tenderfeet
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2001
- Messages
- 196
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POETIC JUSTICE
Chuck Hampton was a seaman at a US Naval Intelligence unit located on at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. At 24, Chuck was quite attractive, with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and fair skin, standing at 5'9" and rather slim at only 142 lbs. Chuck also had a habit which his shipmates found curious at first, then confusing, tittilating, and, for some -- the ones who were secretly gay, bisexual, or simply had a fetish for pretty feet, sexually arousing and frustrating.
Chuck's feet were particularly small for a guy his height, a narrow size 8 1/2, which were well-arched and had long toes ending in attractive nails as well as soft smooth pink soles that turned wrinkly all over whenever he flexed his feet, kept that way with weekly pedicures at a salon just outside base and lotioning at least twice, sometimes thrice, a day. Everyone in the barracks knew this because Chuck flaunted them openly whenever he was in the barracks, parading around through the halls, watching TV in the common room with his bare feet propped up over the back of a chair in front of him, talking on the wallphone upstairs sitting in a chair with his legs tucked under him and his bare feet hanging over the edge, watching TV in the small sitting area upstairs lying on the floor in "the pose" (on his stomach propped up on his elbows with his knees bent and his bare feet in the air) or answering the phone at the desk downstairs barefoot then sitting in the floor with his legs stretched out twisting his ankles, flexing his feet, and curling his toes. He always wore long pants with the cuffs rolled up an inch or two above his ankles, and seemed to prefer pants with wide legs.
Of course, Chuck had to know the effect this was probably having on at least some of the others guys in the barracks, but it would have been hard to tell that from the affected nonchalant manner he had. While the few female personnel in the barracks, those who noticed anyway, merely shrugged, or else complimented him on his "pretty feet", which always brought a bright shade of red to his face, it seemed to the other guys in the above-mentioned categories almost as if he were deliberately using his bare feet to tease them and get their attention. On the other hand, Chuck was notorious for dating several women at a time (as well as for the size and variety of his porno mag & vid collection), and not just "bar girls" (i.e. prostitutes), but also "nice" girls, ones often with college educations (on one occasion he had checked seven very attractive young women, none of them bar girls, at the desk of his barracks; the officer-on-deck had jumped to his feet, crying out, "Holy shit, Hampton!"). Thus, for those guys who were in that smaller group, their confusion and frustration, grew into into aggravation and resentment to the same degree as their the tittilation and sexual arousal intensified.
In fact, as those shipmates of Chuck's were soon to discover, he well aware of exactly what his barefoot displays were doing to them. He had been doing this for several months and often noticed a feeling sometimes of being stared at with intense interest, and once when he was talking on the phone at the desk downstairs phone in his usual manner, one of the other sailors, a black petty officer named Hubert, walked up to the desk and exclaimed, "Chuck......your feet!", but when Chuck had replied in a saucy challenging tone, "Oh, what about them?", Hubert had mumbled something like "Nothing.......nevermind" and left somewhat embarassed.
Indeed, although Chuck didn't know it, LT Tyler, the tall, very muscular black man widely rumored to be a closet gay who was their unit's security officer, had also taken very attentive notice, and began an intense and thorough but very carefully subtle investigation
Chuck was about to get much more than he bargained for.
*****
LT Tyler recruited Petty Officer Hubert, whose chief qualifications were that he was gay, though in the closet of course, and he'd over head him express his resentment of Chuck's foot-teasing, to help him gather information, put it together, and come up with a plan to make the sailor his obedient slave. Hubert proved an enthusiastic and crafty accomplice.
As an enlisted man, Hubert was able to go places and hear things that Tyler, as an officer, would have been shut out of, though he had an easy time of it as his subject proved to be rather indiscrete; in fact, he seemed to positively revel in being thought of as kinky and far out. For instance, through conversations with his fellow enlisted personnel Hubert learned that Chuck was quite a fan of porno movies, his favorite movie being the Opening Up of Misty Beethoven, a story with sadomasochistic undertones. Someone who'd seen Chuck's well-known porno collection related that much of it was devoted foot fetish, bondage, and....tickle torture.
From some of the people who'd been in service school with him, Hubert learned that Chuck's obsession with own his feet began not long after bootcamp, giving himself weekly pedicures and using Pretty Feet & Hands every night after he showered, and two of the females, one Air Force, the other Navy, were eager to tell him about Chuck's weekly visits to the Images beauty salon off-base for a pedicure, and, that during the procedure Chuck often shrieked out loud then burst into laughter, jerking and twisting and writhing so much that the pedicurist had to stop temporarily.
Smiling with an evil grin upon hearing this final bit of information, LT Tyler began to scheme and plan.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The physical facilities of Chuck's unit included the Navy's section of the work building in the compound shared with their sister Air Force unit, the main barracks for the men, the now barracks housing the female personnel, and the smaller building forming the third side of the triangle which housed the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Command's snack bar for their unit serving sandwiches and beer and soft drinks, known as the Crow's Nest, on one side, a large conference room for command musters and receptions on the other, and an open area with a single pool table in the center, plus, in one corner of the building, LT Tyler's office.
The week of Thanksgiving, the Commanding Officer, being the sort given to sentimental patriotism, declared that the physical facilities of the unit should be decorated on the them of "Colonial Days", and all the walls of the halls and common areas of the unit were hung with pictures evoking memories of the Pilgrims and various scenes of the Revolution and the Founding Fathers, as well as physical exhibits; LT Tyler volunteered to take charge.
In the the large common room at the end of the wing on the ground floor containing the barracks office, the room for personnel on restriction, and several vacant billets, there appeared the Friday afternoon prior to Thanksgiving week a sturdy, well-built set of stocks, a common feature of village squares during the colonial period.
At the back of the device was a bench about two feet off the ground attached to the stocks by stout beams, so that the piece was one whole construction. The stocks proper were made of 6" x 4" beams, with two larger holes in the center about three inches apart for holding the ankles and two smaller holes roughly 12" outside of these for securing the wrists. There were three eyebolts on top of the stocks above the two ankle holes, though Chuck had no idea what they were for. The device drew his attention like a magnet, and he frequently found himself hanging out in the room and caught himself helplessly staring at it in morbid fascination, which he somehow found more reasons than normal for doing in the days that followed. He secretly wondered what it would be like to sit in them, locked in, unable to escape, but he was too afraid of what people might say or do should anyone catch him trying them out.
Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving Day, nearly half the members of the command were either out at sea, at the Naval Air Station in the next province on temporary duty, or on vacation, the Captain himself having left at noon; LT Tyler, in fact, was now effectively the acting C.O. The direct support division was vacant, except for Chuck, who was left to maintain the technical publications library, and the shift crews were stripped to skeletons to provide added personnel to direct support detachments, those remaining on the shifts being people with family in-country. The only persons remaining at the barracks were Petty Officers Hubert, Wilson, Smith, and Chuck himself, plus a few "ghost" residents who actually lived in rented houses off-base unofficially but maintained quarters in the barracks because of their status.
At four o'clock, Chuck raced to the back to the barracks from the compound, went to chow as the mess hall, returned and watched the news, took a shower, and got dressed to go off base to the strip. By now it was around six-thirty, and he was in something of a hurry as there was going to be a Thanksgiving theme party in the barracks for members of his unit, from their sister Air force unit, and from the Security Police unit that guarded their compound, with all the exhibits from the past week on display, and it was supposed to start at seven. Since few females, if any, were likely to attend what was probably going to turn into a beer bash, he wanted to escape before anyone had the chance to volunteer him to stay.
When he walked out of his room, he was wearing blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up a couple of inches above his ankles, an over-sized gray long-sleeved button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows and the tail out over his jeans which hung well down his upper thighs, K-Swiss boat sneakers, and the gold chain anklet around his left ankle.
As he was signing out of the barracks at the quarterdeck, where one of the married petty officers from the shift crews was standing watch as officer-of-the-deck, LT Tyler came up beside him, and said, "Hampton, before you go out, we need a volunteer to help out with some pictures of one of the displays for the album the C.O. wants from this week.......can you give us a hand?".
"How long will it take? I'm in kind of a hurry to get out."
