t it, dear?” he teased her, knowing the mental attacks to be far worse than the physical. In a straight line he dragged each nail carefully up her arch, to which she responded by hiding her exposed foot behind her still booted one. He could, he considered, remove her last remaining form of protection, but it was too early; far too early. Instead, he harassed the far edge of her foot by turning his palm to the ceiling and scratching lightly at what remained exposed, enjoying the feel of silk beneath the tip of his fingers. She laughed and struggled as if her life depended upon her feet never being touched again.
The agony that her laughter contained was absolutely delicious to him. Though he had only attacked her for five minutes at the most, he decided to give her a break so that she might breath and continue being able to laugh for much of the day. Through heavy pants he heard her thank her god for the brief end of her torture. “So, he began. The McGuffin.”
She hesitated for two seconds, before beginning to speak. “It… hehe.. it…” But he already knew that whatever answer she gave was simply not good enough. Unless she responded instantly, it would be worthless. With both hands, he searched for weak points in the nylon with which to grab, ripping it open and peeling it apart as he would a banana, exposing her lovely foot to the world as it rightfully should be. From the mess of golden yellow hair that covered her face, matted wetly to it with sweat and probably tears – the serum really was that potent – she began to beg loudly, “No! Not my barefoot! Please, no! I’ll tell you anything!”
It was too late for that; he already desired her flesh far too much to listen to reason. Palm to the ceiling again, he let his nails touch the base of each toes and began scratching at them, listening to his toy scream loudly before falling into an amusing mix of laughter and screams as she clenched her toes against him, pathetically attempted to blockade herself against his siege. He had barely begun before she began pleading for mercy, screaming “It tickles! It tickles! Stop! Ahahahaha! Stop! Anywhereherher but my toes, plehehease! Anywhere! Stahahahap! I’ll talk!” Not content with only the toes, he let his finger tips feel every inch of her foot as he dragged them about, enjoying the touch of her soft flesh. Yes indeed, he thought; this toy will amuse me for days on end.
But she would need another break, he thought as he detracted his hand from her foot sadly. For five seconds he let her breath, and then he laid both of hands on her remaining boot, beginning to tug at it. “Wait!” she howled amidst pants, “Please no…not both… please… it’s… the McGuffin… in an unmarked box… in some… warehouse… in Jersey…” Dang, he thought; oh well. He quickly moved to the phone by the files, on that silver table top, called his superiors, and told them the information. Luckily, they allowed him to retain her for three more days, just in case she had anything to add before she was sent to their holding cells; perhaps he would consider bribing the officials to let him keep this one. This toy had become broken too fast, but he thought that he might enjoy playing with it even if it was a little broken. But he had other things to attend to; after dialing another number and hearing the receiver pick up, he asked that his goats be brought to room T-36, then hung up.
Again, he walked towards her feet, and began to continue removing her boot. “Wait, you can let me go now. I talked. I don’t know anything else. Please, no more! Please!”
With a smile, he let her boot drop to the floor. “Dear, I don’t care. I intend to make you my personal toy; you’ll enjoy it before it’s over. Actually, you’ll be screaming for it, begging for more, for it to never end. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Terror took hold of the face that seemed so in control when he first began. “No! Please don’t! Please!” She continued begging as he peeled away her remaining nylon, though it was made difficult by the fact that she pressed her bare foot to it in an attempt to keep it covered. This was quickly resolved by a swift scratch at the bare sole, causing it to run away alongside the laughter elicited by the touch, freeing him to lift the guarding veil of her nylon-clad foot. From his pocket he drew a black string, which he used to quickly tie her big toes together. He then tied this string to the small hook on the metal bindings at her ankles.
Now that her feet were defenseless and entirely immobile, he moved to the cabinet again, withdrawing from it an IV bag filled with salt water, a small container filled with the same, and a small paintbrush. Returning to his toy’s delicious looking feet – oh how he longed to kiss and suck upon them, but that would have to wait – he set the bag and container on the floor, before opening the small container and dipping his brush into it, soaking it with the brine.
