quesecotil
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Nov 3, 2003
- Messages
- 102
- Points
- 16
The bounty hunter Morgan Goode stalked her quarry through the gulch as the sun beat down on the Montanna mid-afternoon. The stetson she wore covered her eyes in shadow with its wide brim, whilst she watched a tumbleweed gently meander across the mouth of the dried up river bed. A pair of spurs jangled slightly from her custom made leather boots with each step her horse took. Three days outside of Georgetown, Morgan had only one thought on her mind: finding the location of a hidden stash from the bandit Moira Byrne. They were heading east, thankfully, which placed the sun behind Morgan should anyone look her way.
It had all begun a few nights before at a saloon in Georgetown. The whisky flowed like water through the gills of fish, and many a game of Faro was enjoyed that night by the gambling sorts. The whores, both male and female, did a roaring trade. It was by all accounts a successful night in the old West. Morgan had been in town a couple of days, restocking on supplies and handing in a bounty to the sheriff's office. It was a tough old life being a bounty hunter. Every step could be your last, but that was just the way Morgan liked it. She wasn’t much suited for softer work.
On this particular evening she had situated herself in the corner, drinking sparsely from a bottle of the old firewater herself. Half of the job of a good bounty hunter was being an excellent eavesdropper. Morgan was able to listen to a room full of people talking and keep three or four separate conversations straight in her head as she listened, whilst looking inconspicuous to her own impoliteness. The doors to the saloon swung open and in came Moira. She carried with her a heavy revolver strapped to her right hip, and an enormous Cheshire cat grin as she sauntered to the bar and demanded the best whisky in the house. Two hours later and everyone in the place knew that she had just split from the gang she was running with, that she had a bounty on her head, but more importantly that she had stashed her share of the profits from a recent train robbery.
Morgan supposed that Moira had thought that she was safe mouthing off in the town. Everyone was in awe of the red hand gang, the group that Moira had just split from. In order to get in you had to be a pretty rough and ready character, or so the stories went. Plus they had pulled off that train robbery, which almost always ended in disaster. There was a slim chance that anyone would be gunning for Moira after that story. Save for the steel eyed bounty hunter following her trail.
Mopping her brow slightly, Morgan pushed her fringe out of her eyes. Though her chestnut hair was closely cropped, it still dangled down at the front when left to its own devices. The back of her quarry’s head was just visible at the edge of her vision, but the gulch was just about to end abruptly and make its way into a steep valley, so Morgan felt it was time to close the distance. Once she got into the valley, there would be no easy escape and there was plenty of privacy to be had.
Spurring the horse into a canter, Morgan checked her lasso knotwork. She was a Kentucky girl herself, which meant horse rearing. Inevitably that also meant that she was a dab hand with a length of rope, in more ways than one. Her family had owned a pony farm on the outskirts of a small town, but when bandits came and stole the whole flock her family had gone out of business real quick. Her daddy had already taken out a loan about as big as he was going to get, and his gambling habit didn't feed itself. Morgan pushed back these thoughts that came unbidden to the fore of her mind. Though the hatred of the lawless would steel her resolve, thinking about her family just made her feel depressed. As her calloused hands felt along the length of the knotwork, she found that it was impeccable as always. Nobody would be able to loosen that once it was pulled taut.
Stepping carefully out of the gulch, it was a small distance to enter the valley. The temperature was rising uncomfortably from the high position of the sun. At least in the valley there was the shelter of the pine trees lining both sheer slopes. The scent of the trees wafted from the pathway where a carpet of their leaves had fallen. Good, Morgan thought to herself, that will give me something to tie her to.
The showdown approached, with Moira still none the wiser to the fact she was being stalked by a rope toting cowgirl. This was part of Morgan’s tactics. She hated to shoot people, no matter how rotten. Everyone out here had someone, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. The list went on. It was far easier to make peace with the bounty hunter who brought your loved one back alive, even if they ended up swinging at the end of a sheriff's noose. And for those that went to jail? At least you could visit or write them. Sizing up the shape of the clearing and the distance between the trees, Morgan coiled the rope to the appropriate length for swinging in such conditions and she began to whirl the lasso over her head as quietly as she could.
The throw landed perfectly. Moira would have only a moment to notice the rope flying past her vision, before she was flying through the air to meet the ground. She cried out in surprise and shock at the sudden rude awakening from what had just moments before been a pleasant trot through some picturesque scenery. Now for the clever part. Morgan spurred her horse into action again, this time driving the mare into a gallop. The rope had caught Moiras hands down by her sides, but most folk worth their salt could still reach their gun from here. Timing it just right, Morgan galloped past like the wind. At the exact moment when Moira was taking her revolver out of the holster she took an almighty jolt from the rope dragging her along. Most people dropped their guns when this happened, and Moira proved to be no exception. The revolver slipped from her hands and bounced once on the pine carpet as she found herself dragged by the bounty hunter deeper into the valley.
Once the gun was dealt with, Morgan slowed her horse to a trot. She was still dragging Moira along, but at least she wasn't smashing her captive off every rock and root through this wild off-road track. Locating a large enough tree for her purposes, Morgan approached and climbed down. The lasso was secured to the horse bridle, and in turn she secured the horse to a nearby log.
“Good girl.” She praised, passively. Her eyes instead watched as Moira was trying to free herself from the bindings, but finding them too tight to do anything about. Her hands were jammed hard against her sides, and the knot was impossible to even reach, never mind undo. Morgan drew her pistol and approached.
“Moira.” She called out on the approach. Moira spun around quickly and upon seeing the gun trained on her she sagged her shoulders.
“Ah fuck.” She said despondently. It took Morgan by surprise slightly, having expected a lot more fire from this alleged firecracker, at least if her antics last night were anything to go by.
“Come with me up the hill to this tree, or I am going to be forced to shoot you..” As she spoke, Morgan busied herself getting behind Moira and marching her uphill. She complied without another word.
“Now sit with your back against the tree.” Morgan said, and again Moira complied. Morgan then untied the rope from her horse and walked it around the tree multiple times, looping the rope higher and higher up Moira’s torso until the rope sat just under her ample bosom. Morgan tied it off and admired her handiwork. It was a sturdy tie and wouldn't be coming loose any time soon.