"Oh, not long at all. Just a few minutes, then you can go on your way."
"Sure, I guess so," Chuck replied, shrugging his shoulders. "What do you need?"
"Well, we've been trying to get someone to sit in the stocks for a picture that the C.O. wants for the scrapbook," the lieutenant explained, "but everyone we've asked has turned us down flat."
Chuck hesitated. "I, um, I don't know........". He was trying to appear reluctant, but his heart was thudding in his chest. The fact was that he had heard about this earlier and had hoped that he would be asked, not wanting to volunteer because he didn't want to appear too eager.
"C'mon, Hampton, be a sport," Tyler urged. "You're our last hope; besides, a couple of the people we asked said that you'd be the only one who would dare do something that crazy." That's it, Tyler thought, appeal to his vanity and ego!
"Really?" Chuck asked, obviously delighted at that news. "Well, I guess you have me then".
LT Tyler didn't think he could have put it better himself.
He led Chuck across the room to the stairwell, and pointed him down to the basement. When Chuck looked at him with a question on his face, he informed him, "We had to move the device down here to make way for the buffet table in the common room. Then Chuck shrugged and headed downstairs. When the two of them reached the bottom, Tyler opened the door and held it for him, then walked in behind him.
Once inside, LT Tyler turned Chuck left, into the room, which was about the size of a two-car garage. Shelves filled with God-knows-what lined the walls, along with a couple of filing cabinets. In the center of the room, with four cinderblocks underneath the four corners so that the wrist and ankle holes were now about four feet from the ground, stood the stocks, next to the round support post, and standing next to the stocks, which had their restraint opened, was Petty Officer Hubert, as a former photographer's mate the unit photographer, camera around his neck.
As Chuck was taking this in, Tyler interrupted his musings. "Excuse me, but there's one thing you have to do before we put you up there." He handed him a piece of paper and a pen. "The C.O. told us we needed to get whoever sits in the stocks to sign a release, to cover the command's ass anyone makes accusations of false imprisonment or anything like that."
Chuck laughed. That's ridiculous, he thought. But, that's the Navy for you. He looked at the form, which read simply, "I, blank, give my consent to be locked in stocks for the purpose of assisting with the Thanksgiving display." He pretended to demur for a bit, then signed. Finally, seemingly reluctant, he climbed into the seat, upon which a pillow had been placed, and put his wrists and ankles in the appropriate holes. LT Tyler closed the stocks with a bang, snapping the padlock shut.
Hearing the click, Chuck immediately pulled on his wrists and ankles. They barely budged. "Hey!" he exclaimed with a look of surprise. "This thing is for real!" A thrill ran through him. Here he was, getting to sit in the stocks, not having to worry about anyone adding this to the list of weird things he'd done.
Petty Officer Hubert lifted his camera as if he were about to take pictures, then stopped. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Tyler . "But I think you've forgotten something." Replying, "Oh, yeah, right....," Tyler began to unlace Chuck's sneakers, with a strange smile that made the "prisoner" more than a little uneasy.
"Wha-what are you doing?" Chuck asked apprehensively.
"Oh, didn't you know?" LT Tyler asked. "Prisoners sitting in the stocks were always required to be barefoot, and we are going for realism after all."
"Well.....in that case," Chuck began, "I guess it's okay."
Tyler finished untying his shoelaces, then paused, placing his hands under the heels of Chuck's sneakers and quickly removed them, exposing a pair of well-pedicured feet with cuticle-free toenails. Chuck felt chill of a mysterious chill of premonition run down his spine as the cool air hit his now bare feet simultaneous with the excitement he felt in his stomach. Then he noticed two men seemed visibly aroused at their exposure, and felt as if he may as well been completely naked.
"Now," said LT Tyler after a moment, "we can proceed. Hubert...."
Petty Officer Hubert snapped several pictures from different angles, LT Tyler looking intently at his "prisoner" as an atmosphere of anticipation began to fill the room, while the "prisoner" sat twisting his ankles, flexing his feet, and clenching and unclenching his toes in an attempt to relieve his own nervous tension, failing to notice the effect this was having on his audience.
Hubert now stopped taking pictures, lowered his camera, turned to Tyler, and said in a low voice, "He really doesn't have a clue, does he?"
"No, not a one," Tyler, whispered back, snorting. "Utterly oblivious."
"What are y'all talking about?," Chuck asked, beginning to get antsy. "If you're through, I'd like to get out of here." It had been fun for a few minutes, but now this thing was too real for his comfort.
"Oh, don't worry," Tyler replied, walking back towards the stocks, "I was just remarking to Hubert how pretty I've always thought your feet are, and how glad I am that you like to show them off so much."
At this Chuck blushed from embarassment from his cheeks all the way down his neck, unable to stop the coy smile from spreading across his face, though somewhere deep down inside of him below the level of conscious thought warning bells went off. "Thank you, sir," he said sheepishly.
"I hope you don't mind me saying that," Tyler said with a curious smile on his face, and when Chuck shook his head a bit hesitantly and said, "Uh, no, sir,", began walking toward him, inquiring, "May I ask if those smooth soles of yours are as soft as they appear?"
Chuck, assuming the lieutenant was coming to release him, answered, "Um, yes, sir, very soft, though I have to work hard to keep them that way, what with wearing steel-plated boondockers all day everyday. As for tender, God, you should see me when I walk across gravel or hot asphalt or step on a pine cone something like that; you'd laugh at me. It's why I almost never go barefoot anywhere outside." He didn't realize how nervous he was starting to become, and was babbling.
"One more question, sailor," Tyler asked when he reached the stocks, looking Chuck straight in the eyes, "are you ticklish?"
Chuck mouth dropped open. God, did I hear him right? Did he really ask me that? "No, not really, sir, I don't think. I mean, no one has tickled me in years, but I have tried to tickle myself, and nothing happened," he answered, for some reason he couldn't understand holding back the information about his visits to the salon.
But the deer-caught-in-the-headlights-of-an-oncoming-car look that came over his face at first had told LT Tyler all that he needed to know. Chuck got butteflies in his stomach as Tyler, smiling, jiggled the fingers of both hands quickly and lightly up the soles of the bound bare feet in front of him, but when that failed to produce any reaction, and his smile faded slightly. He jiggled his fingers back down the helpless soles, and still nothing, and he frowned slightly. Chuck himself looked both relieved and, strangely, almost disappointed. Then Tyler smiled again as he ran his fingers back up Chuck's tender soles, knowing somehow this was it, that third time was the charm.
But he still wasn't quite prepared for the response.
Instantly, Chuck shrieked loudly and then erupted into laughter, jerking and twisting uncontrollably in the stocks so much that he actually shook the sturdily-built device. Stepping back surprised, though not as surprised as Chuck, who looked absolutely astonished, he exclaimed, "Wow, you're really a ticklish!", as the sounds abated to mere giggling, thinking, God, this is even better than I'd hoped for!
"Oh God! I remember how ticklish I was as a child," said Chuck, in between chuckles, "but, damn, I had no idea I was still that ticklish!"
"It's a good thing you found that out, eh," said Tyler, "before you found yourself tied up or something with someone you shouldn't have trusted?"
"Yes, sir, thank you," Chuck replied gratefully, the irony of Tyler's statement going right over his head. "I could have gotten myself into big trouble that way."
Tyler went back over to the shelves and started fumbling around, and as Hubert lifted his camera and began taking pictures again, he exclaimed, "Hey! Look what I found!", and turned about with something in his hand that set off warning signals off in Chuck's head and sent shivers through his body -- a long, stiff-looking, pointy, feather! "I can think of some uses for this!"
Chuck's first instinct was to scream, but then he thought, Wait a minute.....a feather? A silly thing like a feather? He's gotta be kidding.......yes, I've seen that in cartoons, but it can't be real. He snorted with contempt. "Fingernails and pedicures tools are one thing, but that won't bother me at all."
"Wanna bet?" Tyler challenged. "Fifty bucks versus you staying here in the stocks all evening as a showpiece for the party."
Chuck accepted the bet, confident that feathers were useless on him as tickling implements. Tyler, however, knew better, knew that all it would take was a little bit of patience and a little bit of persistence.