“What are you…” she gulped, “What are you…”
“Really, what do you think? You’re going to be tickled.” Setting the wet bristles to the heel of the foot on his right, he began moving it in a circular motion, making sure to touch each inch of flesh as she screamed for it to stop. Quickly she discovered how terrible it felt to become completely immobile, unable to fight against the tickling, the sensations magnified as a result. He smiled at that secret knowledge, musing to himself that the brush only sought to bring a smile to her face and draw mirthful laughter from her lungs while he gently caressed the bulge inside of his trousers. Up the arch he painted, dipping the brush every now and again to renew its vigor, the short second of a break each time allowing his toy to pant heavily and scream at him to for the love of god, stop, please; he knew full well that it was those swift, agonizing seconds without torture properly defined the torment to her. Lovingly, he drenched her toes with the liquid, carefully making sure that the space beneath them was equally soaked; when he had let the brush gently kiss and caress her quivering toes, she threw her head back, howling at the ceiling with such ferocity.
A knock at the door alerted him to the presence of his prized goats and the man who tended to them. Quickly, he took the container while his precious toy panted heavily, carefully pouring its contents onto the yet untouched foot so that little of it touched the floor. Picking up the IV bag, he placed it over top of her feet, preparing the twin wires to drip the brine onto both of her second toes; the custom bag would drip a fair amount faster than it should, and had already begun to upon setting it up. Almost running now, he placed the brush and container inside of his cabinet, hearing the knocking at the door grow loud and impatient. “What… did you do…?’ he distantly heard his toy question as he opened the door.
“Yeah, just let them in, that’s fine. Thanks. Can you start the camera, actually? I’ll watch it later; I have other business to attend to.” With a nod, the tender let the goats loose, which made a beeline for the trapped feet of his wide eyed toy.
“No! Don’t! God, please!” she screamed. A red light over top of the camera told him that it was recording, so he and the tender left. After closing the door, he heard her loud screams of laughter begin again, laughter so constant that she probably could no longer beg for an end. Not that it would do any good if she could; the bag was designed to last for several hours, and he certainly would not have the time to check up on her before it ran out.
Across from the room he just left, the poorly crafted black wooden letters announced the room to be T-37. Upon entering, he met another lovely woman of similar garb, this one with red hair and green eyes, giving her round face a much bolder look than it would otherwise have. She seemed a bit taller than the last, too. Even after closing the door, he could still hear his first toy’s pained laughter as the goats had their meal.
“Please. I’ll talk. I don’t want..” she gulped, “I don’t want to experience what that other woman is going through.” He didn’t care, not listening in the slightest as he slammed the door shut. Without taking the time to check her files, to find out what he was to discover or if the serum’s effects had taken hold, he – now very much Joe - walked with great purpose across the white tiled room, towards the metal table and quickly grabbed the cloth he used for a gag while she said something about an ancient relic stored in her basement. Quickly, he forced the thing about her face, until she could only squek out a handful of muffled sounds.
“There,” he said simply as he flew to the end of the chair and savagely ripped away those boots that dared guard her feet, throwing them behind him after finishing so that he could tear away the nylons that would keep his fingers away from her pink flesh, “This way, you won’t be able to talk, and I won’t need to stop.” Her eyes went wide at those words, and she began to yell into the white cloth, moo, peese mon’t, which only sped his attack, though he let them sit unprotected for a second so that she could fully come to terms with her vulnerability before he began his attacks upon them, filling the room with her wild laughter that joined the other woman’s to form a lovely chorus while he groped and touched that woman’s creamy soles in order to elicit that delightful, muffled sound from her.
Four P.M. (M/F, Goats/F, M/F Feet)
He sat in his office at the crude desk, the sole object of the room, carefully sliding the finishing touches of a ship together inside an elaborately cleaned bottle. It was the sort of thing he always enjoyed; the moment before completion, the compilation of long, arduous work, just over the horizons edge, hissing its serpent song of indulgence. Of course, he only had the time for such indulgences because of his line of employment.