“Who the hell are ya, anyway?” Moira hollered, as Morgan went to her saddlebags to get the rest of her equipment. She took out a coil of rope, a large wooden stake, a mallet and a bag. Once she had these items, she walked back in front of Moira, who by now was looking flustered.
“Name’s Morgan Goode, but I go by another name too. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of me?” She said, arranging her tools on the ground as Moira looked on in cautious curiosity.
“Well yer handy with those ropes, I know that much.” Moira muttered darkly as she squirmed to find some give in the bondage, only to find there was none. Morgan reached down and took hold of one of Moira's legs by the ankle. She tried to kick, but found that Morgan’s grip was too strong. Before Moira knew it she had lost both of her boots, leaving her feet shod in thin cotton socks. Her feet squirmed when introduced to their new predicament, one sole covering the other.
“Straighten your legs, please.” Morgan asked, taking a good hard look at Moira for what seemed like the first time. She was shorter than Morgan thought, standing almost six inches less than Morgan herself. She was also a hell of a lot cuter than Morgan was expecting, with auburn hair tied in braids, chocolate brown eyes that were surprisingly soft and a curvaceous figure. For a moment Morgan started to wonder if she had maybe caught the wrong gal.
“I ain't doing what ya say.” Moira spat back in an act of defiance, causing Morgan to sigh deeply.
“We can do this the hard way if you would prefer.” Morgan picked up the large wooden stake in one hand and mallet in the other. Moira’s eyes widened for a moment, but then turned to a look of curiosity when Morgan began to hammer the stake into the ground about four feet away from the tree. It took almost a minute to embed it fully, but once she was done Morgan knew that even her horse wouldn’t have been able to pull this out of the ground. Next she took the rope and coiled it in a complex way until she had made another lasso, though this one was much smaller.
“Last chance to do as I ask.”
“Or else what?”
“Or I embarrass you again, like this.” With slow and deliberate movements, Morgan picked the coiled rope up and reached out her other hand. Despite kicking and flailing as best she could, Moira couldn’t stop the other woman from seizing a firm grip on her ankle and pulling her leg taught, the joints and muscles straightening against her will.
“Get off me! Ya have no idea what trouble yer in!” Moira’s voice was getting shriller, higher pitched and with more of a panicked twinge to it. Morgan still hadn’t explained what was about to happen next. Kneeling across Moira’s shin, she reached out and took hold of her other leg and pulled it beside the first. Moira was probably referring to her affiliation with the Red Hand gang, but probably didn’t realise that Morgan was in the saloon last night and heard this little firecracker openly admit she wasn’t running with that gang anymore.
The trap closed over Moira’s ankles and she was forced to watch as Morgan pulled the ropes taut and bound it to the stake. Her knotwork was hypnotic and impeccable to the point where Moira didn’t even bother to struggle, she just glowered at Morgan, who by this point was starting to enjoy herself.
“Now.” She began, setting a small canvas bag down next to Moira’s bound and socked feet. “It’s time to talk, Moira.” As she spoke, Morgan took a number of items out of her bag and laid them out on the ground. A pair of soft looking eagle tail feathers, a horse grooming brush and a ball of twine.
“What… are ya gonna tickle me or something?” Moira said astutely. Morgan looked her right in the eye and allowed a tiny smile to creep into the corners of her lips. “Wait… I know ya.” Moira exclaimed, eyes going wide with horror at the realisation. “Yer the Kentucky Quill!” Morgan nodded once and tipped her hat in acknowledgement.
“That’s right. So you know what comes next, but you don’t know what I want, but I bet you can guess..” Picking up the plumes before regarding her captive’s socks, Morgan inspected the material. They were white cotton socks, or rather they were white once. A little dirty these days, with some holes in the toes and one or two around the sole. It wasn’t an uncommon sight by any means. It was a welcome sight for Morgan though, as she often liked to start with the socks on.
“I imagine ya want me to talk about my stash from the big train job, but ya must be outta yer mind if ya think I’m gonna spill my guts from a little ticklin'.”
“It always starts and ends the same way. Last chance before we get started.”
“Do yer worst!” Moira glowered.
“As you wish.” Morgan said, delighted that Moira was going to try to resist. She always loved it when they put up a fight, but every single person the Kentucky Quill had ever tied up had spilled the beans one way or another. “Say your prayers Moira, because you’ll need a higher power to resist.”
With that said, Morgan slipped an eagle feather into Moira's left sock through one of the holes in the toes. The bandit squirmed her ankle, trying to jerk her foot away, but Morgan simply took hold of the top of Moiras foot in the palm of her other hand to hold it still. Twisting the feather between her fingers, Morgan caused the implement to spin around in the sock, tickling Moira’s sole. The bandit twitched and struggled as best she could, trying not to laugh in a vain attempt to deprive Morgan of her fun. Little did Moira know, but this was exactly how Morgan liked it.
“Come on quit it!” Moira growled, more bravely than she probably felt by this point, “Yer not gonna break me with this kids stuff, I ain't never gonna tell ya where my stash is!”
The quill sawed up and down throughout the sock, finding all sorts of little places to get lost in for a few moments before gliding back upwards. Trapping the feather between the sock and the sole did diminish how ticklish it was, but it made it much harder to get away from, as Moira was quickly discovering. Since she couldn't make very dramatic movements with her foot, Moira found that the small movements she could make were actually contributing to tickling her foot. She began to titter in earnest.
“Quit it I said!” She yelled now, squirming in her bondage even more, knowing it would earn her only deepening rope marks.
“You are in control of your own tickling, Moira.” A shiver went down Morgan’s back when she said the word “Tickling”. She normally disliked saying or hearing the word because of how it made her feel, but in this context it was thrilling. There were things you could say to a bound captive that you could never say in polite conversation, and if you did manage to say them in that context it would never convey the same titillating feeling. “Just as soon as you cry for mercy and tell me where your stash is, I’ll stop tickling and we can set off to go dig it up.”
