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This is a shorter, less intense and less sexual version of this story.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Irene snuck into her seat in the corner booth of the train. She liked her privacy and was annoyed by the sleeping scruffy man opposite her, slumped in the corner. It was a warm autumn day so Irene slipped her socked feet out of her colourful converses.
Yawning she stretched out her legs to place her tired feet on the opposite seat, pointing with her toes to find the gap under the low table. As Irene wondered why the other seat was higher something happened.
Under her round heels what Irene presumed was the opposite seat began to move as the man opposite stirred. Irene gasped and stuttered an apology, squeaking in surprise as the scruffy man swung his other leg over the tops of her ankles trapping her feet.
Irene's awkward apology turned to giggles as the scruffy man began to tickle her sensitive socked soles. Irene wasn't just ticklish she was super-ticklish. Even a cursory poke, prod or stroke could leave her giggling and squirming submissively if she was caught off guard.
"No that tickles!" She pleaded through giggles quickly losing her voice.
"An appropriate punishment! You isn't a supposed to put your feet on the seats!"
"No please!" Irene begged shyly, quickly losing control.
The man's legs were like a set of stocks. Irene's ankles were trapped in their vice-like grip. Irene had never been tickled for more than a few seconds before. Even through her socks this was the worst tickle-torture she had ever experienced. People liked to tickle her, and for some reason cats and dogs often licked her bare soles.
Irene had a love hate relationship with her feet. walking barefoot across grass was impossible for her, even with sandals the evil green spikey blades made her stick to the paths of her university campus. Irene loved to wear socks though, especially warm socks with plastic sandals.
Whilst grass was torture for Irene, sand was ecstasy. There was nothing better than walking barefoot at the beach and feeling the sand between her toes. Letting the tide ripple over her toes and the tops of her feet was almost orgasmic.
Being trapped made Irene a thousand times more ticklish. The sensation of her captors legs pinning her ankles made her panic at her utter helplessness but there was also something of the pure unadulterated ecstasy of her frequent trips to the beach as the strange man explored her toes through her socks.
Irene was panicking. She was panicking so badly that she even bought in to the scruffy man's skewed logic that if people heard her laughing she would get in trouble for putting her feet on the seat. She tried to resist laughing but soon her captor had her trapped in the terrible rictus of silent laughter.
A true sadist: the cruel vagabond spent several minutes slowly removing Irene's thin grey cooton socks, tickling her enough to keep her panicking and squirming, just barely capable of begging for mercy in a quiet voice. There was something utterly adorable about the way Irene begged in her quiet, submissive voice.
The cruel scruffy man finally bared her soles, slipping her fragrant socks into his coat pocket as a soveigneir. Now was the time for him to use the toys at his disposal, from the same pocket that now held Irene's precious socks he produced two feathers.
One was a shiny black crow's feather, the other a brown stripy feather from a female pheasant he had found on a walk in the countryside. He had many such feathers about his person, all would be tested on Irene's soles and toes: None would fail.
The cruel man would whisp the feathers between her toes whilst also tickling her creamy arches with his long ragged nails. He would also use the spiky points of the feathers to trace devilish designs all over her sensitive soles.
Irene was red in the face by now, she had worried she would lose control of her bladder but ever since the cruel man started using the pointy ends of the feathers her loins had started to tingle. electric sensations ran all through her body as her body started to turn to jelly.
At this point it would not have mattered if her cruel captor released her ankles, Irene was simply too ticklish to resist. In one of the short breaks to prolong his victims agony the cruel man held up his hands, he had positioned feathers between each finger so that his hands sported three rows of cruel pointy spikes.
It was clear what his intention was. instead of tracing one or two of the sharp quills over her soles he was going to apply a dozen or so to each sole.
"No please!" Irene begged, the prospect of such torture was unthinkable as was the humiliation she would feel if she gave in to the delicious torture and climaxed hard as her body craved.
"Yes!" The man whispered lowering his hands to continue Irene's torture.