Tyler walked back to the center of the room, and stood there a smug grin for several seconds, and just as he was at the point between going crazy with anticipation or dying of boredom, Chuck felt the pointy tip of the plume float up the bottom of his his foot, his right foot. He tried to ignore it, squeezing his eyes shut, jerking his arms, biting his lip to stifle the giggling which threatened to burst forth. But as LT Tyler continued sliding the plume over the bottom of his foot, the giggling came anyway, his foot jerking about and his toes wiggling spasmodically under the feather strokes.
"Stop that!" he begged in between giggles as the feelings became more and more unbearable. "Please, stop it! Please! Please! Please!"
“Up and down, up and down, up and down.....,” LT Tyler chanted meanwhile.
By now Chuck's struggling against the incessant was so violent that it shook the sturdily-built stocks. Finally, his senses could hold out no longer and he burst out in howling laughter.
"YAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"
LT Tyler stopped immediately. It had been a mere thirty seconds, but Tyler had sufficiently demonstrated his helplessness as well given him a little foretaste of what they were going to do to him.
Chuck was frantic. This was some kind of sick joke, he thought desparately, and it's over now.
But he wasn't going anywhere, for LT Tyler and Hubert had him just where they wanted him now and intended to wreak their fullest measure of vengeance possible. And he'd just lost the bet.
Tyler had a sadistic gleam on his face. "You LOSE, sailor," he said ominously, "sooo, it's looks like you're going to be our 'guest' here for a little while, but first, I'd like you to look a bit more vulnerable." He raised the top bar of the stocks. "Now, get out and stretch your legs, then take off your pants."
Before Chuck could protest this, Hubert immediately added, "Don't worry, I've had a bit of time to look around the room, and there's several brand new pairs of running shorts that have been here forever"
"Yes, we don't want you flashing," Tyler finished. "I just think you'd look more vulnerable if it looks like you're just wearing a shirt."
Meanwhile, Hubert, who was over by the shelves quickly asked, "What size waist are you? 28? 30? 32?"
His train of thought broken, Chuck answered, "30," immediately realizing this implied he had agreed, so he felt that he now had to comply with what seemed a plausible reason for the request. After Hubert released him from the stocks, he just stood, hands in the center of his belt, hesitating, obviously very reluctant.
"Come on, sailor," Tyler ordered. "You lost the bet. Don't play if you can't pay."
Chuck groaned, then in a manner suggesting resignation, undid his belt, unsnapped. unzipped, then dropped his pants, at which the reason for his hesitation became obvious.
Hubert whistled. "Nice legs, Hampton. I had no idea." His legs were completely shaven, smooth and hair-free. Chuck mumbled thanks as he pulled on the very short running shorts, looking halfway between Hubert and the floor, and went back to the stocks. His shirt was so long and the shorts so short that he may as well been wearing nothing at all underneath the shirt for all that you could see of the shorts.
When he climbed up and was locked in again, LT Tyler said, "Very nice!", then turned to Hubert, "but do you think we can make him look even more helpless?"
"No problem," Hubert grinned . "Watch this!" He now secured Chuck's arms over his head, first binding his wrists together using four loops, then two loops around the center of the loops, more effectively restraining his limbs, then threw the other end over one of the overhead steel beams, and tied it off on the support post. Chuck dropped his hands and they came down no farther than a foot above his head, then caught. Then he pulled out two shorter lengths of rope, and using one, cinched Chuck's legs together with several loops just below the knees, the other he looped several more times around Chuck's ankles on the far side of the stocks.
Isn't he overdoing this just a bit!? Chuck thought to himself, still completely oblivious to what was going on. Looking out over the stocks at his "captors", he found it somewhat unsettling not to be able to see his own imprisoned hands and feet.
"What do you think of that?," he inquired when he was finished.
"Perfect," Tyler commented. "Now maybe you should get some more pictures before everyone else arrives."
Hubert was looking at Chuck with a predatory leer. "Well, the pictures would turn out better," he stated as Tyler walked towards the open basement door, "if I had film in the camera."
"Whaaaattt!!!??" Chuck was dumbfounded. But before he could say anything else, his attention was drawn towards his other captor, who slammed the door shut, turned the lock on the knob, and closed the bolt lock. "LET ME GO!," he shouted as Hubert who'd moved behind him, started poking around his armpits, ribs, waist, stomach, and back, his giggling and involuntary smile making his protest seem more comical than defiant, "or I'll scream!".
"Oh, no you won't!," Hubert informed him as he stuffed a ball gag in Chuck's mouth and fastened it behind his neck. Chuck then watched fearfully as Taylor, who had been watching the brief show, walked back to his imprisoned feet, saying in a menacing tone, "Shall we give these pretty little bare soles here the attention they deserve, Hubert?"
The other nodded eagerly. "It's about time he got some long overdue payback for all those times he's paraded around the barracks taunting us with these pretty feet of his!"
Chuck's eyes bulged out of his head and his stomach dropped at the realization of what was about to happen to him. They had planned this all along, had been planning it for some time. Oh my God......This is REALLY happening! They can do ANYTHING they want to me now and there's NOTHING I can do!!!
Memories from his childhood of the three older bullies from the two houses next door who liked to pounce on him whenever they could, alone or together, frequently tickling him so hard he'd laugh himself to tears, now flooded his mind, making his stomach do flip-flops, forgotten nightmares that were the hidden source of his many fantasies of being tickled mercilessly as torture and/or punishment which were his greatest fascination. How could he ever have forgotten how much he HATED to be tickled?
And yet, now here he was, completely helpless, with two sadists who clearly intended to bring those secret fantasies fully to life to the worst degree possible.
As he looked at Tyler and Hubert standing menacingly at the foot of the stocks, Chuck knew that this time there would be no stopping and began to panic in earnest, squirming wildly in the stocks, his incredibly frantic but useless struggles only serving to rivet their attention that much more intensely to his plight.
Tyler now went nuts with the feather on Chuck's foot, this time getting an instant reaction due to the previous conditioning and to his subject's heightened sense ov vulnerability. Then Hubert found a feather of his own and began to tickle, and within a mere minute, Chuck was aching to pull his feet away and make it stop. He wriggled his feet about like crazy in a futile attempt to evade the ticklish feathers and pulled at his bonds to no avail.
Oh my God!!!! They're going to kill me!!! I can’t take this!!!
Chuck had reached the stage of loud, agonized laughter and maniacal screaming that made it seemed as if he were possessed by a demon, and he was strugglingly wildly, though the only thing all that did was make it seem as if he were enjoying himself.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” Tyler laughed, “You like, don’t you? Kootchie kootchie Kooo…..”
“YAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!”
Each stroke delivered its own torment directly into his brain. Up and down his soles, in between his toes, and around his ankles, went the feathers, unceasingly and without mercy. The sensations were unbearable, and all he could think about was how much he wished he could pull his feet away or cover them with his hands, but the only thing he could do was endure it.
Added to his humiliation and anguish was the confusion over the fact that although the tickling really was true torture and he couldn't bear it, at the same time he enjoyed it! The unceasing sensations were infuriating, but he was also more turned on than he had ever been in his life. Thus, he found himself hoping for the tickling torture of his bare feet to go on and on even while he was praying for it to stop, hating it with all his might, yet loving it and wanting even more.
Hubert noticed this. "Hey, LT, look!", he cried, pointing at Chuck's crotch where the shirttails, which had hung well down his thighs, had ridden up around his waist due to his struggles; his "little sailor" was rigid, bulging at full attention and poking well out of the string bikini briefs he'd chosen to wear. "I think he's like this!"
Chuck was mortified.
"Why, yes," replied Tyler, who'd also momentarily paused, obviously pleased, "he does seem to be enjoying this! Let's give him some more, shall we?"
As the tickling persisted, Chuck's laughter became even louder and higher in pitch, interspersed with his screams and pleas, till he was screeching and cackling at the top of his lungs, his eyes periodically bulging from his head when they hit a particularly sensitive spot and his body jerking about crazily on the bench. He was twisting and turning his feet and wiggling his toes this way and that to evade the hellish feathers, desparately trying to at least briefly avoid the continuous tickling, but Tyler soon cut off even that small avenue of relief.