At one point, he knew his name; at one point, he knew his identity, his self. There had been a time where he could differentiate himself from the thousand aliases he took up almost daily. It had not taken long – maybe two years – for those aliases to become his definition. Today, a few hours ago, he was Bob; and now for his next assignment he was Phil. Soon, he anticipated, he would be Joe. Joe was always the best, because that was the name of the persona that would not allow his victims to confess. He was aware, somewhere, that he wasn’t Joe, nor was he Bob or Phil, but that awareness was so distant and minute it hardly mattered. You picked it up, or you went insane, he had realized. There’s no need for individuality.
As he contemplated the meaning of a name, comparing it to flowers and trees, which surely must have names amongst themselves, he completed his ship. A beauty, this one was; a Spanish galleon of the olden days. Five months to complete at least; he had not counted. With a sinister smile on his face, he looked at the completed work, taking it in fully, before throwing it with all of his might at the far wall, gleefully watching the ship and glass shatter into a firework of a mess, spraying glass and plywood about as each shard reflected a single ray of light in its own individual direction. The wait, that briefest of half seconds, before the ship collided with the wall; that was where all of the joy was. That simple moment, just before death, when the ship would become aware of its existence before losing it altogether; it was blissful to witness. Someone would come and clean it up, he decided as he left his office, coming into that perfectly white, entirely vacant hallway devoid of natural light.
Probably, his new toy would be ready soon, if she wasn’t already. Not often was he given a toy to play with; his toys always seemed to break far too fast. She had to be sent to the lab – for her shots, and her scans – before he could play with her. Do whatever you want, the higher ups would say, but make her talk. Such a great job, he thought upon arriving at the door to the first of his few private chambers. Before opening, he lifted the wooden sign hanging upon the door which read Enter, and twisted it around to the side that said In Progress. He entered the room, and became Phil.
She was there – typical black pants, black boots, and black sweater of the covert corps – sitting in his chair. He thought his chair, but he never sat in it; it merely was his personal chair. Not to waste a moment, he began immediately.
“I’m sure they told you you’ll get off easy. They talk. I know they do. Let me tell you, those nurses? They wouldn’t tell you that if I got hold of them.” All of this he said simply, as he had a hundred thousand times before while striding across the room, to the metal table that held a single vanilla folder on its surface. Flipping through the papers, he heard her attempt to fight back those urges as they blossomed and leapt about within him. Patience, he thought, I must be professional.
“What… what are you…” she began, fierce brown eyes attempting to bore holes into him, with touches of fear expertly hidden within their fire.
“It’s not so gruesome. But its fun.” Excellent. The scans showed that the shots had increased sensory receptors in her feet a hundredfold like he knew they would.
“That.. that shot..?”
“Special serum I had invented. Notice a tingling?” He asked as he set down the folder, walking towards her feet.
“..Yes.”
“It’s natural. Anyway, let’s not waste a moment. The McGuffin.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Please. You wouldn’t have made it to me if you didn’t. Honestly, whether or not you really do know, I don’t care. I’ll have my fun either way.”
“I don’t-“
“Don’t care.” He carefully removed her left boot, revealing a nylon-clad foot; the fear in her eyes became more noticeable.
“I’ve withstood training. I can handle any-“
“Again, don’t care.” For a second he savored the moment; the time just before the torture, when the victim sits, knowing it will come. That anticipation was his favorite part of the job, next to the actual torture anyway. “You know,” he said, feeling his sinister smile appear, “I love it when you dames come in nylons. It’s so precious; they give the false sense of protection.” Time to begin, he thought, tracing his index finger slowly up the velvety sole of his victim, causing the trapped foot to flail wildly to the left and right, clenching its toes in order to deal with the tickling, revealing toes painted a wildfire red. Clenched toes in nylons and the polish on them; it drove him wild, causing him to want to tickle her to insanity, far beyond her limitations. But that would come in due time he thought, listening to the musical sound of her laughter combined with that of her struggles against the iron; slowly, carefully, build up the anticipation until neither of us can take it any longer, and then overwhelm her with the sensations.
