Well, time for the first actual interaction in the quote unquote "tickling community" after a decade of lurking. Been practicing my writing recently, mostly for non-kink related things, but I did finally fully finish a decent tickling story for others to take a look at.
There's not enough big tough masculine girl x soft sweet feminine boy in...well anything, but especially in most tickling related things. Consider most of anything I post here to be an attempt to rectify that. And to make clear: the ticklee in this story is 19. The ler guestimates in her head that age and it's correct. No minors or intent to ever write minors from me. Very foot fetishy also, if you're not into that. Do enjoy.
----
It was hot, and it was dull, and she was tired. Gods, she was tired. Arachnomorphs weren’t hard kills, but they were everywhere and you had to be thorough. She had to destroy the whole nest to get paid, and that had taken all day. Finding every single last hiding bug lest they end up repopulating and causing trouble for the water supply again. And then, of course, she’d had to intimidated that weaselly little magistrate from trying to loophole her out of full payment. She hated jobs that were like this, and especially hated how they usually paid good and steady. So to make a living she was going to do a lot of them.
Her name was Koromira “Lion in Iron” Lasan. She was an infamous mercenary of great skill and experience. She had survived 39 winters and had been a sword for hire twenty of them. She had been all across the known world and beyond. And yet she was here, in a dusty desert nowhere town, killing Arachnomorphs to make ends meet.
And it was much, much too hot to be wearing all this godsdamn armor. She’d already pulled off that ornate, lion themed helm, revealing her scarred, grizzled face. Let her short blond hair with strands of premature gray cover her tired blue eyes. Her sabatons dug deep into the dust and sand with every step. Most townsfolk gave her a wide berth; understandable. She was 6’3 and built like an ox. And she was armed. And foreign. And uninterested in their time, anyway.
Her inn was in the poorer end of an already poor town. The clay buildings around her grew gradually less ornate, smaller and dingier. No paint or designs, blandly functional. And annoyingly, less shade. The only shade she could see was in the alleyways between, little hideaways from the heat and the brightness. She didn’t like alleyways, though. Too potentially dangerous.
Years of conflict forged her paranoia. She had to glance through each and every one, her mind filling with hidden assassins. It had happened more than once; one made enemies in twenty years of this work. Petty thieves too, but those usually broke as soon as she glared in their direction. Safe, safe, safe, cat, safe…She passed only the occasional local. Most people were working, most likely, the few weren’t pulling curious children into their homes to avoid the scary mercenary. It didn’t hurt her feelings; she would have done the same.
She wouldn’t be staying long, anyway. She’d hit the bed, pass out. Perhaps spend a day drinking away her sorrows, then head out north. There would be a lot of jobs this season, up north. Monsters and bandits tended to get riled by all the festivals, which meant plenty of jobs looking after revelers. And she could engage with some revelry herself, or rather just more drinking alone until she couldn’t move. She didn’t really have time for “friends”. And she wasn’t lonely. Not even a little bit.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her instinct, and her peripheral vision. Movement in an alleyway. Her head lurched to the side, hand on her sheathed blade to prepare for whatever foolish thing would try and get the drop on her. But it was not a weapon that would steal her breath. Not a foe who would chain her mind as certain as any shackles.
There, shining in a stray sunbeam was a pair of bare feet. The smallest idle kick brought them swinging within that light. Slender and high-arched, yet plush. The soles were a shade lighter than the dusky skin of their owner, and they looked soft as silk. Nails grown into slightest points, the subtle wiggle of the toes making her heart stop.
These feet belonged to a local youth, perhaps nineteen summers. And gods, he was pretty too. Svelte of form, smooth of skin, long curly hair draped downward from his prone position. The raggedness of his clothes didn’t detract from it, didn’t detract from that soft, beatific face dreamily staring down into the sand. He was perched atop a ledge at the beginning of a stairwell, transfixed with the drawing shapes into the dusty alley beneath him. Laying upon his stomach and letting absolute treasures sway in the air. So engrossed was he in simple art that he hadn’t noticed her at all.
