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Sansa Tickled by Ramsey and Myranda (Season 5)

oneortheother

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Sep 16, 2008
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Bit late in uploading this, but better late than never, I suppose? Gentle reminder that I tend to be more active on my deviantart page when it comes to uploads.
Without further ado:

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Sansa Tickled (Season 5)

SANSA

As bad as things had been with Joffery, they had never been this bad. Everything about her situation was a cold slap in the face. She was in the bedchamber her mother and father had once shared, yet instead of the comforting hand of nostalgia, she felt nothing but repulsion in her stomach. The room still smelled faintly of them, this hint of the childhood she had lost, though it was mostly elapsed by the smell of her new lord husband.

Every morning she woke in fear, because every morning her new lord husband found a new way to give her a jarring awakening that made her dread sleep. If only she weren’t so sleepy every night—she was certain the Maester was putting something in her wine, on Ramsay’s orders, of course.

Today, she was wrapped up tightly in the furs that served as her blankets. Well, they usually would have served as her blankets, but this frosty winter’s morning they were her prison. She was wrapped in them like a caterpillar’s cocoon with rope cinched around her shoulders, waist, and ankles to keep them in place. Only her head and her pale pink soles stuck out, though that was not because of absent-mindedness, but because they were his playthings. No, Sansa corrected herself, their playthings. Beside Ramsay was one of his bitches. Myranda stood with her arms crossed, her long dark framing her comely, narrow face. Myranda might play the shy, soft-spoken young girl at times, but there was no doubt in Sansa’s mind that her heart was every bit as black as Ramsay’s, for she seemed to enjoy nothing more than picking her apart with her snide words and callous comments when Sansa was at her non-existent mercy.

“Lady Sansa, good morrow to you,” Ramsay Bolton said, though his dark look betrayed the empty courtesy of his words, “you look tired. Doesn’t my lady wife look tired, Myranda?” He smiled through his black curls. He was shirtless with Myranda was on his lap, who had her arms around his neck. Ramsay seemed to like nothing better than direct such overt displays of affection when Sansa was around. She certainly wasn’t jealous, but it disgusted her all the same—men were supposed to be subtle about their paramours, like how her father had done with Jon Snow’s mother, not flaunt them in front of their lady wives.

And Ramsay did more than just flaunt her.

“She does, milord,” Myranda said, her narrow dark eyes were twinkling with mischief.

“I fear she had yet to wake up properly. Who knows how she may behave or what she might say in such a state.” Ramsay gave her a grin. “Be a dear, Myranda, and see my lady wife is truly roused from her slumber.”

“With pleasure, milord,” Myranda said, smiling a sickly-sweet smile. She was naked from the waist up as well, and she prowled like a cat towards the featherbed where Sansa lay bound and helpless.

“Ramsay, no, please!’ Sansa said, knowing full well that like as not, her words were nothing but wind to them.

“Wakey, wakey…” Myranda said in a sing-song voice as she sat across Sansa’s ankles. She looked back and smiled at Sansa’s pained, contorted expression as she lightly pawed a nail along the tops of her slender, pale feet. This light touch alone was enough to set her sensitive feet to wiggling and her tender toes to curling.

“I-I’m awake! Stop it!” Sansa strained against the blankets, but they remained firm and unyielding, like they had all over mornings. Attempts to unseat the northern girl from her position over Sansa’s ankles were equally unsuccessful.

“Do you hear that, Myranda?” Ramsay said with an innocent look on his face. “I believe my lady wife is sleep talking. This situation is worse than I thought. You’ll need to step up your efforts, I think.”

“At once, milord,” Myranda purred and sped up her teasing attacks. A stroke down, a stroke up, left foot, then right, left foot, then, over and over again, till Sansa’s lips were pursed in a tight, ticklish grimace, with more than a few snickers creeping out.

“How are you, my lady?” Ramsay asked, his voice and face an almost convincing imitation of concern. “She’s making some funny sounds, so I think we’ll more, Myranda.”