His two torturers paused for a moment, and LT Tyler tied Chuck's big toes together with a small cord and attached the other end to the eyebolt on top of the stocks, then did the same to his two pinky toes and the two outer eyebolts, virtually immobilizing his imprisoned feet as well as stretching the soles taut so that they were now easier to tickle and it was easier for them to get in between his toes. Chuck used to brief interlude to gulp in huge breaths of air which were wrung from him when Tyler jiggled his fingers up his arches, causing his whole body to spasm as he exploded into laughter once again, terror filling his eyes as the realization set in that he would no longer be able to avoid the tickling for even brief instances by blocking one foot with the other, jerking his feet around, or clenching his toes. As this new twist of fate had set in, Tyler and Hubert resumed their tickling attack on the now completely immoblized feet.
After about fifteen minutes nonstop of tickling Chuck's helpless feet with the plumes, Tyler and Hubert turned the feathers around and started dragging the hard quills up and down his tender soles. The sensations were like liquid fire raccing up his legs and exploding in his brain.
"Tickletickletickletickle!!!!” they taunted him in unison.
“AAAUUUUUGGHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!”
Chuck's mind was racing in furious panic as he prayed for the tickling of his defenceless bare feet to stop. He couldn't take it. As he screamed hysterically, laughed, cried, and begged, all at the same time. Hot tears poured down his bright red cheeks and his limbs grew tired from the involuntary muscle spasms, but despite his obvious agony, his torturers didn't let up one bit; indeed, they seemed charged to even greater effort, taking a fiendish, sadistic pleasure in his wailing pleas for mercy.
Finally, Tyler and Hubert put away the hellish feathers. At first Chuck thought his ordeal was finished, but then they launched an attack on his vulnerable feet with their fingers, twenty fingers assaulting his helpless, ticklish soles and toes.
“Tickletickletickle…kootchie kootchie koo," they taunted him together. "Squirm for us, now, little Chuckie-wuckie!!! Kootchie kootchie koooo!!!!”
All over Chuck's feet they tickled; no part of his poor tortured soles was spared. Their fingers danced like spiders all over his delicate pads, then they attacked the balls of his feet scratching side-to-side and next dug their fingernails into his arches. The tickling reached Chuck's brain in a torrent of sensory overload, each man expertly tickling one of his feet in a coordinated ten-finger maddening that sending him pulling, screaming, squirming, laughing, wiggling, and crying, all for nothing. The tickling was intense, more than his poor tender flesh could stand.
They stopped for a minute, but only for Tyler to walked over to one of the shelves for a bottle of baby oil, of which he applied liberal amounts to the soles of both Chuck's feet. They then spread out the ten fingers of their four hands across the tops of the balls of his poor feet then begin raking them up and down as rapidly as they could. Tyler and Hubert tickled happily away, heedless of his tortured cries, resuming the dance of their teasing, tormenting fingers over his poor soles, getting him in all the vulnerable spots they could find, pointed fingers poking into his ticklish soles without mercy. Chuck felt as if the bottoms of his feet had caught fire, he screamed with hysterical agony and begged for mercy.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!”
In between the toes, his arches, and insteps were the worst as their fingernails, sharpened for the occasion, found the tender, sensitive flesh there. Chuck went mad. Every nerve ending in his slender 5'9" frame was lit on fire, like tiny fuses, hundreds of thousands of tiny fuses, all burning at the same time. His entire nervous system felt like it was going to explode. Never before in his whole life had he ever felt torment like this, and he was sobbing in frustration at the helplessness of being utterly unable to to do anything to alleviate feelings wracking his tired body with involuntary spasms of writhing and convulsing.
Then suddenly, in the midst of his anguish just before it erupted, Chuck noticed a feeling that had started quietly and been slowly building for sometime, subtly at first, but now more and more urgently, a very familiar feeling.........
Oh God NOOOO!!!!....was all he had time to think before the most incredibly powerful orgasm he'd ever experienced exploded through him, soaking through the running shorts. His captors, though, never missed a stroke as they continued their tickling assault all the way through and on past his climax, which he immediately discovered made the effects from their tormenting fingers much, much more intense.
Finally, after an hour, the two torturers halted the torture of his defenceless, ticklish tender feet altogether. Chuck gasped in relief, though he felt utterly humiliated at having been tickled to such absolute hysteria. Chuck thought gratefully that the ordeal was over for real at last, especially when Hubert left the room, but his flood of relief was soon to be vaporized.
"Well, sailor," LT Tyler said, addressing the captive, "that was very entertaining. "Do you think you've learned your lesson about parading around flaunting these pretty feet of yours in front of other guys?"
Chuck swallowed, his face turning bright red. "Y-y-yes, sir," he rmanaged to reply around the gag.
"Very good. Now, I don't imagine you'll be wanting to walk around here in barefoot anytime soon....." At Chuck's vigorous shaking of his head back and forth, he continued, "however, you and your feet belong to us now, so from now on you will go barefoot, every day, whenever you're not on duty, as a reminder of tonight, and of your place. For you see, tonight's instruction is not about the consequences of being a foot-tease, it's about submission, and obedience, obedience as a slave. Understand?"
Chuck sat speechless. He stared at the lieutenant in mute fear as all that he was implying dawned on him, then nodded meekly hung his head in submission.
"But, as you will soon see, what you've suffered already at our hands was just a foretaste of what you are about to endure." While he was speaking, Hubert came back downstairs carrying a table filled with evil-looking torture tools -- feathers, brushes, sharpened sticks, wooden spoons, itching powder, baby oil -- which he set down in front of the stocks. "You do remember losing our bet, don't you? You're going to be here, all night long!!"
It was just at this point that Wilson, Smith, and an white Air Force guy of their sister command named Tracy whom Chuck had known back Stateside even before the Navy came rushing into the room.
"Ah, the first our part guests to see our display," remarked LT Tyler, as the captive noticed the sign that Hubert had hung on the door to the room when he had returned with the table:
CAPTIVE BARE FEET!!!
HORRIBLY TICKLISH!! +++ COMPLETELY HELPLESS!!
NO HOPE OF ESCAPE!! +++ NO CHOICE BUT ENDURE!!
Come witness colonial justice and take part
In the punishment of the prisoner in our
!!!COLONIAL LAUGHING STOCKS!!!
Feel free to slap, poke, and tickle at will
The tender bare feet of our volunteer
NO CONSEQUENCES!! +++ NO LIMITS OF ANY KIND!!
BE RUTHLESS!! +++ BE RELENTLESS!!
SHOW NO MERCY!!
"You see, I need some time to look around your room," Tyler continued. "Somehow I suspect there'll be much for me to find there to use for insurance, of your silence.....and your obedience." From the distressed look on his captive's face, Tyler had no doubts he was right.
"Now, let the tickling begin!" Tyler proclaimed, adding, "First come, first serve, guys, and make sure to invite of your friends who come to our party here to participate." With that, he began walking up the stairs, carrying Chuck's pants and shoes with him.
Chuck looked in terror at the group of men drawing lots to see who would get first chance at the unrestrained access to his defenceless, supersensitive bare feet, even more horrifically ticklish now after the treatment they'd just just received, and a maddening, mind-numbing thought suddenly burst through his brain like a supernova,
Oh my God.......I LET this happen. I asked for this, almost BEGGED for it! What else did I expect, always parading around barefoot through the barracks and hanging around in the common areas showing off my bare feet, attracting all the attention, inviting them to.......
Then the first barrage of renewed tickling cut off Chuck's train of thought as his real nightmare began.
They came at him in droves that night, closet bi or gay guys turned on at the prospect of helpless bare male feet upon which to inflict the "frivilous" torture of tickling with impunity, straight guys jealous of his success with local girls or who thought him a sissy for always going barefoot with his anklet or resenting the fact his bare feet made them uncomfortable, and female personnel who had themselves often been tickled against their will and eager for payback of even a vicarious scapegoat.
By the end, Chuck Hampton was most assuredly humble and broken, more than ready to be submissive and obedient.