The Lion in Iron had never frozen like that before. Stopped in her tracks as fully, as stiffly, as any stasis spell from a sorcerer. She had been utterly stricken by the boy, him and his simple beauty. It felt like an eternity she was trapped, trapped by the subtle wiggle of long bubbly toes and the curve of the sole. She didn’t notice at first when she started to move. Long, hesitant strides buried her bootprint deep into the sandy street.
The closer she got to the boy, the more enticing he became. He had cute little freckles across his face, and pretty brown eyes. A lock of his hair slid down across his nose, naked legs soft and shining against the light. A precious little smile on precious little lips. She wanted to kiss them. She wanted to kiss all the way over that beautiful face.
But above all she focused on the soles of his feet. Now she could see the light dusting of sand across the surface, a faint shine of sweat from the hot day’s sun. Every little wrinkle and contour that made the two extremities unique. Her already thumping heart skipped a beat when a fleeting gust of wind blew through the air. Against the skin of the feet, skin that was as sensitive as it looked. That barest bit of pressure was enough to make him flinch and gasp. To make the toes scrunch up deliciously.
Deliciously. That was the word that was coming to her mind. She hadn’t felt this way about anything in her entire life, all thirty-nine years of it. The sweet innocence only compelled her further. To him, her traipsing forward was nothing to concern himself with…a passerby and not a threat. Gods, she envied that. She envied that and wanted to ruin it at the same time.
When did she start having such dark thoughts?
Closer, closer, closer. The glare of the sun was pointed away from her. Perhaps that was for the better, for the shadow may have frightened him off as big as it would be. At last, she was over him. And even he, free-spirited and carefree, could not help but notice her now.
The boy quizzically turned his head up, surprised by the titanic mercenary looming over him. Not afraid. Perhaps he should be, but the naivety made her heart ache all the more. “Goon Vee-tal?” His voice was as sweet as she’d imagined, all honey and summer breeze. “Mayla Ku-”
Without warning, even to herself, Koromira hand reached out. An armored finger traced a line straight down the youth’s unbearably perfect sole. His entire body stiffened, and he squeaked like a mouse. It was adorable. She wanted more.
He tried to sit up, a hand moving to his chest. Cheeks flushed and mouth agape. Yet his feet remained raised and tempting. “Henane! Keelai so! Tal-Keelaish!” She could suspect what the words meant. She wanted to hear them more…and she didn’t want the pose to end. Her muscular arm reached over to clamp the lad’s legs in place.
“Henane! Lor-teekool…?!” The surprised struggle was feeble against the strength and will of a determined sellsword. He didn’t even really struggle that hard…still, he was more confused than frightened. She let her helmet fall to the ground to free her other arm. She could see those amazing soles in all their glory. She wanted them more than any treasure she’d delved in dungeons for. She wanted to feel them.
The Lion struggled to release her armored glove to join the helmet, to free her calloused hand. The boy pursed his lips, hand to his cheek. Feet squished together…making a barely audible scratching sound of skin. She ached. “Lor-teekool, mena-OOH!” Two gruff fingers pressed into his arch, and he shuddered. It was the most pillowy soft thing she’d ever felt. Tough digits cautiously wiggled over the silky skin.
“MMmpph…” His face twisted up, little beautiful giggles escaping through lips desperate to stay shut. “Hehe…hehehe…Keelai so! Keelai so! Malan-TAL KEELAISH!” Trapped pedals darted away from her fingers on reflex, a fruitless endeavor. She followed them every step of the way, gradually picking up pace. Gods, she had such a stupid grin on her face. She felt hot.