Myranda looked back to give Sansa a gleeful look, and then she cracked her knuckles to really start working her fingers on the helpless feet so invitingly wrapped and set-out before her. She kept one sharp-fingered hand dancing on Sansa’s insteps, while the other hand swept across the sole, paying particular attention to those high arches. Because of how close Sansa’s feet were to each other, it was easy to tickle both of them with one hand, and with one hand on the tops while the other was on the bottom, it was like the entirety of Sansa’s hyperticklish feet were under constant attack by Myranda’s marauding nails.

At this point, Sansa could not even play at resistance no longer, especially as Myranda had come to know her long, pale feet so well over the past few weeks. There wasn’t a sweet spot which remained that the vindictive, lowborn northern girl didn’t know about, and she put such knowledge to full advantage with those sweeping long nails of hers. All Sansa could do was try to get her breathing under control as laughter was continually torn from her with every touch.

“Better, better,” Ramsay said, taking a sip of wine from a flagon by the bed. “It’s time for the brushing, I think.”

“No!” Sansa surged forward, a lock of red hair falling across her face. “Not the brushing!”

“Why ever are you so against it? You never had maidservants or your lady mother give you a brushing?”

“They brushed my hair! Not my feet!”

“Did they?” Ramsay raised an eyebrow and scratched her chin. “Have you heard of such a practice, Myranda?”

“Never, milord.”

“Is this not how they’ve always done brushing in the north?” Ramsay’s hand slapped the fine-bristled horse hair brush in his hand.

“It is, milord.”

“Indeed! Now, I don’t know what southern traditions you’ve picked up during your time in the south, Lady Sansa, but here we do things the old way. The north remembers!” He laughed and tossed the hairbrush to Myranda.

Sansa’s bit back her anger. Ramsay’s words were absurd, like they were every time he went on one of these lies, but there was nothing she could do to dissuade him, nothing she could do to save her poor bare feet from a brutal brushing. She only reason she didn’t cry is because she knew how much that would please him.

So, she willed herself to show no fear, show no emotion, even when Myranda held the brush right up to Sansa’s face just so she could get a good look at all those nasty bristles. Just to make things worse on an emotional level, the brush Myranda used to belong to Sansa’s mother, Lady Catelyn. When Sansa had been a child, it had in fact been used to brush out the tangles of her long, thick red hair. Lady Catelyn would rise screaming from her grave if she knew that such an object was now being used to torment her beloved daughter.

Using thumb and forefinger, Myranda latched around Sansa’s big toes and yanked them back, pulling her pink soles taut. For a while, she just held the hairbrush over Sansa’s feet. She didn’t move her hand—she just let the brush hover near the quivering feet, letting Sansa’s own nervousness work against her. Before long, without even needing to move her hands at all, Myranda had Sansa chortling and giggling because of how she ended up tickling herself with her feet’s frantic fidgeting. And of course, the longer she kept Sansa waiting, the longer the anticipation, the dread, and the desperation of her situation set in, thereby ensuring Sansa’s mind would her own worst enemy and actually make it tickle even more when Myranda finally began.

Ramsay’s bitch quickly tired of this waiting game and decided she would rather hear Sansa’s howling laughter. She started by buffing the hairbrush in circles along Sansa’s pink heels. The heels weren’t an especially bad spot, but that was precisely the point. The brush would slowly scrub its way up the foot to give Sansa suitable time to imagine how awful it would be once it reached the goldmine of soft spots around her high arches and deep toes. Somehow, the fact Sansa knew were the brush was going made the time it spent on her less vulnerable spots, like the heels or the balls of the foot, much more ticklish than she felt they ought to be, probably because she was always picturing what it would be like when the brush meandered past them to settle on those sweet spots. And again, her attempts to predict what would happen only resulted in her increasing her own sensitivity.

By the time the hairbrush reached the centre of Sansa’s high arches, the Stark girl was a mess. Her bright blue, the eyes that so many had complimented her on, were red and teary. Her thick auburn hair was as tangled as her sister Arya’s had used to be, a veritable bird’s nest. Sansa’s cheeks were flushed and tear-stained, and her throat and tummy were sore from so much forced laughter. Her feet were already showing marks of the tickle abuse—the lower half of her sole was beginning to blush pink from the ruthless bristles. Her thin, slender feet had flopped and fought at first, but Myranda was no stranger to restraining squirming feet—she had been quite proficient even before she had first laid her hands on Sansa’s long, soft feet, it seemed, based on how none of Sansa’s struggles had been able to have much effect even during her first time in such a grim, ticklish situation.

