Hi! I'd like to share a story I wrote for a commission 
I'm going to post it here in it's entirety, but the text formatting is better on DeviantArt, so check it out there if you can.
If you like this story, please go drop a fav or a comment on DeviantArt. I'd really appreciate it.
The story:
https://www.deviantart.com/featherheart22/art/Unethical-Research-A-Tickling-Story-880620746
Synopsis:
This is the story of three female protesters who were singled out by the CIA for their great aversion to feet tickling. In the chaos of a riot, they were arrested and sent to a secret detention center, where they were turned into unwilling research subjects for extreme feet tickling torture, interrogation, and ticklishness augmentation experiments.
“You don’t get a phone call. You’ve been selected to help the CIA refine humane interrogation techniques. From now on your designation is Subject 15.”
-- Unidentified CIA Employee
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction written for entertainment purposes.
In the last few days of the Trump administration, a series of electoral fraud accusations sparked public protests. The worst of these protests spiraled into small riots, one of which is taking place right now in the streets of New York. A small drone is surveying the riot, identifying the rioters by facial recognition and by means of their smartphones.
Behind a computer screen, a woman in a business suit is going through the data being collected by the drone. She’s searching the rioters’ email, messaging, social network accounts, and search engine queries for the keywords -- ‘Unbearable’, ‘Extremely’, ‘Can’t stand’, ‘Hate’, ‘Feet’, ‘Toe’, ‘Sole’, ‘Ticklish’ and ‘Tickling’.
On a separate window, the program displays a list of rioters which are a positive match for the search query, reordering them in real time by relevance, and by social association. After 30 minutes, three young women consistently hold the top of the list. The woman in the business suit selects these three and expands their files.
The first one is a pretty-looking, 25-years-old punk girl who answers to the name Astrid. She’s caucasian, curvy, 1.77m tall, has facial piercings, tattoos, and her black hair is styled in a messy bob cut with dark green ends. The program has identified multiple instances in social networks where she admitted her feet are “... unbearably ticklish! Anyone who touches my feet is getting kicked in the face!”
The second girl is called Chelsea. She’s a 23-years-old, slender, 1.72m tall girl, with caramel-toned skin, and very short, curly black hair. She’s pretty, but has the same annoyed expression in every picture. She once wrote, “I do my own pedicures because I CAN’T STAND anyone touching them!”
The last girl is named Hazel. She’s 20-years-old, caucasian, stands at 1.65m, is very thin, possibly anorexic, and has a blue Mohawk. Of these three girls, Hazel has the greatest number of keyword matches, with almost 30 instances where she either complained of having extremely ticklish feet or searched for ways of making them less sensitive.
The woman in the business suit takes a quick look at their social security files, birth certificates and social connections, to arrive at the conclusion that the three girls are friends, and either have no living relatives or don't keep in touch with their families. She then accesses their criminal records and updates them, labeling them as suspected domestic terrorists, wanted by the CIA. With a couple more clicks, the NYPD is made aware of their presence in the riot, and immediately assigns several agents to arrest them.
Astrid, Chelsea and Hazel are confused by the way the police singled them out, as they weren’t really making a bigger mess than the other rioters. But they don’t resist the arrest, knowing that doing so would only get them in more trouble.
They’re taken to a police station, but then something strange happens; instead of being booked into a cell, they’re loaded into an unmarked, windowless black van and transferred somewhere else. Not long after, the van pulls into a loading dock. The girls can’t see this, but they are being taken into a mysterious, windowless skyscraper in downtown Manhattan. The building has no signs other than the address -- 33 Thomas Street. Rumor has, it’s an NSA listening post, but no one really knows what goes on inside.
Without a single word of explanation, the girls are taken to a processing area. While they’re being stripped down to their underwear, they all briefly hear the unmistakable sound of distant laughter coming from a ventilation grill. It’s quite brief, but it makes them glance at each other with worry on their faces. Even though it was laughter, whomever was producing it didn’t sound happy at all.
After processing, they are locked inside tiny prison cells with a toilet, sink, shower, and sleeping cot.
Half-naked and scared, Astrid is sitting on her cell’s cot, holding her knees against her chest. She’s been stuck here for hours; at least it feels that way. Suddenly, the door opens, and a woman in a business suit enters, escorted by four huge men.