Chuck Hampton was a seaman at a US Naval Intelligence unit located on at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. At 24, Chuck was quite attractive, with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and fair skin, standing at 5'9" and rather slim at only 142 lbs. Chuck also had a habit which his shipmates found curious at first, then confusing, tittilating, and, for some -- the ones who were secretly gay, bisexual, or simply had a fetish for pretty feet, sexually arousing and frustrating.
Chuck's feet were particularly small for a guy his height, a narrow size 8 1/2, which were well-arched and had long toes ending in attractive nails as well as soft smooth pink soles that turned wrinkly all over whenever he flexed his feet, kept that way with weekly pedicures at a salon just outside base and lotioning at least twice, sometimes thrice, a day. Everyone in the barracks knew this because Chuck flaunted them openly whenever he was in the barracks, parading around through the halls, watching TV in the common room with his bare feet propped up over the back of a chair in front of him, talking on the wallphone upstairs sitting in a chair with his legs tucked under him and his bare feet hanging over the edge, watching TV in the small sitting area upstairs lying on the floor in "the pose" (on his stomach propped up on his elbows with his knees bent and his bare feet in the air) or answering the phone at the desk downstairs barefoot then sitting in the floor with his legs stretched out twisting his ankles, flexing his feet, and curling his toes. He always wore long pants with the cuffs rolled up an inch or two above his ankles, and seemed to prefer pants with wide legs.
Of course, Chuck had to know the effect this was probably having on at least some of the others guys in the barracks, but it would have been hard to tell that from the affected nonchalant manner he had. While the few female personnel in the barracks, those who noticed anyway, merely shrugged, or else complimented him on his "pretty feet", which always brought a bright shade of red to his face, it seemed to the other guys in the above-mentioned categories almost as if he were deliberately using his bare feet to tease them and get their attention. On the other hand, Chuck was notorious for dating several women at a time (as well as for the size and variety of his porno mag & vid collection), and not just "bar girls" (i.e. prostitutes), but also "nice" girls, ones often with college educations (on one occasion he had checked seven very attractive young women, none of them bar girls, at the desk of his barracks; the officer-on-deck had jumped to his feet, crying out, "Holy shit, Hampton!"). Thus, for those guys who were in that smaller group, their confusion and frustration, grew into into aggravation and resentment to the same degree as their the tittilation and sexual arousal intensified.
In fact, as those shipmates of Chuck's were soon to discover, he well aware of exactly what his barefoot displays were doing to them. He had been doing this for several months and often noticed a feeling sometimes of being stared at with intense interest, and once when he was talking on the phone at the desk downstairs phone in his usual manner, one of the other sailors, a black petty officer named Hubert, walked up to the desk and exclaimed, "Chuck......your feet!", but when Chuck had replied in a saucy challenging tone, "Oh, what about them?", Hubert had mumbled something like "Nothing.......nevermind" and left somewhat embarassed.
Indeed, although Chuck didn't know it, LT Tyler, the tall, very muscular black man widely rumored to be a closet gay who was their unit's security officer, had also taken very attentive notice, and began an intense and thorough but very carefully subtle investigation
Chuck was about to get much more than he bargained for.
*****
LT Tyler recruited Petty Officer Hubert, whose chief qualifications were that he was gay, though in the closet of course, and he'd over head him express his resentment of Chuck's foot-teasing, to help him gather information, put it together, and come up with a plan to make the sailor his obedient slave. Hubert proved an enthusiastic and crafty accomplice.
As an enlisted man, Hubert was able to go places and hear things that Tyler, as an officer, would have been shut out of, though he had an easy time of it as his subject proved to be rather indiscrete; in fact, he seemed to positively revel in being thought of as kinky and far out. For instance, through conversations with his fellow enlisted personnel Hubert learned that Chuck was quite a fan of porno movies, his favorite movie being the Opening Up of Misty Beethoven, a story with sadomasochistic undertones. Someone who'd seen Chuck's well-known porno collection related that much of it was devoted foot fetish, bondage, and....tickle torture.
From some of the people who'd been in service school with him, Hubert learned that Chuck's obsession with own his feet began not long after bootcamp, giving himself weekly pedicures and using Pretty Feet & Hands every night after he showered, and two of the females, one Air Force, the other Navy, were eager to tell him about Chuck's weekly visits to the Images beauty salon off-base for a pedicure, and, that during the procedure Chuck often shrieked out loud then burst into laughter, jerking and twisting and writhing so much that the pedicurist had to stop temporarily.
Smiling with an evil grin upon hearing this final bit of information, LT Tyler began to scheme and plan.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The physical facilities of Chuck's unit included the Navy's section of the work building in the compound shared with their sister Air Force unit, the main barracks for the men, the now barracks housing the female personnel, and the smaller building forming the third side of the triangle which housed the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Command's snack bar for their unit serving sandwiches and beer and soft drinks, known as the Crow's Nest, on one side, a large conference room for command musters and receptions on the other, and an open area with a single pool table in the center, plus, in one corner of the building, LT Tyler's office.
The week of Thanksgiving, the Commanding Officer, being the sort given to sentimental patriotism, declared that the physical facilities of the unit should be decorated on the them of "Colonial Days", and all the walls of the halls and common areas of the unit were hung with pictures evoking memories of the Pilgrims and various scenes of the Revolution and the Founding Fathers, as well as physical exhibits; LT Tyler volunteered to take charge.
In the the large common room at the end of the wing on the ground floor containing the barracks office, the room for personnel on restriction, and several vacant billets, there appeared the Friday afternoon prior to Thanksgiving week a sturdy, well-built set of stocks, a common feature of village squares during the colonial period.
At the back of the device was a bench about two feet off the ground attached to the stocks by stout beams, so that the piece was one whole construction. The stocks proper were made of 6" x 4" beams, with two larger holes in the center about three inches apart for holding the ankles and two smaller holes roughly 12" outside of these for securing the wrists. There were three eyebolts on top of the stocks above the two ankle holes, though Chuck had no idea what they were for. The device drew his attention like a magnet, and he frequently found himself hanging out in the room and caught himself helplessly staring at it in morbid fascination, which he somehow found more reasons than normal for doing in the days that followed. He secretly wondered what it would be like to sit in them, locked in, unable to escape, but he was too afraid of what people might say or do should anyone catch him trying them out.
Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving Day, nearly half the members of the command were either out at sea, at the Naval Air Station in the next province on temporary duty, or on vacation, the Captain himself having left at noon; LT Tyler, in fact, was now effectively the acting C.O. The direct support division was vacant, except for Chuck, who was left to maintain the technical publications library, and the shift crews were stripped to skeletons to provide added personnel to direct support detachments, those remaining on the shifts being people with family in-country. The only persons remaining at the barracks were Petty Officers Hubert, Wilson, Smith, and Chuck himself, plus a few "ghost" residents who actually lived in rented houses off-base unofficially but maintained quarters in the barracks because of their status.
At four o'clock, Chuck raced to the back to the barracks from the compound, went to chow as the mess hall, returned and watched the news, took a shower, and got dressed to go off base to the strip. By now it was around six-thirty, and he was in something of a hurry as there was going to be a Thanksgiving theme party in the barracks for members of his unit, from their sister Air force unit, and from the Security Police unit that guarded their compound, with all the exhibits from the past week on display, and it was supposed to start at seven. Since few females, if any, were likely to attend what was probably going to turn into a beer bash, he wanted to escape before anyone had the chance to volunteer him to stay.
When he walked out of his room, he was wearing blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up a couple of inches above his ankles, an over-sized gray long-sleeved button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows and the tail out over his jeans which hung well down his upper thighs, K-Swiss boat sneakers, and the gold chain anklet around his left ankle.
As he was signing out of the barracks at the quarterdeck, where one of the married petty officers from the shift crews was standing watch as officer-of-the-deck, LT Tyler came up beside him, and said, "Hampton, before you go out, we need a volunteer to help out with some pictures of one of the displays for the album the C.O. wants from this week.......can you give us a hand?".
"How long will it take? I'm in kind of a hurry to get out."
"Oh, not long at all. Just a few minutes, then you can go on your way."