“My lady wife is a Stark,” Ramsay said from his chair. He reclined on an elbow, smirking. “She doesn’t need things like breaks. Continue, Myranda. Give her five brushing outs. For now.”

Five! Sansa desperately tried to vocalise her distress, but the bristles scratching and scratching at the bottom of her soft pink feet turned all her pleas into incomprehensible squeals and breath-stalling guffaws. A brushing out was one full, agonisingly slow trip up and down the sole, passing through that dense cluster of hot spots in her arches twice. Two or three were more the norm, but five? And for now? What had she done to displease him so badly, she thought as fresh tears welled in her eyes. She wasn’t even sure she could survive one trip of that accursed hairbrush as it began to slowly, ponderously itch its way to the base of her toes.

She tossed her head back and shrieked with high-pitched laughter. She had to be strong, had to persevere—she was a Stark of Winterfell. But her feet were just too sensitive, there were just too many of those bristles to withstand, and there just wasn’t enough mercy in the hearts of her two cruel captors…

O-O-O

“What am I going to do with you, my dear lady wife?” Ramsay said, grinning at her at Sansa blinked her way back to life. “You only took four brushing outs before you passed out. Myranda was so distraught she couldn’t finish her job. You really ought to apologise to her.”

Sansa groaned. It wasn’t bad enough having her feet so thoroughly abused by that foul woman, but Sansa had to apologise to her? The unfairness of it made her jaw clench. As she stared sullenly at the smirking woman, Sansa realised her situation had changed. She could glimpse the sun from the window, and it looked like it was about mid-morning, so she had only been out for an hour or so. She was still clad only in her woollen smallclothes, but now her legs were spread and tied to the heavy oaken bedposts. Instead of her wrists being tied above her head, as had been customary many a morning to fully expose the soft flesh of her armpits, they were bound together and tied toward to the foot of her bed, which left her hands on her lap. It was strange for them to put her in a position where she could protect her stomach and underarms, but knowing Ramsay, this was part of another game of his.

“She isn’t saying anything, milord,” Myranda said, “perhaps she really wants that final brushing out. Maybe we ought to start again and give her five more.”

“A fine idea!” Ramsay said, clapping his hands together.

“Sorry,” Sansa muttered, “I beg your pardons.”

“That’s a good wife.” Ramsay smiled. “but you wouldn’t let Myranda’s failure remain on her conscience, would you? Give her two brushing outs for now. I’ll even assist you.”

“No, no, no!” Sansa cried. Sure enough, they had two hairbrushes—one for each foot. And with the way her legs were spread, there was plenty of space for Myranda and Ramsay to set about their torturous business without getting in each other’s way. Time slowly dripped away as Sansa screamed herself hoarse once more. She hadn’t imagined things could have been worse than the brushing outs she had endured earlier, but Ramsay always found a way. Her long feet flapped and wiggled, but they had an even easier time restraining her foot’s flailing attempts at escape because they could hold the foot still with one hand while working the hairbrush with the other. After another eternity with the hairbrushes ploughing her arches and toes till they were far pinker that they had been prior, they stopped, with Sansa gasping for breath.

“Thank you, sweetling,” Ramsay said to Myranda and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled so sweetly for him as Ramsay strolled towards to red-faced and dishevelled Stark of Winterfell. He patted Sansa on the head the way you would a dog. “Good wife. Now, tell it true, would you like to get some revenge on cheeky Myranda?”

Sansa puffed for breath, her eyes darting from Ramsay’s expectant face to Myranda’s sly smile. What was the right answer? That she forgave that evil bitch? Or that she wanted nothing more than to turn those hairbrushes on Myranda’s shapely feet to make her scream?

“W-would you permit me?” Sansa said, trying to read her lord husband’s face. She saw amusement blossom in his dark eyes.

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” He smiled at the two of them. Let’s play a game.” He beckoned to Myranda and had her put her bare feet on Sansa’s lap, within easy reach of her fingers. Sansa’s wrists were still tied, but she could move her fingers well enough. “If you can make Myranda laugh before you do, you win.”