“Keelai so, huh?” The purr in her voice was so unfamiliar. It wasn’t like her; it wasn’t like her normal growls and aloof nature. But this boy and his feet were distorting her very being. Her two evil fingers pressed into the plush arches and danced over them, moving from one foot center to the other. The pair shook at the ankle rapidly, as did his increasingly giggly face. “Keelai Keelai…tickle tickle tickle…”
The hardened callouses of her fingertips felt the grainy texture of sand, pressed them deeper into the creases and made a lovely little sound. Keen adventurer’s ears stopped caring for potential threats and fixated on the scritching of sand and callous and sole. To feel at the squirming prizes, the faint dampness of perspiration, a smell that wafted into her nose and stayed there, welcome. All of it punctuated by the intoxicating song of his laughter.
“Coochie coochie coo…” When the Lion’s fingers began to tease at his toes, he squealed like a pig. Her malicious smile grew ever wider at the splay and wiggle. “Oh, a weak spot?” She pressed her fingers deep in between the pretty piggies. They scrunched together, only serving to leave them more vulnerable to not-so-trapped attacking fingers, and then they twitched out again.
“KEEEELAAAAIII…MALAN…Ma…malan…hehehe…hohoho…mmmph…malan sentpas tal keelaish! EEEEEEEKKK!” Now full throated, rich laughter echoed through the alleyway, the poor youth’s resistance all but broken. He clutched at hair messy from his struggles, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. She was determined to get them streaming down his blushy cheeks.
She dug deep into the center of his milky arches, scribbling and scraping with a maddened fever. She didn’t think she could stop even if she wanted to. His every giggle, twitch, struggle, the unbearable softness of those soles, the cuteness of his pretty face a mess, she wanted it all. “Eeehehehe…meehmemhehem HEHEhehoh…K…Kala! Palo Kaahahahala! Kehehehe…Keeelaaaiiii sooooooooo!”
“Poor baby ticklish…?” She truly felt herself awakening into a sadistic side of her, so unlike the cold professional. Fingers spidering over heels, the boy’s struggles getting enough for her to have to exert just a slight more power over his ankles. But not much. He was such a cute little thing, and she was strong. “Keelaish? Keelai Keelai Keelai…” His hands balled up into fists, pounding against the sound while he shrieked addictive laughter towards his captor.
Her heart melted into goo to see the first tears begin to slide down his reddened cheeks. The kicks and stretches, the precious little toe wiggles on that creamy skin…creamy. She kept coming back to words like that. Creamy, buttery, delicious. She was hit with the notion (a ravenous notion) that she wanted to taste them. Gods, when did she become such a freak?
“Kala…Kala woh keelai malan, keelai malan sents hehe…” The torturous fingers gave him the barest respite, his breath hitching while stray giggles continued to escape. He waved his hand to his frazzled face, toes flicking together while he caught some degree of coherence. “Kala keelai veetch! Malan…OH!” The shiver of sensation started at those slender toes and traveled through smooth legs and across an arching spine straight to a cute, shocked face. The product of a tongue that started upon a heel, then traveled across wrinkling arches and ended with a lap at wiggling toes.
The taste…it was everything she’d imagined and more. Salty and sweet, the texture of the skin a wonderful slide against her senses. She didn’t mind the little flecks of sand, savored the sweat and delighted in the smell. She needed more. Another lick, and then another, and across and over and then she was suckling on the side of his heel like a starved beast. Every new taste was another yip and jump and squeal from her delicious captive. His face scrunched up in all sorts of new adorable ways while his precious peds jerked and kicked while they were covered in saliva.
“Kala…KALA! Keelai Veetch! Keelai Veetch?! Mahahhehe…hehe…” He clutched at his cheeks, biting the bottom of his lip. He was still so ticklish, so giggly at that hungry tongue, but it was an extra sensation that was all the more disorienting. “Keelai Veetch meela malan sentssssss! Balo, balo!”
“Squirm for me, boy!” She almost panted out, her eyes feral with desire. She lapped at the toes that tried fruitlessly to bat her away. And then she had enough of his defiance. She was a lion, and he was her prey, and she would devour him. She popped three whole toes into her mouth and slurped them like straws. And he screamed, his fingers clawing shapes into the sand below while he buckled like mad.