It was time to up the ante, Morgan felt, so she released her hold on Moira’s foot and then placed the other feather in her other sock, this time through the hole in the sole. Moira gave out a squeal at the contact and began squirming both feet back and forth. It didn't do her much good at this point though, Morgan was moving more or less in time with Moira to keep up the tickling sensations.
“Wait a second!” Cracks in Moira‘s armour were visibly forming as sweat beaded at her freckled forehead. Clearly she was growing frustrated at the insistent tickling and her own inability to quell it or escape it. “Give me a minute, would ya? I gotta remember where it is!”
Morgan knew full well that this was a stalling tactic to earn her feet a break, but she indulged it with amusement. Letting Moira have a modicum of control allowed Morgan to take it away as a punishment, which always led to some of her favourite scenarios when tickling a prisoner. Withdrawing the feathers she teased them down Moira‘s sock covered insteps, and even this was giving the bandit cause to squirm.
“Take all the time you want, dear. I‘ll still be here waiting to continue the second you decide that you can‘t recall, or when you've found your nerve again.”
“Ya dirty... grrr…”
“The only thing dirty around here are your socks. Speaking of which, since you‘re clearly stalling, I think it‘s time we took them off.”
Without waiting to listen to her complaints, Morgan stripped Moira of her socks. She took both at once in one single yank of the material gathered by the toes and tossed them over her shoulder. Moira wouldn't be needing socks for the foreseeable future as far as Morgan was concerned.
“Damn it! Ya can‘t do this to me!”
“Actually, I can and I am, and there isn‘t anything you can do to stop me. Plus, I know for a fact that this valley is used as a route infrequently, so we are unlikely to be discovered if you were hoping for rescue from your predicament. I don‘t mind if you give up now, in ten minutes, in an hour, or even tomorrow morning. All I know is that I am going to tickle your bare feet until you submit and talk.”
Without waiting for further discourse, Morgan swept the tips of the feathers from Moira‘s heels to the tips of her short toes. The bandit‘s feet were small and wide, forming almost an inverted triangle shape and with aforementioned short, round toes. It would be a challenge to get fingernails between them, but the feather fit just fine. Sawing it back and forth elicited shrieks of panic from Moira, but because she could still wiggle her feet back and forth a bit, Morgan struggled to keep the feather in that sweet spot that would make her squeal. Instead she began sweeping both feathers randomly up and down her flailing feet, which struggled from side to side like a metronome.
“Quit it! Quit it! I’ll never talk, ya pain in the ass!” Moira struggled to speak in between her squeaks, squeals and attempt to keep her lips together. She hadn’t out and out laughed yet, but Morgan was working up to it. Her feet were plenty ticklish though, pleasing the bounty hunter immeasurably. She anticipated that Moira would be begging around the time the brush got to her soles based on her experience of tickling bound feet.
“Then I’ll never give you another break. I bet you’ll need me to stop way before I need to stop. The only thing that gets you breaks is information.” Morgan retorted matter of factly. By now she had been feathering Moira for about a minute and a half and already she could see the resolve cracking on the bandit.
After that, Morgan just ignored every insult, threat and swear word that came out of Moira’s filthy mouth. The feather continued to stroke up and down time after time, teasing at the edges of her feet, sweeping under the toes, dominating the arch of the foot and tracking along each of the bandit’s adorable toes. As Morgan progressed with the tenacious tickling, Moira lost the ability to hold in her giggles, then she began to guffaw,
“Stop! Stop! I’ll tell ya where the money is!” Moira yelled through her laughter. Morgan didn’t stop right away though, every action she performed aimed at taking control away from Moira and illustrating just who was in charge. The feathers decreased in speed gradually, like a train approaching a station until the tips rested against the captive woman’s heels.
“Talk then.” Morgan said, knowing that she wouldn’t. Knowing this was just a ploy to make the tickling stop for a moment, and it took every ounce of self control to not smile knowing what her counter play to this move was ahead of time. From her experience what came next would either be an outright lie, stalling tactics, a conversation attempt, or in her favourite cases pleading. There was something just so satisfying about upping the ante on someone who was begging for mercy, yet unwilling to actually break properly.
“Wait a sec, wait- ahh!” Stalling it was, so Morgan stroked both feathers up Moira’s soles.
“Talk.” Morgan said gruffly, as if she were losing her patience, as opposed to having the time of her life.
“Fuck off!” Moira yelled with all the violent venom she could muster in between having her soles feathered. Well that tore it. Morgan wouldn’t stand for a foul mouth pointed in her direction. Wordlessly she placed the feathers down and picked up the twine.
“You asked for this.” She warned, taking a length of the course material and winding it around Moira’s big toes in a handcuff knot, before tying it off around the rope securing her ankles. It pulled both of Moira's feet together and then bent them back to force the soles taut. She could still wiggle all of her other toes, but her big toes were now restrained. The bound woman tried to spit at Morgan, tried to shout at her to get her attention, and tried to find a flaw in the bondage. Nothing was working, and now the lesson was to be implemented. She did this to herself.
Using the edges of the feathers, Morgan now inserted them into space beside her restrained big toes and moved them back and forth simultaneously, stimulating the soft flesh between her toes. The reaction was an instantaneous shriek and immediate remorse, manifested by a renewed bout of begging and promising to cooperate. She had earned this though, Morgan thought as she lazily sawed back and forth, putting minimal effort in to get uproarious results. She would continue to punish Moira for a good minute of non-stop sawing between her hypersensitive toes. When the bandit started growing hoarse from all the undignified screeching, Morgan ceased between the toes and began stroking her taut soles instead. The realisation that she was unable to move her feet away from the torment hardly at all brought out a renewed bout of helpless laughter from Moira. She tried to restrain it, tried to fight it, but Morgan knew her stomach muscles would be aching by now.
“Quit it!” She yelled between forced laughter. “Stop! I’ll tell ya, I mean it!” Morgan smirked to hear it and carried on regardless. She had just built up a rhythm of alternating strokes and was enjoying the laughter too much. She also wanted Moira to realise that the more she tried to resist and deceive the more devious her captor would be. Another thirty seconds or so and she again began to slow before resting the plumes against Moira’s toes, holding them hostage.