“And what exactly do I win?” Sansa said.

“My undying love and respect,” Ramsay said without an ounce of sincerity. He laughed. “If you win, I’ll grant you a respite. I’ll go down to the kitchens and have an early breakfast. I might even bring back some lemon cake for you.”

“And what happens when she loses, milord?” Myranda asked. “Because we all know she will.”

Sansa responded by wiggling her nails on the small feet Myranda had placed in her lap at Ramsay’s behest. Myranda gasped, a big scowl wrinkling up her pretty face. She tugged her sensitive feet back.

“I won’t lose,” Sansa said.

“Well, since you have such great confidence,” Ramsay said, “if you lose, Myranda sleeps with us tonight.”

Sansa clenched her fingers and toes. That would probably mean that Sansa would be bound to this bed, bound and gagged while those two rutted right on top of her. Even while her lord husband would be in Myranda, his hands would seek out Sansa’s armpits, her belly, her ribs, to make the disgraced Lady Bolton writhe and wiggle beneath them. And of course, Myranda’s sharp nails would follow his and show the same disregard he had, ensuring Sansa would be suffering a hellish anguish even while they reached their points of ecstasy—the pinnacle of unfairness. If Sansa was especially unlucky, Ramsay might even smear food on her soles and set his hounds to licking it off her during all of this, as he had during one of their first nights together. And of course, it would be another great humiliation for the Stark girl who had once so cherished the idea of courtly love—to tumble some lowborn wench while your wife was in the same bed with you… that was beyond ordinary insolence. She shuddered to think what the other northerners must think of them, must think of her. But such qualms soon passed under a haze of ticklishness.

But Sansa recognised the look in her Ramsay’s eyes—he had decided already that this would be the game they played this bitter winter’s morning, and they would play it with or without her consent.

“Fine. I don’t care, because I’m not going to lose.”

“Words are wind, Lady Sansa.” Myranda could not say even this most minor of courtesies without a snarl, and at once, she raked her all of her nails up both soles at once.

Sansa shuddered and scrunched her eyes shut. That had been a stealth attack, a quick assault intended to garner an instant victory, and it had almost succeeded. She took a deep breath to steady herself and looked at the small feet in her lap. Myranda’s feet were pale as snow, the toes were small and cute with neatly-cut toenails, and overall, they were surprisingly well-tended to for a peasant girl. But then again, she probably had rather particular duties and responsibilities in the service of Ramsay Bolton. This was the first time Sansa had touched them.

One night around one week ago, Ramsay had asked for something unspeakable, something disgusting from Sansa, and in return he had claimed he would give her Myranda, naked and bound to their bed, for an hour. The promise of ticklish comeuppance was tantalising, especially when it was sweetened by his offer to let Sansa borrow his beloved hairbrushes.

But Sansa had been too repulsed, and she declined, which meant she was rewarded with three brushing outs instead. But it all went to show that Myranda was his, and like as not, she had once been the one wailing and begging in the bed as her ticklish body was brutalised by Ramsay. And to remain one of Ramsay’s favourites for so long meant her feet must have be ticklish.

Sansa’s fingers brushed against the Myranda’s feet. The arches were soft, every bit as soft as they looked, and they wrinkled right away at her touch. Sansa looked up and saw Myranda was already biting her lip, a ticklish smile already creeping across the corners of her face. Maybe this wasn’t an unwinnable situation after all.

But Myranda had a myriad of advantages on her side. Unlike Sansa’s slender feet which were far apart from each other, hers could wiggle and cross over each other. Sansa got a good, convulsive reaction when she started scratching under the ball of the left foot, but she could never keep her nails making contact with that spot for long enough to make Myranda break into laughter because the foot would flap or the other foot would push her hands away.

And unluckily, the soft spot only seemed to exist on her left foot but not her right. Myranda’s scrunching, squirming feet also never stayed in place, unlike Sansa’s tired feet which were still tied to the heavy, firm bedposts. Myranda was not above cheating, as well, pulling her feet out of Sansa’s reach every now and then when she thought she could get away with it, or just generally taking advantage of the mobility of her freed feet, which was something Sansa just did not have.