The second the sharp points made contact with Irene's soles the helpless Asian beauty hit the point of no return. She would forever try to find men and women to tickle her senseless like this; but even the cruellest sadist could never match the utter submissive abandon she felt as the sharp points on her soles.
Irene didn't know how long the scruffy man kept her trapped in terrible silent laughter but it seemed like an eternity, each new technique driving her new fetish deeper and deeper in to her submissive soul. No torture session in a set of stocks or stretched taut on a rack would match her sublime, sweet submission.
Finally she could take no more and found the air in her lungs to beg for mercy.
"No please... need bathroom... no more! She pleaded red faced through ragged breaths.
Her captor cooed sympathetically and forced his victim to surrender her expensive phone for the promise of a bathroom break.
But the cruel scarecrow of a man was not done with her yet. A terrible black pen was produced along with a Biro and Irene's soles became works of art sporting messages such as; "Super ticklish!" and "Please tickle me!" Along with her phone number, Snapchat, Instagram and enough potential humiliation to ensure her return. Irene registered the clicking noise of her phone taking pictures but was too exhausted to understand the connotations.u
Irene's colourful converses were taken hostage along with her phone, the terrible message sitting ready to send. Irene desperately needed a break, curiously a part of her wanted the tickle-torture to continue but the thought of wetting herself spoke to a primal instinct even deeper.
After finding a cubicle she could enter in her socked feet Irene padded back to her seat, feeling the glares and glances of the other passengers on her socked feet.
Irene was brought sharply back to earth upon her return. There on her phone were her soles! Inked up and ready to upload to social media. The thought of all her friends and family not only knowing about her new fascination but also being encouraged to indulge it both terrified and embarrassed her. When people tickled her it was often because she left her socked feet invitingly close to them, leading some friends to insist that she 'must like it'.
The scruffy man tapped the seat indicating that he wished for her to return her soles to his administrations. Irene cursed this trip to see the city where her favourite show was filmed. It had been a lovely day and a wonderful hotel but the return trip had turned to pure torture.
Sulkily she returned her soles to the seat between the man's legs. This time he stripped away her socks hungrily, tying her big toes with a piece of string. Irene couldn't believe how brazen he was being. As he revealed her electric toothbrush and hairbrush, pillaged from her luggage Irene glanced down at her phone.
The update was still ready to post, she could make a grab for it but knew that in the confusion her touch-screen phone would probably broadcast her secret shame.
Irene had no option to endure the torture until she could take no more. Irene had never thought about such common household items could be turned into such terrible instruments of torture. The electric toothbrush between her toes was unbearable, only matched by the cruel strokes of her hairbrush upon her arches and the balls of her feet, Barefoot and delirious her cruel captor left her gibbering and blubbering. He had a lengthy train journey home in the opposite direction.
He had enjoyed his trip so much he had stayed on for several extra stops before finally deciding to depart before his luck ran out. He was getting closer to 'That London' now and just knew a conductor or commuter would be poking their nose in soon...
Irene was just about coming round from her ordeal when the conductor opened the door with the cry of 'tickets please' still giddy and barefoot she struggled to get her orange and yellow tickets out of her phone's case, accidentally sending the picture update as she clumsily fumbled with the flippy case.
"Oh and please don't put your feet on the seat Darling!" The surly conductor declared; eyeing her pink, inky soles.
The next night Irene screamed into her ball-gag. Three fellow members of her university's fetish society tickled her still inky soles whilst others tormented her upper body and teased her outstretched knees. The torture was more intense, but somehow did not satisfy Irene.
Her secret was out now, and no amount of intense tickle torture would compare to that first experience on the train.
In time she would be buried at public beaches with her feet poking out to be mercilessly tickled by her fellow fetishists at first; and later by all who read the inky messages encouraging them to use the plumes standing proud in the sand along with the hairbrushes and tickle toys scattered all around.