She loved the feeling of those delicious long toes wiggling against her tongue, losing their duel to her mouth easily in their sensitivity. She made of him a laughing, giggling, shrieking mess and he left her a wild beast. She licked under the toes and between them and over them, sucked each individually, bit at the side of his arch, covered both his feet entirely in her saliva. Licked clean and shiny. He was such a delight, his voice and his laugh, his cute frazzled face now so red, when she lapped between his digits and he squished them together to vainly try and trap the tongue only to find that even worse…
“Goon Vee-Tal!” Koramira was all too suddenly shot back to the world of mortals and men, the blissful heaven in his soles she’d found fading away. An older woman stood on the doorway, shocked and disturbed at the display. The big, gruff mercenary clutching the local boy, her mouth connected to his soaked soles with a strand of saliva. Was this his mother? Oh, oh no, she…
There were several people looking at her now. Nervously peeking out of windows and staring at her. Fearful, and judging. And just as his feet had pierced her armor with desire now she felt it pierced with shame. Leaving the youth panting on the ground before her, she released him. The bystanders all the more frightened at her full height. She struggled to put on her glove, then hid her mortified face behind her helmet. It was time to go. This was a mistake.
“…heh…hehe…Keelai Veetch?” She only distantly heard his voice, and wouldn’t hear the confusion and even disappointment in that voice. How the fatigued boy looked at her as she left, while still twitchy feet dribbled her spit down onto the ground below. “Keelai Veetch, kora malan?”
But she was already gone, even as his mother tried to pull him to his feet and babbled worries.
…
The light peaked through the window and met her groggy face. Her dreams had all been soft giggles and squirming soles that had been suddenly ripped from her. Ugh. Now she had to face the real world again. After what…had happened. What she’d done in front of people, in public.
It’s not like anyone would actually do anything. Much too terrified of that big tough sellsword. But still, the eyes, the judgement, had eaten at her. Why had she done that? It was as if a demon had possessed her. Like the sight of that beautiful boy and his sinful feet had consumed her. She needed to leave this town and excise it from her thoughts. North! North. There were festivals up North…festivals with dolled up noble sons in sandals and…gods, no! Stop!
There was a knock at the inn door. Probably the keeper looking for money. “I’m on it, I’m on it, calm yourself.” She forced herself to her feet and stumbled along in her underclothes, still half-asleep and dead inside. She’d pay the idiot and then get ready. Sidle out of town before there could be any more eyes. “What do you…”
In the doorway was the boy. She felt all the lingering sleep burn away in an instant, fully awake. It was more than just the boy. He’d…dressed up. A yellow skirt where had once been a ragged tunic, simple but elegant, slender torso bared. His curly hair had been combed, and his lips were shaded purple with red upon his eyes. His arms were behind his back, a coy, shy little smile his expression.
“Wa-lee, Keelai Veetch.” He leaned in, swaying on his feet from side to side. His feet…they were still there, still lovely, and as he slipped a sole up his leg she’d noticed he’d affixed a silver toe ring to the index.
“I…um…hello?” It was all she could say, utterly dumbstruck. He giggled-that horrible, wonderful giggle-at her stupid animal face. Then his expression softened, and he sighed deeply.
“Naloo panei malan momo.” It was an apologetic tone, that she could determine. Even if the language barrier prevented much more. “Kee gornal malan. Malan mento sork mal.” Then he smiled again, and her heart skipped a beat. “Malan wee keelai sents jal! Keelai sents tal-jal!” And then he gave her a heart attack.
Pulled out from behind his back, a feather. A long, curved feather from one of the big birds they kept as beasts of burden. Long…and tickly. “Keelai Veetch noro Malan?” He purred, flicking the feather up next to a face that was now sultry and teasing. His ringed foot now curling up and down his leg while half-lidded eyes gazed into hers. “Malan est Keela Veetchas.”
She stared at the ticklish little minx in front of her for too long. And then, to his delight, grabbed up in her arms roughly and forced him to the bed.