“Go on then. And don’t bother lying, because I’ll know.” Morgan punctuated her threat with a little reminder of the consequences. She twisted the feather between her thumb and forefinger, causing it to slightly brush against Moira’s tip toes. The bandit winced, but didn’t say anything at first, taking this moment to breathe deeply. When she did speak, her voice was as dark as a brooding storm.
“When I get loose, I’m gonna git ya, an’ I’m gonna tie ya up. Then I’m gonna take yer boots off an’ I’m gonna do the exact same thing to ya, see how ya like it!” That concept took Morgan back a bit. Nobody had ever threatened to tickle her before. Plenty had offered to kill her, skin her alive, tie her to train tracks, etcetera.
“So let me get this straight.” She said, taking the twine and forming a series of little loops. Each of these loops found their way around a toe and proceeded to pull back and tie each piece of twine to the ropes binding Moira’s ankles. “You want to tie me up so that I’m as helpless as you are now. Then you want to take my boots off, and then take my socks off, so that I’m as barefoot as you are now...” Morgan was getting a little too into this, which Moira was probably picking up on, but Morgan carried on anyway. It wasn’t every day she got to say these things to someone. “Then,” she continued, voice almost trembling now, “you want to tickle my poor defenceless bare soles until I cry uncle?”
Moira’s dark veneer melted like butter during the course of Morgan’s speech and she smirked. “Yer, that’s right. Only ya won’t be askin’ for uncle, will ya? Prob’ly just ask me to fuck ya instead.” This definitely hadn’t happened to Morgan before and she was a little taken aback by it. “So how's about it? Do ya want a turn to get tied up an’ tickled?”
A thrill ran through Morgan’s body hearing another woman offer to tie her up and tickle her, but her mind raced to quash the feeling. This was about getting the money, and about collecting the bounty for this vile excuse for a cowgirl.
“You’re going to want to keep your dirty talk to yourself.” Morgan said, discarding the feathers and gently rubbing Moira’s soles with her fingertips. “All I want from you is information, and if you keep talking dirty I’ll gag you with your dirty socks.” Without giving Moira a chance to backchat, Morgan skittered her manicured nails right over the arches of her captive’s feet. Moira screamed, much louder than Morgan had been anticipating, and immediately began begging and pleading and saying she was sorry.
Morgan had to find a way to calm down now though. She knew she was blushing deeply, as the scarlet in her cheeks caused them to radiate warmth. What did she plan to do with the money when all this was done? Well, she had planned to buy a ranch and try her hand at raising horses herself. Just her and the horses. It never occurred to her before now just how lonely a dream that seemed. With no more feet to tickle. No more bandits to interrogate in her own special way. No more “Please don’t tickle me!” No more “Not there! Anywhere but there!” No more “Anything but the feather!” She frowned at the small bare feet in front of her that tried every conceivable angle to squirm more than an inch in any direction.
“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! Ahhhhhh! I can’t stand it!” Moira’’s laughter came in gales now, and her tone of voice was at the precipice of panic. In a blur of nails manicured to a point, scraping up every little bit of Moira’s flesh, the bandit’s resolve finally broke. Morgan ceased suddenly and looked up at Moira, slightly wild eyed as she returned to reality. Somehow Moira had managed to shake her hair out of the braids and her naturally curly hair was all over the place now, including matted to her forehead. She panted and sweated profusely, looking like she had been for a five mile run.
“Mercy…” She panted once more, shoulders drooped and leaning forwards as much as she could. “I’ll tell ya where the stash is.” Morgan had snapped out of it fully by now and was watching Moira carefully, nails poised to tickle again should they need to.
“I’m waiting.” Morgan said, impatiently. Again though, feeling anything but impatient with a captive as cute and as ticklish as Moira.
“I buried it under a stump, out by the red ridge. On the North side, near the creek. I… I’ll take ya there.” Moira said, dejectedly.
“Very good. Now apologise to me.”
Moira’s head snapped up. “Fer what!?”
“You said some very nasty things to me, and I want you to apologise properly.”
“Ya’v got to be kiddin’ me. I’m supposed to get tickled to high hell then apologise to ya ‘cause ya got hot under the collar? Uh-uh. I may have said I give, but I ain’t givin’ ya that satisfaction.”
“Wrong answer.” Morgan grinned, picking up the horse brush, whilst her heart skipped in joy that it was coming to this. The bristles on the brush were soft, but that only seemed to make things worse as the fibres scraped all along the bottoms of Moira’s feet. Morgan knew from experience that this was the most ticklish of the tools she had in her arsenal. Nobody withstood the brush for long, and Moira certainly wouldn’t be able to last on account of how ticklish she was.
“Please! Please! Am sorry! I’ll do it! I’ll say whatever ya want!” Moira pleaded, dispersed amongst hysterical laughter and attempts to draw breath deep enough to laugh back out. Morgan ignored her gleefully, the brush educating Moira in ways no prison cell ever would, and the way no gallows ever could.
“Now Moira, you’re gonna laugh it up some more, and then we are going to pack up and head up to Red Ridge, and you’re going to dig up your treasure for me. You’re going to be a good girl, and you’re going to do as your told, otherwise these pretty little feet of yours will get brush again. I get the feeling you don’t want the brush any more?”
“No! No! No! No more!” Moira squealed. “I’ll be good! I swears it! I’ll do whatever you want!”
Morgan pressed on regardless, pushing the brush up against the undersides of Moira’s toes, long since aware that this was the most ticklish part of her whole foot. “Good girl. Now, tell me who is your mistress.” Morgan said in a sweet and innocent voice, yet the continence of which was growing darker with every second of tickle torture that passed.
“Wait! Someone is coming! Wait! Stop! Behind you!” Moira screamed at the top of her lungs, coughing and struggling now as she battled the brush in a losing affair. Morgan thought it was a ploy to get her to stop tickling, so she carried on, but it was only a few more seconds before something bashed her right behind the ear and she fell forwards onto the ground with a low moan, face landing right next to the very feet she had been torturing for almost an hour now.
The last thing she saw before she passed out was a pair of cowboy boots stepping closer and a feminine voice speaking. “Well look at what we have here. It’s a good thing I overheard the location of your stash. Seems quite a ticklish situation all told.” The sound of the woman’s laughter resonated within the halls of Morgan’s mind as unconsciousness pulled her deeper into the dark.