This nearly scratched her itch, more so than being stretched out naked on a medieval rack for tickle torture. The public humiliation being the crucial factor in making the torture sufficiently intense again.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Irene snuck into her seat in the corner booth of the train. She liked her privacy and was annoyed by the sleeping scruffy man opposite her, slumped in the corner. It was a warm autumn day so Irene slipped her socked feet out of her colourful converses.
Yawning she stretched out her legs to place her tired feet on the opposite seat, pointing with her toes to find the gap under the low table. As Irene wondered why the other seat was higher something happened.
Under her round heels what Irene presumed was the opposite seat began to move as the man opposite stirred. Irene gasped and stuttered an apology, squeaking in surprise as the scruffy man swung his other leg over the tops of her ankles trapping her feet.
Irene's awkward apology turned to giggles as the scruffy man began to tickle her sensitive socked soles. Irene wasn't just ticklish she was super-ticklish. Even a cursory poke, prod or stroke could leave her giggling and squirming submissively if she was caught off guard.
"No that tickles!" She pleaded through giggles quickly losing her voice.
"An appropriate punishment! You isn't a supposed to put your feet on the seats!"
"No please!" Irene begged shyly, quickly losing control.
The man's legs were like a set of stocks. Irene's ankles were trapped in their vice-like grip. Irene had never been tickled for more than a few seconds before. Even through her socks this was the worst tickle-torture she had ever experienced. People liked to tickle her, and for some reason cats and dogs often licked her bare soles.
Irene had a love hate relationship with her feet. walking barefoot across grass was impossible for her, even with sandals the evil green spikey blades made her stick to the paths of her university campus. Irene loved to wear socks though, especially warm socks with plastic sandals.
Whilst grass was torture for Irene, sand was ecstasy. There was nothing better than walking barefoot at the beach and feeling the sand between her toes. Letting the tide ripple over her toes and the tops of her feet was almost orgasmic.
Being trapped made Irene a thousand times more ticklish. The sensation of her captors legs pinning her ankles made her panic at her utter helplessness but there was also something of the pure unadulterated ecstasy of her frequent trips to the beach as the strange man explored her toes through her socks.
Irene was panicking. She was panicking so badly that she even bought in to the scruffy man's skewed logic that if people heard her laughing she would get in trouble for putting her feet on the seat. She tried to resist laughing but soon her captor had her trapped in the terrible rictus of silent laughter.
A true sadist: the cruel vagabond spent several minutes slowly removing Irene's thin grey cooton socks, tickling her enough to keep her panicking and squirming, just barely capable of begging for mercy in a quiet voice. There was something utterly adorable about the way Irene begged in her quiet, submissive voice.
The cruel scruffy man finally bared her soles, slipping her fragrant socks into his coat pocket as a soveigneir. Now was the time for him to use the toys at his disposal, from the same pocket that now held Irene's precious socks he produced two feathers.
One was a shiny black crow's feather, the other a brown stripy feather from a female pheasant he had found on a walk in the countryside. He had many such feathers about his person, all would be tested on Irene's soles and toes: None would fail.
The cruel man would whisp the feathers between her toes whilst also tickling her creamy arches with his long ragged nails. He would also use the spiky points of the feathers to trace devilish designs all over her sensitive soles.
Irene was red in the face by now, she had worried she would lose control of her bladder but ever since the cruel man started using the pointy ends of the feathers her loins had started to tingle. electric sensations ran all through her body as her body started to turn to jelly.
At this point it would not have mattered if her cruel captor released her ankles, Irene was simply too ticklish to resist. In one of the short breaks to prolong his victims agony the cruel man held up his hands, he had positioned feathers between each finger so that his hands sported three rows of cruel pointy spikes.
It was clear what his intention was. instead of tracing one or two of the sharp quills over her soles he was going to apply a dozen or so to each sole.
"No please!" Irene begged, the prospect of such torture was unthinkable as was the humiliation she would feel if she gave in to the delicious torture and climaxed hard as her body craved.
"Yes!" The man whispered lowering his hands to continue Irene's torture.