For the rest of the entire week, people outside the inn could hear sweet, muffled laughter and frantic begging. And Koramira, the Lion in Iron, embraced that part of herself for the rest of her life.
There's not enough big tough masculine girl x soft sweet feminine boy in...well anything, but especially in most tickling related things. Consider most of anything I post here to be an attempt to rectify that. And to make clear: the ticklee in this story is 19. The ler guestimates in her head that age and it's correct. No minors or intent to ever write minors from me. Very foot fetishy also, if you're not into that. Do enjoy.
----
It was hot, and it was dull, and she was tired. Gods, she was tired. Arachnomorphs weren’t hard kills, but they were everywhere and you had to be thorough. She had to destroy the whole nest to get paid, and that had taken all day. Finding every single last hiding bug lest they end up repopulating and causing trouble for the water supply again. And then, of course, she’d had to intimidated that weaselly little magistrate from trying to loophole her out of full payment. She hated jobs that were like this, and especially hated how they usually paid good and steady. So to make a living she was going to do a lot of them.
Her name was Koromira “Lion in Iron” Lasan. She was an infamous mercenary of great skill and experience. She had survived 39 winters and had been a sword for hire twenty of them. She had been all across the known world and beyond. And yet she was here, in a dusty desert nowhere town, killing Arachnomorphs to make ends meet.
And it was much, much too hot to be wearing all this godsdamn armor. She’d already pulled off that ornate, lion themed helm, revealing her scarred, grizzled face. Let her short blond hair with strands of premature gray cover her tired blue eyes. Her sabatons dug deep into the dust and sand with every step. Most townsfolk gave her a wide berth; understandable. She was 6’3 and built like an ox. And she was armed. And foreign. And uninterested in their time, anyway.
Her inn was in the poorer end of an already poor town. The clay buildings around her grew gradually less ornate, smaller and dingier. No paint or designs, blandly functional. And annoyingly, less shade. The only shade she could see was in the alleyways between, little hideaways from the heat and the brightness. She didn’t like alleyways, though. Too potentially dangerous.
Years of conflict forged her paranoia. She had to glance through each and every one, her mind filling with hidden assassins. It had happened more than once; one made enemies in twenty years of this work. Petty thieves too, but those usually broke as soon as she glared in their direction. Safe, safe, safe, cat, safe…She passed only the occasional local. Most people were working, most likely, the few weren’t pulling curious children into their homes to avoid the scary mercenary. It didn’t hurt her feelings; she would have done the same.
She wouldn’t be staying long, anyway. She’d hit the bed, pass out. Perhaps spend a day drinking away her sorrows, then head out north. There would be a lot of jobs this season, up north. Monsters and bandits tended to get riled by all the festivals, which meant plenty of jobs looking after revelers. And she could engage with some revelry herself, or rather just more drinking alone until she couldn’t move. She didn’t really have time for “friends”. And she wasn’t lonely. Not even a little bit.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her instinct, and her peripheral vision. Movement in an alleyway. Her head lurched to the side, hand on her sheathed blade to prepare for whatever foolish thing would try and get the drop on her. But it was not a weapon that would steal her breath. Not a foe who would chain her mind as certain as any shackles.
There, shining in a stray sunbeam was a pair of bare feet. The smallest idle kick brought them swinging within that light. Slender and high-arched, yet plush. The soles were a shade lighter than the dusky skin of their owner, and they looked soft as silk. Nails grown into slightest points, the subtle wiggle of the toes making her heart stop.
These feet belonged to a local youth, perhaps nineteen summers. And gods, he was pretty too. Svelte of form, smooth of skin, long curly hair draped downward from his prone position. The raggedness of his clothes didn’t detract from it, didn’t detract from that soft, beatific face dreamily staring down into the sand. He was perched atop a ledge at the beginning of a stairwell, transfixed with the drawing shapes into the dusty alley beneath him. Laying upon his stomach and letting absolute treasures sway in the air. So engrossed was he in simple art that he hadn’t noticed her at all.