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This was done as part of HomunculusLover's May Madness, over on Deviantart.
If you are interested in more of my work, find it here: https://www.deviantart.com/fullmetalky
It had all begun a few nights before at a saloon in Georgetown. The whisky flowed like water through the gills of fish, and many a game of Faro was enjoyed that night by the gambling sorts. The whores, both male and female, did a roaring trade. It was by all accounts a successful night in the old West. Morgan had been in town a couple of days, restocking on supplies and handing in a bounty to the sheriff's office. It was a tough old life being a bounty hunter. Every step could be your last, but that was just the way Morgan liked it. She wasn’t much suited for softer work.
On this particular evening she had situated herself in the corner, drinking sparsely from a bottle of the old firewater herself. Half of the job of a good bounty hunter was being an excellent eavesdropper. Morgan was able to listen to a room full of people talking and keep three or four separate conversations straight in her head as she listened, whilst looking inconspicuous to her own impoliteness. The doors to the saloon swung open and in came Moira. She carried with her a heavy revolver strapped to her right hip, and an enormous Cheshire cat grin as she sauntered to the bar and demanded the best whisky in the house. Two hours later and everyone in the place knew that she had just split from the gang she was running with, that she had a bounty on her head, but more importantly that she had stashed her share of the profits from a recent train robbery.
Morgan supposed that Moira had thought that she was safe mouthing off in the town. Everyone was in awe of the red hand gang, the group that Moira had just split from. In order to get in you had to be a pretty rough and ready character, or so the stories went. Plus they had pulled off that train robbery, which almost always ended in disaster. There was a slim chance that anyone would be gunning for Moira after that story. Save for the steel eyed bounty hunter following her trail.
Mopping her brow slightly, Morgan pushed her fringe out of her eyes. Though her chestnut hair was closely cropped, it still dangled down at the front when left to its own devices. The back of her quarry’s head was just visible at the edge of her vision, but the gulch was just about to end abruptly and make its way into a steep valley, so Morgan felt it was time to close the distance. Once she got into the valley, there would be no easy escape and there was plenty of privacy to be had.
Spurring the horse into a canter, Morgan checked her lasso knotwork. She was a Kentucky girl herself, which meant horse rearing. Inevitably that also meant that she was a dab hand with a length of rope, in more ways than one. Her family had owned a pony farm on the outskirts of a small town, but when bandits came and stole the whole flock her family had gone out of business real quick. Her daddy had already taken out a loan about as big as he was going to get, and his gambling habit didn't feed itself. Morgan pushed back these thoughts that came unbidden to the fore of her mind. Though the hatred of the lawless would steel her resolve, thinking about her family just made her feel depressed. As her calloused hands felt along the length of the knotwork, she found that it was impeccable as always. Nobody would be able to loosen that once it was pulled taut.
Stepping carefully out of the gulch, it was a small distance to enter the valley. The temperature was rising uncomfortably from the high position of the sun. At least in the valley there was the shelter of the pine trees lining both sheer slopes. The scent of the trees wafted from the pathway where a carpet of their leaves had fallen. Good, Morgan thought to herself, that will give me something to tie her to.
The showdown approached, with Moira still none the wiser to the fact she was being stalked by a rope toting cowgirl. This was part of Morgan’s tactics. She hated to shoot people, no matter how rotten. Everyone out here had someone, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. The list went on. It was far easier to make peace with the bounty hunter who brought your loved one back alive, even if they ended up swinging at the end of a sheriff's noose. And for those that went to jail? At least you could visit or write them. Sizing up the shape of the clearing and the distance between the trees, Morgan coiled the rope to the appropriate length for swinging in such conditions and she began to whirl the lasso over her head as quietly as she could.
The throw landed perfectly. Moira would have only a moment to notice the rope flying past her vision, before she was flying through the air to meet the ground. She cried out in surprise and shock at the sudden rude awakening from what had just moments before been a pleasant trot through some picturesque scenery. Now for the clever part. Morgan spurred her horse into action again, this time driving the mare into a gallop. The rope had caught Moiras hands down by her sides, but most folk worth their salt could still reach their gun from here. Timing it just right, Morgan galloped past like the wind. At the exact moment when Moira was taking her revolver out of the holster she took an almighty jolt from the rope dragging her along. Most people dropped their guns when this happened, and Moira proved to be no exception. The revolver slipped from her hands and bounced once on the pine carpet as she found herself dragged by the bounty hunter deeper into the valley.
Once the gun was dealt with, Morgan slowed her horse to a trot. She was still dragging Moira along, but at least she wasn't smashing her captive off every rock and root through this wild off-road track. Locating a large enough tree for her purposes, Morgan approached and climbed down. The lasso was secured to the horse bridle, and in turn she secured the horse to a nearby log.
“Good girl.” She praised, passively. Her eyes instead watched as Moira was trying to free herself from the bindings, but finding them too tight to do anything about. Her hands were jammed hard against her sides, and the knot was impossible to even reach, never mind undo. Morgan drew her pistol and approached.
“Moira.” She called out on the approach. Moira spun around quickly and upon seeing the gun trained on her she sagged her shoulders.
“Ah fuck.” She said despondently. It took Morgan by surprise slightly, having expected a lot more fire from this alleged firecracker, at least if her antics last night were anything to go by.
“Come with me up the hill to this tree, or I am going to be forced to shoot you..” As she spoke, Morgan busied herself getting behind Moira and marching her uphill. She complied without another word.
“Now sit with your back against the tree.” Morgan said, and again Moira complied. Morgan then untied the rope from her horse and walked it around the tree multiple times, looping the rope higher and higher up Moira’s torso until the rope sat just under her ample bosom. Morgan tied it off and admired her handiwork. It was a sturdy tie and wouldn't be coming loose any time soon.
“Who the hell are ya, anyway?” Moira hollered, as Morgan went to her saddlebags to get the rest of her equipment. She took out a coil of rope, a large wooden stake, a mallet and a bag. Once she had these items, she walked back in front of Moira, who by now was looking flustered.