"Sure, I guess so," Chuck replied, shrugging his shoulders. "What do you need?"
"Well, we've been trying to get someone to sit in the stocks for a picture that the C.O. wants for the scrapbook," the lieutenant explained, "but everyone we've asked has turned us down flat."
Chuck hesitated. "I, um, I don't know........". He was trying to appear reluctant, but his heart was thudding in his chest. The fact was that he had heard about this earlier and had hoped that he would be asked, not wanting to volunteer because he didn't want to appear too eager.
"C'mon, Hampton, be a sport," Tyler urged. "You're our last hope; besides, a couple of the people we asked said that you'd be the only one who would dare do something that crazy." That's it, Tyler thought, appeal to his vanity and ego!
"Really?" Chuck asked, obviously delighted at that news. "Well, I guess you have me then".
LT Tyler didn't think he could have put it better himself.
He led Chuck across the room to the stairwell, and pointed him down to the basement. When Chuck looked at him with a question on his face, he informed him, "We had to move the device down here to make way for the buffet table in the common room. Then Chuck shrugged and headed downstairs. When the two of them reached the bottom, Tyler opened the door and held it for him, then walked in behind him.
Once inside, LT Tyler turned Chuck left, into the room, which was about the size of a two-car garage. Shelves filled with God-knows-what lined the walls, along with a couple of filing cabinets. In the center of the room, with four cinderblocks underneath the four corners so that the wrist and ankle holes were now about four feet from the ground, stood the stocks, next to the round support post, and standing next to the stocks, which had their restraint opened, was Petty Officer Hubert, as a former photographer's mate the unit photographer, camera around his neck.
As Chuck was taking this in, Tyler interrupted his musings. "Excuse me, but there's one thing you have to do before we put you up there." He handed him a piece of paper and a pen. "The C.O. told us we needed to get whoever sits in the stocks to sign a release, to cover the command's ass anyone makes accusations of false imprisonment or anything like that."
Chuck laughed. That's ridiculous, he thought. But, that's the Navy for you. He looked at the form, which read simply, "I, blank, give my consent to be locked in stocks for the purpose of assisting with the Thanksgiving display." He pretended to demur for a bit, then signed. Finally, seemingly reluctant, he climbed into the seat, upon which a pillow had been placed, and put his wrists and ankles in the appropriate holes. LT Tyler closed the stocks with a bang, snapping the padlock shut.
Hearing the click, Chuck immediately pulled on his wrists and ankles. They barely budged. "Hey!" he exclaimed with a look of surprise. "This thing is for real!" A thrill ran through him. Here he was, getting to sit in the stocks, not having to worry about anyone adding this to the list of weird things he'd done.
Petty Officer Hubert lifted his camera as if he were about to take pictures, then stopped. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Tyler . "But I think you've forgotten something." Replying, "Oh, yeah, right....," Tyler began to unlace Chuck's sneakers, with a strange smile that made the "prisoner" more than a little uneasy.
"Wha-what are you doing?" Chuck asked apprehensively.
"Oh, didn't you know?" LT Tyler asked. "Prisoners sitting in the stocks were always required to be barefoot, and we are going for realism after all."
"Well.....in that case," Chuck began, "I guess it's okay."
Tyler finished untying his shoelaces, then paused, placing his hands under the heels of Chuck's sneakers and quickly removed them, exposing a pair of well-pedicured feet with cuticle-free toenails. Chuck felt chill of a mysterious chill of premonition run down his spine as the cool air hit his now bare feet simultaneous with the excitement he felt in his stomach. Then he noticed two men seemed visibly aroused at their exposure, and felt as if he may as well been completely naked.
"Now," said LT Tyler after a moment, "we can proceed. Hubert...."
Petty Officer Hubert snapped several pictures from different angles, LT Tyler looking intently at his "prisoner" as an atmosphere of anticipation began to fill the room, while the "prisoner" sat twisting his ankles, flexing his feet, and clenching and unclenching his toes in an attempt to relieve his own nervous tension, failing to notice the effect this was having on his audience.
Hubert now stopped taking pictures, lowered his camera, turned to Tyler, and said in a low voice, "He really doesn't have a clue, does he?"
"No, not a one," Tyler, whispered back, snorting. "Utterly oblivious."
"What are y'all talking about?," Chuck asked, beginning to get antsy. "If you're through, I'd like to get out of here." It had been fun for a few minutes, but now this thing was too real for his comfort.
"Oh, don't worry," Tyler replied, walking back towards the stocks, "I was just remarking to Hubert how pretty I've always thought your feet are, and how glad I am that you like to show them off so much."
At this Chuck blushed from embarassment from his cheeks all the way down his neck, unable to stop the coy smile from spreading across his face, though somewhere deep down inside of him below the level of conscious thought warning bells went off. "Thank you, sir," he said sheepishly.
"I hope you don't mind me saying that," Tyler said with a curious smile on his face, and when Chuck shook his head a bit hesitantly and said, "Uh, no, sir,", began walking toward him, inquiring, "May I ask if those smooth soles of yours are as soft as they appear?"
Chuck, assuming the lieutenant was coming to release him, answered, "Um, yes, sir, very soft, though I have to work hard to keep them that way, what with wearing steel-plated boondockers all day everyday. As for tender, God, you should see me when I walk across gravel or hot asphalt or step on a pine cone something like that; you'd laugh at me. It's why I almost never go barefoot anywhere outside." He didn't realize how nervous he was starting to become, and was babbling.
"One more question, sailor," Tyler asked when he reached the stocks, looking Chuck straight in the eyes, "are you ticklish?"
Chuck mouth dropped open. God, did I hear him right? Did he really ask me that? "No, not really, sir, I don't think. I mean, no one has tickled me in years, but I have tried to tickle myself, and nothing happened," he answered, for some reason he couldn't understand holding back the information about his visits to the salon.
But the deer-caught-in-the-headlights-of-an-oncoming-car look that came over his face at first had told LT Tyler all that he needed to know. Chuck got butteflies in his stomach as Tyler, smiling, jiggled the fingers of both hands quickly and lightly up the soles of the bound bare feet in front of him, but when that failed to produce any reaction, and his smile faded slightly. He jiggled his fingers back down the helpless soles, and still nothing, and he frowned slightly. Chuck himself looked both relieved and, strangely, almost disappointed. Then Tyler smiled again as he ran his fingers back up Chuck's tender soles, knowing somehow this was it, that third time was the charm.
But he still wasn't quite prepared for the response.
Instantly, Chuck shrieked loudly and then erupted into laughter, jerking and twisting uncontrollably in the stocks so much that he actually shook the sturdily-built device. Stepping back surprised, though not as surprised as Chuck, who looked absolutely astonished, he exclaimed, "Wow, you're really a ticklish!", as the sounds abated to mere giggling, thinking, God, this is even better than I'd hoped for!
"Oh God! I remember how ticklish I was as a child," said Chuck, in between chuckles, "but, damn, I had no idea I was still that ticklish!"
"It's a good thing you found that out, eh," said Tyler, "before you found yourself tied up or something with someone you shouldn't have trusted?"
"Yes, sir, thank you," Chuck replied gratefully, the irony of Tyler's statement going right over his head. "I could have gotten myself into big trouble that way."
Tyler went back over to the shelves and started fumbling around, and as Hubert lifted his camera and began taking pictures again, he exclaimed, "Hey! Look what I found!", and turned about with something in his hand that set off warning signals off in Chuck's head and sent shivers through his body -- a long, stiff-looking, pointy, feather! "I can think of some uses for this!"
Chuck's first instinct was to scream, but then he thought, Wait a minute.....a feather? A silly thing like a feather? He's gotta be kidding.......yes, I've seen that in cartoons, but it can't be real. He snorted with contempt. "Fingernails and pedicures tools are one thing, but that won't bother me at all."
"Wanna bet?" Tyler challenged. "Fifty bucks versus you staying here in the stocks all evening as a showpiece for the party."
Chuck accepted the bet, confident that feathers were useless on him as tickling implements. Tyler, however, knew better, knew that all it would take was a little bit of patience and a little bit of persistence.