The Lion in Iron had never frozen like that before. Stopped in her tracks as fully, as stiffly, as any stasis spell from a sorcerer. She had been utterly stricken by the boy, him and his simple beauty. It felt like an eternity she was trapped, trapped by the subtle wiggle of long bubbly toes and the curve of the sole. She didn’t notice at first when she started to move. Long, hesitant strides buried her bootprint deep into the sandy street.
The closer she got to the boy, the more enticing he became. He had cute little freckles across his face, and pretty brown eyes. A lock of his hair slid down across his nose, naked legs soft and shining against the light. A precious little smile on precious little lips. She wanted to kiss them. She wanted to kiss all the way over that beautiful face.
But above all she focused on the soles of his feet. Now she could see the light dusting of sand across the surface, a faint shine of sweat from the hot day’s sun. Every little wrinkle and contour that made the two extremities unique. Her already thumping heart skipped a beat when a fleeting gust of wind blew through the air. Against the skin of the feet, skin that was as sensitive as it looked. That barest bit of pressure was enough to make him flinch and gasp. To make the toes scrunch up deliciously.
Deliciously. That was the word that was coming to her mind. She hadn’t felt this way about anything in her entire life, all thirty-nine years of it. The sweet innocence only compelled her further. To him, her traipsing forward was nothing to concern himself with…a passerby and not a threat. Gods, she envied that. She envied that and wanted to ruin it at the same time.
When did she start having such dark thoughts?
Closer, closer, closer. The glare of the sun was pointed away from her. Perhaps that was for the better, for the shadow may have frightened him off as big as it would be. At last, she was over him. And even he, free-spirited and carefree, could not help but notice her now.
The boy quizzically turned his head up, surprised by the titanic mercenary looming over him. Not afraid. Perhaps he should be, but the naivety made her heart ache all the more. “Goon Vee-tal?” His voice was as sweet as she’d imagined, all honey and summer breeze. “Mayla Ku-”
Without warning, even to herself, Koromira hand reached out. An armored finger traced a line straight down the youth’s unbearably perfect sole. His entire body stiffened, and he squeaked like a mouse. It was adorable. She wanted more.
He tried to sit up, a hand moving to his chest. Cheeks flushed and mouth agape. Yet his feet remained raised and tempting. “Henane! Keelai so! Tal-Keelaish!” She could suspect what the words meant. She wanted to hear them more…and she didn’t want the pose to end. Her muscular arm reached over to clamp the lad’s legs in place.
“Henane! Lor-teekool…?!” The surprised struggle was feeble against the strength and will of a determined sellsword. He didn’t even really struggle that hard…still, he was more confused than frightened. She let her helmet fall to the ground to free her other arm. She could see those amazing soles in all their glory. She wanted them more than any treasure she’d delved in dungeons for. She wanted to feel them.
The Lion struggled to release her armored glove to join the helmet, to free her calloused hand. The boy pursed his lips, hand to his cheek. Feet squished together…making a barely audible scratching sound of skin. She ached. “Lor-teekool, mena-OOH!” Two gruff fingers pressed into his arch, and he shuddered. It was the most pillowy soft thing she’d ever felt. Tough digits cautiously wiggled over the silky skin.
“MMmpph…” His face twisted up, little beautiful giggles escaping through lips desperate to stay shut. “Hehe…hehehe…Keelai so! Keelai so! Malan-TAL KEELAISH!” Trapped pedals darted away from her fingers on reflex, a fruitless endeavor. She followed them every step of the way, gradually picking up pace. Gods, she had such a stupid grin on her face. She felt hot.
“Keelai so, huh?” The purr in her voice was so unfamiliar. It wasn’t like her; it wasn’t like her normal growls and aloof nature. But this boy and his feet were distorting her very being. Her two evil fingers pressed into the plush arches and danced over them, moving from one foot center to the other. The pair shook at the ankle rapidly, as did his increasingly giggly face. “Keelai Keelai…tickle tickle tickle…”
The hardened callouses of her fingertips felt the grainy texture of sand, pressed them deeper into the creases and made a lovely little sound. Keen adventurer’s ears stopped caring for potential threats and fixated on the scritching of sand and callous and sole. To feel at the squirming prizes, the faint dampness of perspiration, a smell that wafted into her nose and stayed there, welcome. All of it punctuated by the intoxicating song of his laughter.