One stroke upwards, then a second, and finally a third before he laid all five finger tips against her sole, wiggling them wildly without moving his hand. She never unclenched her toes, giving her soles that lovely wrinkled look that he adored so much. “Just so amusing how they bind you more than anything and yet you wear them willingly,” he explained over her screams of wild laughter, enjoying the wide eyed look she now had. Dragging all five fingers down to the heel, he let them flail wildly again, causing her to buck and jump against her bondage.
“It will only get worse, you know. Feet are already so sensitive, and then the serum… agonizing, isn’t it, dear?” he teased her, knowing the mental attacks to be far worse than the physical. In a straight line he dragged each nail carefully up her arch, to which she responded by hiding her exposed foot behind her still booted one. He could, he considered, remove her last remaining form of protection, but it was too early; far too early. Instead, he harassed the far edge of her foot by turning his palm to the ceiling and scratching lightly at what remained exposed, enjoying the feel of silk beneath the tip of his fingers. She laughed and struggled as if her life depended upon her feet never being touched again.
The agony that her laughter contained was absolutely delicious to him. Though he had only attacked her for five minutes at the most, he decided to give her a break so that she might breath and continue being able to laugh for much of the day. Through heavy pants he heard her thank her god for the brief end of her torture. “So, he began. The McGuffin.”
She hesitated for two seconds, before beginning to speak. “It… hehe.. it…” But he already knew that whatever answer she gave was simply not good enough. Unless she responded instantly, it would be worthless. With both hands, he searched for weak points in the nylon with which to grab, ripping it open and peeling it apart as he would a banana, exposing her lovely foot to the world as it rightfully should be. From the mess of golden yellow hair that covered her face, matted wetly to it with sweat and probably tears – the serum really was that potent – she began to beg loudly, “No! Not my barefoot! Please, no! I’ll tell you anything!”
It was too late for that; he already desired her flesh far too much to listen to reason. Palm to the ceiling again, he let his nails touch the base of each toes and began scratching at them, listening to his toy scream loudly before falling into an amusing mix of laughter and screams as she clenched her toes against him, pathetically attempted to blockade herself against his siege. He had barely begun before she began pleading for mercy, screaming “It tickles! It tickles! Stop! Ahahahaha! Stop! Anywhereherher but my toes, plehehease! Anywhere! Stahahahap! I’ll talk!” Not content with only the toes, he let his finger tips feel every inch of her foot as he dragged them about, enjoying the touch of her soft flesh. Yes indeed, he thought; this toy will amuse me for days on end.
But she would need another break, he thought as he detracted his hand from her foot sadly. For five seconds he let her breath, and then he laid both of hands on her remaining boot, beginning to tug at it. “Wait!” she howled amidst pants, “Please no…not both… please… it’s… the McGuffin… in an unmarked box… in some… warehouse… in Jersey…” Dang, he thought; oh well. He quickly moved to the phone by the files, on that silver table top, called his superiors, and told them the information. Luckily, they allowed him to retain her for three more days, just in case she had anything to add before she was sent to their holding cells; perhaps he would consider bribing the officials to let him keep this one. This toy had become broken too fast, but he thought that he might enjoy playing with it even if it was a little broken. But he had other things to attend to; after dialing another number and hearing the receiver pick up, he asked that his goats be brought to room T-36, then hung up.
Again, he walked towards her feet, and began to continue removing her boot. “Wait, you can let me go now. I talked. I don’t know anything else. Please, no more! Please!”
With a smile, he let her boot drop to the floor. “Dear, I don’t care. I intend to make you my personal toy; you’ll enjoy it before it’s over. Actually, you’ll be screaming for it, begging for more, for it to never end. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Terror took hold of the face that seemed so in control when he first began. “No! Please don’t! Please!” She continued begging as he peeled away her remaining nylon, though it was made difficult by the fact that she pressed her bare foot to it in an attempt to keep it covered. This was quickly resolved by a swift scratch at the bare sole, causing it to run away alongside the laughter elicited by the touch, freeing him to lift the guarding veil of her nylon-clad foot. From his pocket he drew a black string, which he used to quickly tie her big toes together. He then tied this string to the small hook on the metal bindings at her ankles.