Tyler walked back to the center of the room, and stood there a smug grin for several seconds, and just as he was at the point between going crazy with anticipation or dying of boredom, Chuck felt the pointy tip of the plume float up the bottom of his his foot, his right foot. He tried to ignore it, squeezing his eyes shut, jerking his arms, biting his lip to stifle the giggling which threatened to burst forth. But as LT Tyler continued sliding the plume over the bottom of his foot, the giggling came anyway, his foot jerking about and his toes wiggling spasmodically under the feather strokes.
"Stop that!" he begged in between giggles as the feelings became more and more unbearable. "Please, stop it! Please! Please! Please!"
“Up and down, up and down, up and down.....,” LT Tyler chanted meanwhile.
By now Chuck's struggling against the incessant was so violent that it shook the sturdily-built stocks. Finally, his senses could hold out no longer and he burst out in howling laughter.
"YAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"
LT Tyler stopped immediately. It had been a mere thirty seconds, but Tyler had sufficiently demonstrated his helplessness as well given him a little foretaste of what they were going to do to him.
Chuck was frantic. This was some kind of sick joke, he thought desparately, and it's over now.
But he wasn't going anywhere, for LT Tyler and Hubert had him just where they wanted him now and intended to wreak their fullest measure of vengeance possible. And he'd just lost the bet.
Tyler had a sadistic gleam on his face. "You LOSE, sailor," he said ominously, "sooo, it's looks like you're going to be our 'guest' here for a little while, but first, I'd like you to look a bit more vulnerable." He raised the top bar of the stocks. "Now, get out and stretch your legs, then take off your pants."
Before Chuck could protest this, Hubert immediately added, "Don't worry, I've had a bit of time to look around the room, and there's several brand new pairs of running shorts that have been here forever"
"Yes, we don't want you flashing," Tyler finished. "I just think you'd look more vulnerable if it looks like you're just wearing a shirt."
Meanwhile, Hubert, who was over by the shelves quickly asked, "What size waist are you? 28? 30? 32?"
His train of thought broken, Chuck answered, "30," immediately realizing this implied he had agreed, so he felt that he now had to comply with what seemed a plausible reason for the request. After Hubert released him from the stocks, he just stood, hands in the center of his belt, hesitating, obviously very reluctant.
"Come on, sailor," Tyler ordered. "You lost the bet. Don't play if you can't pay."
Chuck groaned, then in a manner suggesting resignation, undid his belt, unsnapped. unzipped, then dropped his pants, at which the reason for his hesitation became obvious.
Hubert whistled. "Nice legs, Hampton. I had no idea." His legs were completely shaven, smooth and hair-free. Chuck mumbled thanks as he pulled on the very short running shorts, looking halfway between Hubert and the floor, and went back to the stocks. His shirt was so long and the shorts so short that he may as well been wearing nothing at all underneath the shirt for all that you could see of the shorts.
When he climbed up and was locked in again, LT Tyler said, "Very nice!", then turned to Hubert, "but do you think we can make him look even more helpless?"
"No problem," Hubert grinned . "Watch this!" He now secured Chuck's arms over his head, first binding his wrists together using four loops, then two loops around the center of the loops, more effectively restraining his limbs, then threw the other end over one of the overhead steel beams, and tied it off on the support post. Chuck dropped his hands and they came down no farther than a foot above his head, then caught. Then he pulled out two shorter lengths of rope, and using one, cinched Chuck's legs together with several loops just below the knees, the other he looped several more times around Chuck's ankles on the far side of the stocks.
Isn't he overdoing this just a bit!? Chuck thought to himself, still completely oblivious to what was going on. Looking out over the stocks at his "captors", he found it somewhat unsettling not to be able to see his own imprisoned hands and feet.
"What do you think of that?," he inquired when he was finished.
"Perfect," Tyler commented. "Now maybe you should get some more pictures before everyone else arrives."
Hubert was looking at Chuck with a predatory leer. "Well, the pictures would turn out better," he stated as Tyler walked towards the open basement door, "if I had film in the camera."
"Whaaaattt!!!??" Chuck was dumbfounded. But before he could say anything else, his attention was drawn towards his other captor, who slammed the door shut, turned the lock on the knob, and closed the bolt lock. "LET ME GO!," he shouted as Hubert who'd moved behind him, started poking around his armpits, ribs, waist, stomach, and back, his giggling and involuntary smile making his protest seem more comical than defiant, "or I'll scream!".
"Oh, no you won't!," Hubert informed him as he stuffed a ball gag in Chuck's mouth and fastened it behind his neck. Chuck then watched fearfully as Taylor, who had been watching the brief show, walked back to his imprisoned feet, saying in a menacing tone, "Shall we give these pretty little bare soles here the attention they deserve, Hubert?"
The other nodded eagerly. "It's about time he got some long overdue payback for all those times he's paraded around the barracks taunting us with these pretty feet of his!"
Chuck's eyes bulged out of his head and his stomach dropped at the realization of what was about to happen to him. They had planned this all along, had been planning it for some time. Oh my God......This is REALLY happening! They can do ANYTHING they want to me now and there's NOTHING I can do!!!
Memories from his childhood of the three older bullies from the two houses next door who liked to pounce on him whenever they could, alone or together, frequently tickling him so hard he'd laugh himself to tears, now flooded his mind, making his stomach do flip-flops, forgotten nightmares that were the hidden source of his many fantasies of being tickled mercilessly as torture and/or punishment which were his greatest fascination. How could he ever have forgotten how much he HATED to be tickled?
And yet, now here he was, completely helpless, with two sadists who clearly intended to bring those secret fantasies fully to life to the worst degree possible.
As he looked at Tyler and Hubert standing menacingly at the foot of the stocks, Chuck knew that this time there would be no stopping and began to panic in earnest, squirming wildly in the stocks, his incredibly frantic but useless struggles only serving to rivet their attention that much more intensely to his plight.
Tyler now went nuts with the feather on Chuck's foot, this time getting an instant reaction due to the previous conditioning and to his subject's heightened sense ov vulnerability. Then Hubert found a feather of his own and began to tickle, and within a mere minute, Chuck was aching to pull his feet away and make it stop. He wriggled his feet about like crazy in a futile attempt to evade the ticklish feathers and pulled at his bonds to no avail.
Oh my God!!!! They're going to kill me!!! I can’t take this!!!
Chuck had reached the stage of loud, agonized laughter and maniacal screaming that made it seemed as if he were possessed by a demon, and he was strugglingly wildly, though the only thing all that did was make it seem as if he were enjoying himself.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” Tyler laughed, “You like, don’t you? Kootchie kootchie Kooo…..”
“YAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!”
Each stroke delivered its own torment directly into his brain. Up and down his soles, in between his toes, and around his ankles, went the feathers, unceasingly and without mercy. The sensations were unbearable, and all he could think about was how much he wished he could pull his feet away or cover them with his hands, but the only thing he could do was endure it.
Added to his humiliation and anguish was the confusion over the fact that although the tickling really was true torture and he couldn't bear it, at the same time he enjoyed it! The unceasing sensations were infuriating, but he was also more turned on than he had ever been in his life. Thus, he found himself hoping for the tickling torture of his bare feet to go on and on even while he was praying for it to stop, hating it with all his might, yet loving it and wanting even more.
Hubert noticed this. "Hey, LT, look!", he cried, pointing at Chuck's crotch where the shirttails, which had hung well down his thighs, had ridden up around his waist due to his struggles; his "little sailor" was rigid, bulging at full attention and poking well out of the string bikini briefs he'd chosen to wear. "I think he's like this!"
Chuck was mortified.
"Why, yes," replied Tyler, who'd also momentarily paused, obviously pleased, "he does seem to be enjoying this! Let's give him some more, shall we?"
As the tickling persisted, Chuck's laughter became even louder and higher in pitch, interspersed with his screams and pleas, till he was screeching and cackling at the top of his lungs, his eyes periodically bulging from his head when they hit a particularly sensitive spot and his body jerking about crazily on the bench. He was twisting and turning his feet and wiggling his toes this way and that to evade the hellish feathers, desparately trying to at least briefly avoid the continuous tickling, but Tyler soon cut off even that small avenue of relief.