“Coochie coochie coo…” When the Lion’s fingers began to tease at his toes, he squealed like a pig. Her malicious smile grew ever wider at the splay and wiggle. “Oh, a weak spot?” She pressed her fingers deep in between the pretty piggies. They scrunched together, only serving to leave them more vulnerable to not-so-trapped attacking fingers, and then they twitched out again.
“KEEEELAAAAIII…MALAN…Ma…malan…hehehe…hohoho…mmmph…malan sentpas tal keelaish! EEEEEEEKKK!” Now full throated, rich laughter echoed through the alleyway, the poor youth’s resistance all but broken. He clutched at hair messy from his struggles, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. She was determined to get them streaming down his blushy cheeks.
She dug deep into the center of his milky arches, scribbling and scraping with a maddened fever. She didn’t think she could stop even if she wanted to. His every giggle, twitch, struggle, the unbearable softness of those soles, the cuteness of his pretty face a mess, she wanted it all. “Eeehehehe…meehmemhehem HEHEhehoh…K…Kala! Palo Kaahahahala! Kehehehe…Keeelaaaiiii sooooooooo!”
“Poor baby ticklish…?” She truly felt herself awakening into a sadistic side of her, so unlike the cold professional. Fingers spidering over heels, the boy’s struggles getting enough for her to have to exert just a slight more power over his ankles. But not much. He was such a cute little thing, and she was strong. “Keelaish? Keelai Keelai Keelai…” His hands balled up into fists, pounding against the sound while he shrieked addictive laughter towards his captor.
Her heart melted into goo to see the first tears begin to slide down his reddened cheeks. The kicks and stretches, the precious little toe wiggles on that creamy skin…creamy. She kept coming back to words like that. Creamy, buttery, delicious. She was hit with the notion (a ravenous notion) that she wanted to taste them. Gods, when did she become such a freak?
“Kala…Kala woh keelai malan, keelai malan sents hehe…” The torturous fingers gave him the barest respite, his breath hitching while stray giggles continued to escape. He waved his hand to his frazzled face, toes flicking together while he caught some degree of coherence. “Kala keelai veetch! Malan…OH!” The shiver of sensation started at those slender toes and traveled through smooth legs and across an arching spine straight to a cute, shocked face. The product of a tongue that started upon a heel, then traveled across wrinkling arches and ended with a lap at wiggling toes.
The taste…it was everything she’d imagined and more. Salty and sweet, the texture of the skin a wonderful slide against her senses. She didn’t mind the little flecks of sand, savored the sweat and delighted in the smell. She needed more. Another lick, and then another, and across and over and then she was suckling on the side of his heel like a starved beast. Every new taste was another yip and jump and squeal from her delicious captive. His face scrunched up in all sorts of new adorable ways while his precious peds jerked and kicked while they were covered in saliva.
“Kala…KALA! Keelai Veetch! Keelai Veetch?! Mahahhehe…hehe…” He clutched at his cheeks, biting the bottom of his lip. He was still so ticklish, so giggly at that hungry tongue, but it was an extra sensation that was all the more disorienting. “Keelai Veetch meela malan sentssssss! Balo, balo!”
“Squirm for me, boy!” She almost panted out, her eyes feral with desire. She lapped at the toes that tried fruitlessly to bat her away. And then she had enough of his defiance. She was a lion, and he was her prey, and she would devour him. She popped three whole toes into her mouth and slurped them like straws. And he screamed, his fingers clawing shapes into the sand below while he buckled like mad.