Yet despite this, Sansa’s pink feet had been tickled for a long time, and compared to those punishing hairbrushes, Myranda’s fingers just didn’t tickle enough to make her laugh when she was devoting her full attention to supressing it.

Sansa’s hands attacked Myranda’s small toes with skittering, spidering motions, though it almost backfired when she almost let out a yelp when Myranda mirrored her approach—Sansa having opted for tactic that proved so effective on her own bare feet, of course. But Myranda was faltering, Sansa could see. She kept taking sudden gasps of air through her nose, and she was gnawing hard on her lower lip. Just a bit closer…

She saw Myranda’s hand fumble and fall to the ground. Was she nearing her limit? Sansa thought with triumph, directing her fingers to that spot on the ball of Myranda’s left foot once more, just a bit more…

Then Sansa shrieked as the feeling of bristles scraped along her right foot. Myranda raised both hands in victory—having disposed the hairbrush she had just used for her illegitimate victory. She immediately pulled her feet of Sansa’s lap and gave Ramsay a kiss on the lips. He was applauding her heartily. He hadn’t noticed her dishonest play, of course.

“Cheater, cheater, cheater!” Sansa repeated, scowling at the girl. “You’re despicable.”

“Accusing my dear Myranda of cheating?” Ramsay growled as Myranda wrapped her arms around his toned chest. “I ought to punish you with another brushing out for that.”

“She used the hairbrush! I was winning!”

“Did not!” Myranda threw back. “Don’t complain just because you’re a weak, stupid, ticklish little girl and I’m not.”

The two girls threw insults and barbs at each other, till Ramsay ordered them to silence.

“Enough. Myranda, go do that thing I told you about,” he said, waving Myranda away.

Sansa watched her walk out the door with nary a word. Maybe Ramsay would be kinder without that shrew whispering in his ear, but Sansa would not wager on it. What would happen to her next?

“in light of such allegations, perhaps we’ll call it a tie,” Ramsay said, grinning. “We’re all winners!”

“We’re all winners? What does that mean?”

“That means Myranda will join us in bed tonight.”

Of course, Sansa thought, “And?”

“And, it’s time for breakfast,” he said, “but you still look very tired.” He whistled, and Myranda reappeared with a plate of black bread, crispy bacon, boiled eggs, and a small slice of lemon cake. The sight set Sansa’s mouth to watering. All her physical exertions this morning had tuckered her out, and her stomach was growling at her. But what did Ramsay mean…

“Very tired, milord,” Myranda said as she put the plate down, “perhaps her Ladyship would like some more rest.”

“No,” Sansa said, her eyes growing wide. “I’ve had enough! Let me out!”

“Don’t worry, my lady, I’ll send my best servant to take care of you. I’ll tell the other Northern lords that you’re indisposed, don’t you worry. Maybe I’ll even invite them to come visit you later.” With that, he strode from the bedchamber with nary a glance behind him.

“Don’t worry, Lady Sansa, I’ll take good care of you. I’ll feed you.” Myranda lifted up the thin, delicate slice of lemon cake and quite purposefully dropped it, smearing it across the bottom of Sansa’s right foot. “Oops. Well, I wouldn’t want to waste something with lemons being so hard to get hold of in the North now…”

Sansa shrieked. She shrieked in frustration about her situation, shrieked in ticklishness as Myranda nibbled at her arches with sharp little teeth, shrieked to the Old Gods and the New to come save her. But no one came. There was no escape from the teeth and tongue belonging to the feral bitch that could torment her ticklish feet with impunity, no escape from her graceless marriage, and no escape from her lord husband.

But she would remember her humiliation. The north always remembered.
 
Great story! You did an excellent job with Ramsay's dialouge; I actually heard Iwan Rheon's voice in my head reading his lines. And the hairbrush belonging to Catelyn Stark was a nice touch. I kinda wanted to see those dogs in action though, heh.
 
Thanks. I'm a big fan of the books/series so it was fun to do.

I actually originally did write a sequence with the hounds, but the commissioner vetoed it. Oh well :p
 
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