His two torturers paused for a moment, and LT Tyler tied Chuck's big toes together with a small cord and attached the other end to the eyebolt on top of the stocks, then did the same to his two pinky toes and the two outer eyebolts, virtually immobilizing his imprisoned feet as well as stretching the soles taut so that they were now easier to tickle and it was easier for them to get in between his toes. Chuck used to brief interlude to gulp in huge breaths of air which were wrung from him when Tyler jiggled his fingers up his arches, causing his whole body to spasm as he exploded into laughter once again, terror filling his eyes as the realization set in that he would no longer be able to avoid the tickling for even brief instances by blocking one foot with the other, jerking his feet around, or clenching his toes. As this new twist of fate had set in, Tyler and Hubert resumed their tickling attack on the now completely immoblized feet.
After about fifteen minutes nonstop of tickling Chuck's helpless feet with the plumes, Tyler and Hubert turned the feathers around and started dragging the hard quills up and down his tender soles. The sensations were like liquid fire raccing up his legs and exploding in his brain.
"Tickletickletickletickle!!!!” they taunted him in unison.
“AAAUUUUUGGHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!”
Chuck's mind was racing in furious panic as he prayed for the tickling of his defenceless bare feet to stop. He couldn't take it. As he screamed hysterically, laughed, cried, and begged, all at the same time. Hot tears poured down his bright red cheeks and his limbs grew tired from the involuntary muscle spasms, but despite his obvious agony, his torturers didn't let up one bit; indeed, they seemed charged to even greater effort, taking a fiendish, sadistic pleasure in his wailing pleas for mercy.
Finally, Tyler and Hubert put away the hellish feathers. At first Chuck thought his ordeal was finished, but then they launched an attack on his vulnerable feet with their fingers, twenty fingers assaulting his helpless, ticklish soles and toes.
“Tickletickletickle…kootchie kootchie koo," they taunted him together. "Squirm for us, now, little Chuckie-wuckie!!! Kootchie kootchie koooo!!!!”
All over Chuck's feet they tickled; no part of his poor tortured soles was spared. Their fingers danced like spiders all over his delicate pads, then they attacked the balls of his feet scratching side-to-side and next dug their fingernails into his arches. The tickling reached Chuck's brain in a torrent of sensory overload, each man expertly tickling one of his feet in a coordinated ten-finger maddening that sending him pulling, screaming, squirming, laughing, wiggling, and crying, all for nothing. The tickling was intense, more than his poor tender flesh could stand.
They stopped for a minute, but only for Tyler to walked over to one of the shelves for a bottle of baby oil, of which he applied liberal amounts to the soles of both Chuck's feet. They then spread out the ten fingers of their four hands across the tops of the balls of his poor feet then begin raking them up and down as rapidly as they could. Tyler and Hubert tickled happily away, heedless of his tortured cries, resuming the dance of their teasing, tormenting fingers over his poor soles, getting him in all the vulnerable spots they could find, pointed fingers poking into his ticklish soles without mercy. Chuck felt as if the bottoms of his feet had caught fire, he screamed with hysterical agony and begged for mercy.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!”
In between the toes, his arches, and insteps were the worst as their fingernails, sharpened for the occasion, found the tender, sensitive flesh there. Chuck went mad. Every nerve ending in his slender 5'9" frame was lit on fire, like tiny fuses, hundreds of thousands of tiny fuses, all burning at the same time. His entire nervous system felt like it was going to explode. Never before in his whole life had he ever felt torment like this, and he was sobbing in frustration at the helplessness of being utterly unable to to do anything to alleviate feelings wracking his tired body with involuntary spasms of writhing and convulsing.
Then suddenly, in the midst of his anguish just before it erupted, Chuck noticed a feeling that had started quietly and been slowly building for sometime, subtly at first, but now more and more urgently, a very familiar feeling.........
Oh God NOOOO!!!!....was all he had time to think before the most incredibly powerful orgasm he'd ever experienced exploded through him, soaking through the running shorts. His captors, though, never missed a stroke as they continued their tickling assault all the way through and on past his climax, which he immediately discovered made the effects from their tormenting fingers much, much more intense.
Finally, after an hour, the two torturers halted the torture of his defenceless, ticklish tender feet altogether. Chuck gasped in relief, though he felt utterly humiliated at having been tickled to such absolute hysteria. Chuck thought gratefully that the ordeal was over for real at last, especially when Hubert left the room, but his flood of relief was soon to be vaporized.
"Well, sailor," LT Tyler said, addressing the captive, "that was very entertaining. "Do you think you've learned your lesson about parading around flaunting these pretty feet of yours in front of other guys?"
Chuck swallowed, his face turning bright red. "Y-y-yes, sir," he rmanaged to reply around the gag.
"Very good. Now, I don't imagine you'll be wanting to walk around here in barefoot anytime soon....." At Chuck's vigorous shaking of his head back and forth, he continued, "however, you and your feet belong to us now, so from now on you will go barefoot, every day, whenever you're not on duty, as a reminder of tonight, and of your place. For you see, tonight's instruction is not about the consequences of being a foot-tease, it's about submission, and obedience, obedience as a slave. Understand?"
Chuck sat speechless. He stared at the lieutenant in mute fear as all that he was implying dawned on him, then nodded meekly hung his head in submission.
"But, as you will soon see, what you've suffered already at our hands was just a foretaste of what you are about to endure." While he was speaking, Hubert came back downstairs carrying a table filled with evil-looking torture tools -- feathers, brushes, sharpened sticks, wooden spoons, itching powder, baby oil -- which he set down in front of the stocks. "You do remember losing our bet, don't you? You're going to be here, all night long!!"
It was just at this point that Wilson, Smith, and an white Air Force guy of their sister command named Tracy whom Chuck had known back Stateside even before the Navy came rushing into the room.
"Ah, the first our part guests to see our display," remarked LT Tyler, as the captive noticed the sign that Hubert had hung on the door to the room when he had returned with the table:
CAPTIVE BARE FEET!!!
HORRIBLY TICKLISH!! +++ COMPLETELY HELPLESS!!
NO HOPE OF ESCAPE!! +++ NO CHOICE BUT ENDURE!!
Come witness colonial justice and take part
In the punishment of the prisoner in our
!!!COLONIAL LAUGHING STOCKS!!!
Feel free to slap, poke, and tickle at will
The tender bare feet of our volunteer
NO CONSEQUENCES!! +++ NO LIMITS OF ANY KIND!!
BE RUTHLESS!! +++ BE RELENTLESS!!
SHOW NO MERCY!!
"You see, I need some time to look around your room," Tyler continued. "Somehow I suspect there'll be much for me to find there to use for insurance, of your silence.....and your obedience." From the distressed look on his captive's face, Tyler had no doubts he was right.
"Now, let the tickling begin!" Tyler proclaimed, adding, "First come, first serve, guys, and make sure to invite of your friends who come to our party here to participate." With that, he began walking up the stairs, carrying Chuck's pants and shoes with him.
Chuck looked in terror at the group of men drawing lots to see who would get first chance at the unrestrained access to his defenceless, supersensitive bare feet, even more horrifically ticklish now after the treatment they'd just just received, and a maddening, mind-numbing thought suddenly burst through his brain like a supernova,
Oh my God.......I LET this happen. I asked for this, almost BEGGED for it! What else did I expect, always parading around barefoot through the barracks and hanging around in the common areas showing off my bare feet, attracting all the attention, inviting them to.......
Then the first barrage of renewed tickling cut off Chuck's train of thought as his real nightmare began.
They came at him in droves that night, closet bi or gay guys turned on at the prospect of helpless bare male feet upon which to inflict the "frivilous" torture of tickling with impunity, straight guys jealous of his success with local girls or who thought him a sissy for always going barefoot with his anklet or resenting the fact his bare feet made them uncomfortable, and female personnel who had themselves often been tickled against their will and eager for payback of even a vicarious scapegoat.
By the end, Chuck Hampton was most assuredly humble and broken, more than ready to be submissive and obedient.
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... I've always liked the stocks idea too, and stories involving that. 