She loved the feeling of those delicious long toes wiggling against her tongue, losing their duel to her mouth easily in their sensitivity. She made of him a laughing, giggling, shrieking mess and he left her a wild beast. She licked under the toes and between them and over them, sucked each individually, bit at the side of his arch, covered both his feet entirely in her saliva. Licked clean and shiny. He was such a delight, his voice and his laugh, his cute frazzled face now so red, when she lapped between his digits and he squished them together to vainly try and trap the tongue only to find that even worse…
“Goon Vee-Tal!” Koramira was all too suddenly shot back to the world of mortals and men, the blissful heaven in his soles she’d found fading away. An older woman stood on the doorway, shocked and disturbed at the display. The big, gruff mercenary clutching the local boy, her mouth connected to his soaked soles with a strand of saliva. Was this his mother? Oh, oh no, she…
There were several people looking at her now. Nervously peeking out of windows and staring at her. Fearful, and judging. And just as his feet had pierced her armor with desire now she felt it pierced with shame. Leaving the youth panting on the ground before her, she released him. The bystanders all the more frightened at her full height. She struggled to put on her glove, then hid her mortified face behind her helmet. It was time to go. This was a mistake.
“…heh…hehe…Keelai Veetch?” She only distantly heard his voice, and wouldn’t hear the confusion and even disappointment in that voice. How the fatigued boy looked at her as she left, while still twitchy feet dribbled her spit down onto the ground below. “Keelai Veetch, kora malan?”
But she was already gone, even as his mother tried to pull him to his feet and babbled worries.
…
The light peaked through the window and met her groggy face. Her dreams had all been soft giggles and squirming soles that had been suddenly ripped from her. Ugh. Now she had to face the real world again. After what…had happened. What she’d done in front of people, in public.
It’s not like anyone would actually do anything. Much too terrified of that big tough sellsword. But still, the eyes, the judgement, had eaten at her. Why had she done that? It was as if a demon had possessed her. Like the sight of that beautiful boy and his sinful feet had consumed her. She needed to leave this town and excise it from her thoughts. North! North. There were festivals up North…festivals with dolled up noble sons in sandals and…gods, no! Stop!
There was a knock at the inn door. Probably the keeper looking for money. “I’m on it, I’m on it, calm yourself.” She forced herself to her feet and stumbled along in her underclothes, still half-asleep and dead inside. She’d pay the idiot and then get ready. Sidle out of town before there could be any more eyes. “What do you…”
In the doorway was the boy. She felt all the lingering sleep burn away in an instant, fully awake. It was more than just the boy. He’d…dressed up. A yellow skirt where had once been a ragged tunic, simple but elegant, slender torso bared. His curly hair had been combed, and his lips were shaded purple with red upon his eyes. His arms were behind his back, a coy, shy little smile his expression.
“Wa-lee, Keelai Veetch.” He leaned in, swaying on his feet from side to side. His feet…they were still there, still lovely, and as he slipped a sole up his leg she’d noticed he’d affixed a silver toe ring to the index.
“I…um…hello?” It was all she could say, utterly dumbstruck. He giggled-that horrible, wonderful giggle-at her stupid animal face. Then his expression softened, and he sighed deeply.
“Naloo panei malan momo.” It was an apologetic tone, that she could determine. Even if the language barrier prevented much more. “Kee gornal malan. Malan mento sork mal.” Then he smiled again, and her heart skipped a beat. “Malan wee keelai sents jal! Keelai sents tal-jal!” And then he gave her a heart attack.
Pulled out from behind his back, a feather. A long, curved feather from one of the big birds they kept as beasts of burden. Long…and tickly. “Keelai Veetch noro Malan?” He purred, flicking the feather up next to a face that was now sultry and teasing. His ringed foot now curling up and down his leg while half-lidded eyes gazed into hers. “Malan est Keela Veetchas.”
She stared at the ticklish little minx in front of her for too long. And then, to his delight, grabbed up in her arms roughly and forced him to the bed.
For the rest of the entire week, people outside the inn could hear sweet, muffled laughter and frantic begging. And Koramira, the Lion in Iron, embraced that part of herself for the rest of her life.