Now that her feet were defenseless and entirely immobile, he moved to the cabinet again, withdrawing from it an IV bag filled with salt water, a small container filled with the same, and a small paintbrush. Returning to his toy’s delicious looking feet – oh how he longed to kiss and suck upon them, but that would have to wait – he set the bag and container on the floor, before opening the small container and dipping his brush into it, soaking it with the brine.
“What are you…” she gulped, “What are you…”
“Really, what do you think? You’re going to be tickled.” Setting the wet bristles to the heel of the foot on his right, he began moving it in a circular motion, making sure to touch each inch of flesh as she screamed for it to stop. Quickly she discovered how terrible it felt to become completely immobile, unable to fight against the tickling, the sensations magnified as a result. He smiled at that secret knowledge, musing to himself that the brush only sought to bring a smile to her face and draw mirthful laughter from her lungs while he gently caressed the bulge inside of his trousers. Up the arch he painted, dipping the brush every now and again to renew its vigor, the short second of a break each time allowing his toy to pant heavily and scream at him to for the love of god, stop, please; he knew full well that it was those swift, agonizing seconds without torture properly defined the torment to her. Lovingly, he drenched her toes with the liquid, carefully making sure that the space beneath them was equally soaked; when he had let the brush gently kiss and caress her quivering toes, she threw her head back, howling at the ceiling with such ferocity.
A knock at the door alerted him to the presence of his prized goats and the man who tended to them. Quickly, he took the container while his precious toy panted heavily, carefully pouring its contents onto the yet untouched foot so that little of it touched the floor. Picking up the IV bag, he placed it over top of her feet, preparing the twin wires to drip the brine onto both of her second toes; the custom bag would drip a fair amount faster than it should, and had already begun to upon setting it up. Almost running now, he placed the brush and container inside of his cabinet, hearing the knocking at the door grow loud and impatient. “What… did you do…?’ he distantly heard his toy question as he opened the door.
“Yeah, just let them in, that’s fine. Thanks. Can you start the camera, actually? I’ll watch it later; I have other business to attend to.” With a nod, the tender let the goats loose, which made a beeline for the trapped feet of his wide eyed toy.
“No! Don’t! God, please!” she screamed. A red light over top of the camera told him that it was recording, so he and the tender left. After closing the door, he heard her loud screams of laughter begin again, laughter so constant that she probably could no longer beg for an end. Not that it would do any good if she could; the bag was designed to last for several hours, and he certainly would not have the time to check up on her before it ran out.
Across from the room he just left, the poorly crafted black wooden letters announced the room to be T-37. Upon entering, he met another lovely woman of similar garb, this one with red hair and green eyes, giving her round face a much bolder look than it would otherwise have. She seemed a bit taller than the last, too. Even after closing the door, he could still hear his first toy’s pained laughter as the goats had their meal.
“Please. I’ll talk. I don’t want..” she gulped, “I don’t want to experience what that other woman is going through.” He didn’t care, not listening in the slightest as he slammed the door shut. Without taking the time to check her files, to find out what he was to discover or if the serum’s effects had taken hold, he – now very much Joe - walked with great purpose across the white tiled room, towards the metal table and quickly grabbed the cloth he used for a gag while she said something about an ancient relic stored in her basement. Quickly, he forced the thing about her face, until she could only squek out a handful of muffled sounds.
“There,” he said simply as he flew to the end of the chair and savagely ripped away those boots that dared guard her feet, throwing them behind him after finishing so that he could tear away the nylons that would keep his fingers away from her pink flesh, “This way, you won’t be able to talk, and I won’t need to stop.” Her eyes went wide at those words, and she began to yell into the white cloth, moo, peese mon’t, which only sped his attack, though he let them sit unprotected for a second so that she could fully come to terms with her vulnerability before he began his attacks upon them, filling the room with her wild laughter that joined the other woman’s to form a lovely chorus while he groped and touched that woman’s creamy soles in order to elicit that delightful, muffled sound from her.