“Name’s Morgan Goode, but I go by another name too. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of me?” She said, arranging her tools on the ground as Moira looked on in cautious curiosity.
“Well yer handy with those ropes, I know that much.” Moira muttered darkly as she squirmed to find some give in the bondage, only to find there was none. Morgan reached down and took hold of one of Moira's legs by the ankle. She tried to kick, but found that Morgan’s grip was too strong. Before Moira knew it she had lost both of her boots, leaving her feet shod in thin cotton socks. Her feet squirmed when introduced to their new predicament, one sole covering the other.
“Straighten your legs, please.” Morgan asked, taking a good hard look at Moira for what seemed like the first time. She was shorter than Morgan thought, standing almost six inches less than Morgan herself. She was also a hell of a lot cuter than Morgan was expecting, with auburn hair tied in braids, chocolate brown eyes that were surprisingly soft and a curvaceous figure. For a moment Morgan started to wonder if she had maybe caught the wrong gal.
“I ain't doing what ya say.” Moira spat back in an act of defiance, causing Morgan to sigh deeply.
“We can do this the hard way if you would prefer.” Morgan picked up the large wooden stake in one hand and mallet in the other. Moira’s eyes widened for a moment, but then turned to a look of curiosity when Morgan began to hammer the stake into the ground about four feet away from the tree. It took almost a minute to embed it fully, but once she was done Morgan knew that even her horse wouldn’t have been able to pull this out of the ground. Next she took the rope and coiled it in a complex way until she had made another lasso, though this one was much smaller.
“Last chance to do as I ask.”
“Or else what?”
“Or I embarrass you again, like this.” With slow and deliberate movements, Morgan picked the coiled rope up and reached out her other hand. Despite kicking and flailing as best she could, Moira couldn’t stop the other woman from seizing a firm grip on her ankle and pulling her leg taught, the joints and muscles straightening against her will.
“Get off me! Ya have no idea what trouble yer in!” Moira’s voice was getting shriller, higher pitched and with more of a panicked twinge to it. Morgan still hadn’t explained what was about to happen next. Kneeling across Moira’s shin, she reached out and took hold of her other leg and pulled it beside the first. Moira was probably referring to her affiliation with the Red Hand gang, but probably didn’t realise that Morgan was in the saloon last night and heard this little firecracker openly admit she wasn’t running with that gang anymore.
The trap closed over Moira’s ankles and she was forced to watch as Morgan pulled the ropes taut and bound it to the stake. Her knotwork was hypnotic and impeccable to the point where Moira didn’t even bother to struggle, she just glowered at Morgan, who by this point was starting to enjoy herself.
“Now.” She began, setting a small canvas bag down next to Moira’s bound and socked feet. “It’s time to talk, Moira.” As she spoke, Morgan took a number of items out of her bag and laid them out on the ground. A pair of soft looking eagle tail feathers, a horse grooming brush and a ball of twine.
“What… are ya gonna tickle me or something?” Moira said astutely. Morgan looked her right in the eye and allowed a tiny smile to creep into the corners of her lips. “Wait… I know ya.” Moira exclaimed, eyes going wide with horror at the realisation. “Yer the Kentucky Quill!” Morgan nodded once and tipped her hat in acknowledgement.
“That’s right. So you know what comes next, but you don’t know what I want, but I bet you can guess..” Picking up the plumes before regarding her captive’s socks, Morgan inspected the material. They were white cotton socks, or rather they were white once. A little dirty these days, with some holes in the toes and one or two around the sole. It wasn’t an uncommon sight by any means. It was a welcome sight for Morgan though, as she often liked to start with the socks on.
“I imagine ya want me to talk about my stash from the big train job, but ya must be outta yer mind if ya think I’m gonna spill my guts from a little ticklin'.”
“It always starts and ends the same way. Last chance before we get started.”
“Do yer worst!” Moira glowered.
“As you wish.” Morgan said, delighted that Moira was going to try to resist. She always loved it when they put up a fight, but every single person the Kentucky Quill had ever tied up had spilled the beans one way or another. “Say your prayers Moira, because you’ll need a higher power to resist.”
With that said, Morgan slipped an eagle feather into Moira's left sock through one of the holes in the toes. The bandit squirmed her ankle, trying to jerk her foot away, but Morgan simply took hold of the top of Moiras foot in the palm of her other hand to hold it still. Twisting the feather between her fingers, Morgan caused the implement to spin around in the sock, tickling Moira’s sole. The bandit twitched and struggled as best she could, trying not to laugh in a vain attempt to deprive Morgan of her fun. Little did Moira know, but this was exactly how Morgan liked it.
“Come on quit it!” Moira growled, more bravely than she probably felt by this point, “Yer not gonna break me with this kids stuff, I ain't never gonna tell ya where my stash is!”
The quill sawed up and down throughout the sock, finding all sorts of little places to get lost in for a few moments before gliding back upwards. Trapping the feather between the sock and the sole did diminish how ticklish it was, but it made it much harder to get away from, as Moira was quickly discovering. Since she couldn't make very dramatic movements with her foot, Moira found that the small movements she could make were actually contributing to tickling her foot. She began to titter in earnest.
“Quit it I said!” She yelled now, squirming in her bondage even more, knowing it would earn her only deepening rope marks.
“You are in control of your own tickling, Moira.” A shiver went down Morgan’s back when she said the word “Tickling”. She normally disliked saying or hearing the word because of how it made her feel, but in this context it was thrilling. There were things you could say to a bound captive that you could never say in polite conversation, and if you did manage to say them in that context it would never convey the same titillating feeling. “Just as soon as you cry for mercy and tell me where your stash is, I’ll stop tickling and we can set off to go dig it up.”
It was time to up the ante, Morgan felt, so she released her hold on Moira’s foot and then placed the other feather in her other sock, this time through the hole in the sole. Moira gave out a squeal at the contact and began squirming both feet back and forth. It didn't do her much good at this point though, Morgan was moving more or less in time with Moira to keep up the tickling sensations.