The second the sharp points made contact with Irene's soles the helpless Asian beauty hit the point of no return. She would forever try to find men and women to tickle her senseless like this; but even the cruellest sadist could never match the utter submissive abandon she felt as the sharp points on her soles.
Irene didn't know how long the scruffy man kept her trapped in terrible silent laughter but it seemed like an eternity, each new technique driving her new fetish deeper and deeper in to her submissive soul. No torture session in a set of stocks or stretched taut on a rack would match her sublime, sweet submission.
Finally she could take no more and found the air in her lungs to beg for mercy.
"No please... need bathroom... no more! She pleaded red faced through ragged breaths.
Her captor cooed sympathetically and forced his victim to surrender her expensive phone for the promise of a bathroom break.
But the cruel scarecrow of a man was not done with her yet. A terrible black pen was produced along with a Biro and Irene's soles became works of art sporting messages such as; "Super ticklish!" and "Please tickle me!" Along with her phone number, Snapchat, Instagram and enough potential humiliation to ensure her return. Irene registered the clicking noise of her phone taking pictures but was too exhausted to understand the connotations.u
Irene's colourful converses were taken hostage along with her phone, the terrible message sitting ready to send. Irene desperately needed a break, curiously a part of her wanted the tickle-torture to continue but the thought of wetting herself spoke to a primal instinct even deeper.
After finding a cubicle she could enter in her socked feet Irene padded back to her seat, feeling the glares and glances of the other passengers on her socked feet.
Irene was brought sharply back to earth upon her return. There on her phone were her soles! Inked up and ready to upload to social media. The thought of all her friends and family not only knowing about her new fascination but also being encouraged to indulge it both terrified and embarrassed her. When people tickled her it was often because she left her socked feet invitingly close to them, leading some friends to insist that she 'must like it'.
The scruffy man tapped the seat indicating that he wished for her to return her soles to his administrations. Irene cursed this trip to see the city where her favourite show was filmed. It had been a lovely day and a wonderful hotel but the return trip had turned to pure torture.
Sulkily she returned her soles to the seat between the man's legs. This time he stripped away her socks hungrily, tying her big toes with a piece of string. Irene couldn't believe how brazen he was being. As he revealed her electric toothbrush and hairbrush, pillaged from her luggage Irene glanced down at her phone.
The update was still ready to post, she could make a grab for it but knew that in the confusion her touch-screen phone would probably broadcast her secret shame.
Irene had no option to endure the torture until she could take no more. Irene had never thought about such common household items could be turned into such terrible instruments of torture. The electric toothbrush between her toes was unbearable, only matched by the cruel strokes of her hairbrush upon her arches and the balls of her feet, Barefoot and delirious her cruel captor left her gibbering and blubbering. He had a lengthy train journey home in the opposite direction.
He had enjoyed his trip so much he had stayed on for several extra stops before finally deciding to depart before his luck ran out. He was getting closer to 'That London' now and just knew a conductor or commuter would be poking their nose in soon...
Irene was just about coming round from her ordeal when the conductor opened the door with the cry of 'tickets please' still giddy and barefoot she struggled to get her orange and yellow tickets out of her phone's case, accidentally sending the picture update as she clumsily fumbled with the flippy case.
"Oh and please don't put your feet on the seat Darling!" The surly conductor declared; eyeing her pink, inky soles.
The next night Irene screamed into her ball-gag. Three fellow members of her university's fetish society tickled her still inky soles whilst others tormented her upper body and teased her outstretched knees. The torture was more intense, but somehow did not satisfy Irene.
Her secret was out now, and no amount of intense tickle torture would compare to that first experience on the train.
In time she would be buried at public beaches with her feet poking out to be mercilessly tickled by her fellow fetishists at first; and later by all who read the inky messages encouraging them to use the plumes standing proud in the sand along with the hairbrushes and tickle toys scattered all around.
This nearly scratched her itch, more so than being stretched out naked on a medieval rack for tickle torture. The public humiliation being the crucial factor in making the torture sufficiently intense again.