“Wait a second!” Cracks in Moira‘s armour were visibly forming as sweat beaded at her freckled forehead. Clearly she was growing frustrated at the insistent tickling and her own inability to quell it or escape it. “Give me a minute, would ya? I gotta remember where it is!”
Morgan knew full well that this was a stalling tactic to earn her feet a break, but she indulged it with amusement. Letting Moira have a modicum of control allowed Morgan to take it away as a punishment, which always led to some of her favourite scenarios when tickling a prisoner. Withdrawing the feathers she teased them down Moira‘s sock covered insteps, and even this was giving the bandit cause to squirm.
“Take all the time you want, dear. I‘ll still be here waiting to continue the second you decide that you can‘t recall, or when you've found your nerve again.”
“Ya dirty... grrr…”
“The only thing dirty around here are your socks. Speaking of which, since you‘re clearly stalling, I think it‘s time we took them off.”
Without waiting to listen to her complaints, Morgan stripped Moira of her socks. She took both at once in one single yank of the material gathered by the toes and tossed them over her shoulder. Moira wouldn't be needing socks for the foreseeable future as far as Morgan was concerned.
“Damn it! Ya can‘t do this to me!”
“Actually, I can and I am, and there isn‘t anything you can do to stop me. Plus, I know for a fact that this valley is used as a route infrequently, so we are unlikely to be discovered if you were hoping for rescue from your predicament. I don‘t mind if you give up now, in ten minutes, in an hour, or even tomorrow morning. All I know is that I am going to tickle your bare feet until you submit and talk.”
Without waiting for further discourse, Morgan swept the tips of the feathers from Moira‘s heels to the tips of her short toes. The bandit‘s feet were small and wide, forming almost an inverted triangle shape and with aforementioned short, round toes. It would be a challenge to get fingernails between them, but the feather fit just fine. Sawing it back and forth elicited shrieks of panic from Moira, but because she could still wiggle her feet back and forth a bit, Morgan struggled to keep the feather in that sweet spot that would make her squeal. Instead she began sweeping both feathers randomly up and down her flailing feet, which struggled from side to side like a metronome.
“Quit it! Quit it! I’ll never talk, ya pain in the ass!” Moira struggled to speak in between her squeaks, squeals and attempt to keep her lips together. She hadn’t out and out laughed yet, but Morgan was working up to it. Her feet were plenty ticklish though, pleasing the bounty hunter immeasurably. She anticipated that Moira would be begging around the time the brush got to her soles based on her experience of tickling bound feet.
“Then I’ll never give you another break. I bet you’ll need me to stop way before I need to stop. The only thing that gets you breaks is information.” Morgan retorted matter of factly. By now she had been feathering Moira for about a minute and a half and already she could see the resolve cracking on the bandit.
After that, Morgan just ignored every insult, threat and swear word that came out of Moira’s filthy mouth. The feather continued to stroke up and down time after time, teasing at the edges of her feet, sweeping under the toes, dominating the arch of the foot and tracking along each of the bandit’s adorable toes. As Morgan progressed with the tenacious tickling, Moira lost the ability to hold in her giggles, then she began to guffaw,
“Stop! Stop! I’ll tell ya where the money is!” Moira yelled through her laughter. Morgan didn’t stop right away though, every action she performed aimed at taking control away from Moira and illustrating just who was in charge. The feathers decreased in speed gradually, like a train approaching a station until the tips rested against the captive woman’s heels.
“Talk then.” Morgan said, knowing that she wouldn’t. Knowing this was just a ploy to make the tickling stop for a moment, and it took every ounce of self control to not smile knowing what her counter play to this move was ahead of time. From her experience what came next would either be an outright lie, stalling tactics, a conversation attempt, or in her favourite cases pleading. There was something just so satisfying about upping the ante on someone who was begging for mercy, yet unwilling to actually break properly.
“Wait a sec, wait- ahh!” Stalling it was, so Morgan stroked both feathers up Moira’s soles.
“Talk.” Morgan said gruffly, as if she were losing her patience, as opposed to having the time of her life.
“Fuck off!” Moira yelled with all the violent venom she could muster in between having her soles feathered. Well that tore it. Morgan wouldn’t stand for a foul mouth pointed in her direction. Wordlessly she placed the feathers down and picked up the twine.
“You asked for this.” She warned, taking a length of the course material and winding it around Moira’s big toes in a handcuff knot, before tying it off around the rope securing her ankles. It pulled both of Moira's feet together and then bent them back to force the soles taut. She could still wiggle all of her other toes, but her big toes were now restrained. The bound woman tried to spit at Morgan, tried to shout at her to get her attention, and tried to find a flaw in the bondage. Nothing was working, and now the lesson was to be implemented. She did this to herself.
Using the edges of the feathers, Morgan now inserted them into space beside her restrained big toes and moved them back and forth simultaneously, stimulating the soft flesh between her toes. The reaction was an instantaneous shriek and immediate remorse, manifested by a renewed bout of begging and promising to cooperate. She had earned this though, Morgan thought as she lazily sawed back and forth, putting minimal effort in to get uproarious results. She would continue to punish Moira for a good minute of non-stop sawing between her hypersensitive toes. When the bandit started growing hoarse from all the undignified screeching, Morgan ceased between the toes and began stroking her taut soles instead. The realisation that she was unable to move her feet away from the torment hardly at all brought out a renewed bout of helpless laughter from Moira. She tried to restrain it, tried to fight it, but Morgan knew her stomach muscles would be aching by now.
“Quit it!” She yelled between forced laughter. “Stop! I’ll tell ya, I mean it!” Morgan smirked to hear it and carried on regardless. She had just built up a rhythm of alternating strokes and was enjoying the laughter too much. She also wanted Moira to realise that the more she tried to resist and deceive the more devious her captor would be. Another thirty seconds or so and she again began to slow before resting the plumes against Moira’s toes, holding them hostage.
“Go on then. And don’t bother lying, because I’ll know.” Morgan punctuated her threat with a little reminder of the consequences. She twisted the feather between her thumb and forefinger, causing it to slightly brush against Moira’s tip toes. The bandit winced, but didn’t say anything at first, taking this moment to breathe deeply. When she did speak, her voice was as dark as a brooding storm.
“When I get loose, I’m gonna git ya, an’ I’m gonna tie ya up. Then I’m gonna take yer boots off an’ I’m gonna do the exact same thing to ya, see how ya like it!” That concept took Morgan back a bit. Nobody had ever threatened to tickle her before. Plenty had offered to kill her, skin her alive, tie her to train tracks, etcetera.
“So let me get this straight.” She said, taking the twine and forming a series of little loops. Each of these loops found their way around a toe and proceeded to pull back and tie each piece of twine to the ropes binding Moira’s ankles. “You want to tie me up so that I’m as helpless as you are now. Then you want to take my boots off, and then take my socks off, so that I’m as barefoot as you are now...” Morgan was getting a little too into this, which Moira was probably picking up on, but Morgan carried on anyway. It wasn’t every day she got to say these things to someone. “Then,” she continued, voice almost trembling now, “you want to tickle my poor defenceless bare soles until I cry uncle?”
Moira’s dark veneer melted like butter during the course of Morgan’s speech and she smirked. “Yer, that’s right. Only ya won’t be askin’ for uncle, will ya? Prob’ly just ask me to fuck ya instead.” This definitely hadn’t happened to Morgan before and she was a little taken aback by it. “So how's about it? Do ya want a turn to get tied up an’ tickled?”
A thrill ran through Morgan’s body hearing another woman offer to tie her up and tickle her, but her mind raced to quash the feeling. This was about getting the money, and about collecting the bounty for this vile excuse for a cowgirl.
“You’re going to want to keep your dirty talk to yourself.” Morgan said, discarding the feathers and gently rubbing Moira’s soles with her fingertips. “All I want from you is information, and if you keep talking dirty I’ll gag you with your dirty socks.” Without giving Moira a chance to backchat, Morgan skittered her manicured nails right over the arches of her captive’s feet. Moira screamed, much louder than Morgan had been anticipating, and immediately began begging and pleading and saying she was sorry.
Morgan had to find a way to calm down now though. She knew she was blushing deeply, as the scarlet in her cheeks caused them to radiate warmth. What did she plan to do with the money when all this was done? Well, she had planned to buy a ranch and try her hand at raising horses herself. Just her and the horses. It never occurred to her before now just how lonely a dream that seemed. With no more feet to tickle. No more bandits to interrogate in her own special way. No more “Please don’t tickle me!” No more “Not there! Anywhere but there!” No more “Anything but the feather!” She frowned at the small bare feet in front of her that tried every conceivable angle to squirm more than an inch in any direction.
“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! Ahhhhhh! I can’t stand it!” Moira’’s laughter came in gales now, and her tone of voice was at the precipice of panic. In a blur of nails manicured to a point, scraping up every little bit of Moira’s flesh, the bandit’s resolve finally broke. Morgan ceased suddenly and looked up at Moira, slightly wild eyed as she returned to reality. Somehow Moira had managed to shake her hair out of the braids and her naturally curly hair was all over the place now, including matted to her forehead. She panted and sweated profusely, looking like she had been for a five mile run.
“Mercy…” She panted once more, shoulders drooped and leaning forwards as much as she could. “I’ll tell ya where the stash is.” Morgan had snapped out of it fully by now and was watching Moira carefully, nails poised to tickle again should they need to.
“I’m waiting.” Morgan said, impatiently. Again though, feeling anything but impatient with a captive as cute and as ticklish as Moira.
“I buried it under a stump, out by the red ridge. On the North side, near the creek. I… I’ll take ya there.” Moira said, dejectedly.
“Very good. Now apologise to me.”
Moira’s head snapped up. “Fer what!?”
“You said some very nasty things to me, and I want you to apologise properly.”
“Ya’v got to be kiddin’ me. I’m supposed to get tickled to high hell then apologise to ya ‘cause ya got hot under the collar? Uh-uh. I may have said I give, but I ain’t givin’ ya that satisfaction.”
“Wrong answer.” Morgan grinned, picking up the horse brush, whilst her heart skipped in joy that it was coming to this. The bristles on the brush were soft, but that only seemed to make things worse as the fibres scraped all along the bottoms of Moira’s feet. Morgan knew from experience that this was the most ticklish of the tools she had in her arsenal. Nobody withstood the brush for long, and Moira certainly wouldn’t be able to last on account of how ticklish she was.
“Please! Please! Am sorry! I’ll do it! I’ll say whatever ya want!” Moira pleaded, dispersed amongst hysterical laughter and attempts to draw breath deep enough to laugh back out. Morgan ignored her gleefully, the brush educating Moira in ways no prison cell ever would, and the way no gallows ever could.
“Now Moira, you’re gonna laugh it up some more, and then we are going to pack up and head up to Red Ridge, and you’re going to dig up your treasure for me. You’re going to be a good girl, and you’re going to do as your told, otherwise these pretty little feet of yours will get brush again. I get the feeling you don’t want the brush any more?”
“No! No! No! No more!” Moira squealed. “I’ll be good! I swears it! I’ll do whatever you want!”
Morgan pressed on regardless, pushing the brush up against the undersides of Moira’s toes, long since aware that this was the most ticklish part of her whole foot. “Good girl. Now, tell me who is your mistress.” Morgan said in a sweet and innocent voice, yet the continence of which was growing darker with every second of tickle torture that passed.
“Wait! Someone is coming! Wait! Stop! Behind you!” Moira screamed at the top of her lungs, coughing and struggling now as she battled the brush in a losing affair. Morgan thought it was a ploy to get her to stop tickling, so she carried on, but it was only a few more seconds before something bashed her right behind the ear and she fell forwards onto the ground with a low moan, face landing right next to the very feet she had been torturing for almost an hour now.
The last thing she saw before she passed out was a pair of cowboy boots stepping closer and a feminine voice speaking. “Well look at what we have here. It’s a good thing I overheard the location of your stash. Seems quite a ticklish situation all told.” The sound of the woman’s laughter resonated within the halls of Morgan’s mind as unconsciousness pulled her deeper into the dark.
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This was done as part of HomunculusLover's May Madness, over on Deviantart.
If you are interested in more of my work, find it here: https://www.deviantart.com/fullmetalky