“Who are you? What is this place? I want my phone call!” she demands. This isn’t the first time Astrid has been arrested, so even though her processing hasn’t been standard, she’s expecting her rights to be respected.
The woman looks down upon her with indifference in her eyes and says, “You don’t get a phone call. You’ve been selected to help the CIA refine humane interrogation techniques. From now on your designation is Subject 15.”
This statement hits the girl like a truck. “WHAT?!” she cries out, quickly standing up.
“I already know everything about you. Just answer me this -- Is it true your feet are unbearably ticklish?”
Astrid is usually a pretty tough girl, but this question shocks her to the core. She doesn’t answer verbally; instead, she gasps, and her pale face loses whatever color it had left.
The woman smirks and replies, “Thank you. That answers my question rather nicely. Take her to Feet Prep.” She then exits the cell, leaving Astrid stuck with the four men.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” she shouts. After a brief struggle, the men take her out of the cell and secure her to a gurney equipped with psychiatric restraints.
Astrid is pushed down a sterile hallway, into a room where a row of young women, restrained in the same way she is, are laughing their heads off while things are done to their feet. The room is broken up into “parking bays” for gurneys. At the far end of each bay, there’s a man or woman wearing a lab coat, sitting on a chair, surrounded by medical equipment.
The punk girl simply stares at this hellish scene, incredulously blinking her eyes as she’s wheeled past several women. “No... No! NO! You CAN’T do this to me!” she shouts, struggling maniacally against her bondage.
Despite her outburst, her gurney is pushed into one of the bays, leaving her feet facing a man in a lab coat. Without saying a word, he unceremoniously yanks out her socks, exposing her cute, big, wide, pale, silky smooth, very plushy, size 10 (US) feet, with Roman shaped toes and regular arches.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” she squeals, trying to bring her feet close together, but the ankle cuffs hold them too far apart.
The man raises an eyebrow and comments, “Oh my! Your feet look amazing! There’s hardly any cleaning for me to do. And they’re so big! I’ll recommend you for Interrogation Practice.”
“Int... Int... Interrogation... P-P-Practice?” Astrid stutters, scrunching her toes tightly.
“And according to your file... You’re very ticklish already, right?” he asks, gently fluttering his nails up her feet. This tease causes Astrid to straighten herself out like a board.
“YEAAARG!” she squeals loudly with a big, forced smile on her lips, and her eyes wide open. She also leans her feet outwards and back, in a desperate effort to get away from the tickles.
“Hehe! That’s a big yes. Let’s get started, then.”
“NO! Please! Whatever you’re gonna do, PLEASE DON’T! I really can’t stand having my feet tickled!” she cries out, her courage vanishing by the second.
“Excellent! You’ll make a great practice subject,” he replies, whilst putting on a pair of rubber gloves. “Now, keep your feet still, or I’ll have to use a muscle relaxant.”
“SCREW YOU!” she shouts, using up her last drops of bravery.
The man picks up a wet sponge and gives her squirmy feet a good clean. This doesn’t actually tickle her much, so she relaxes a bit. Then, he picks up an electric callus remover, whose sight makes her squirm nervously.
“HAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!” she erupts with laughter when the abrasive surface starts spinning against her right heel.
“Hold it still...” he reminds her, trying to hold her foot steady.
“I CAN’T! HAHAHA! I really CAN’T! NononoNOO-HO-HO-HO-HOOO!” she cackles, struggling against her bondage.
“Have it your way, then.”
The man gets up, secures a small gas tank to the gurney, and fits a breathing mask to Astrid’s face. The girl tries holding her breath, but it’s only a matter of seconds until she starts breathing in lungfuls of the gas. Then, over the course of five minutes, her body becomes limp as a wet noodle.
“Noooo...” she whimpers, following the man with her eyes as he returns to her feet.
“Let’s try this again, huh?” He asks, bringing the callus remover back to her foot.
“HAAAAAA-HAA-HAA-HAA-HAAAAA!” she starts laughing, now without being able to move her feet, or anything else really, other than her eyes.
The device is mercilessly applied to her feet, leaving her already silky foot, utterly baby soft.
On the bay next to Astrid, her dark-skinned friend Chelsea, who had a chance to see the gas in action, is begging her doctor not to do the same to her.
“I’ll hold them still! I swear! Don’t make me go limp! Please!” she begs, moving as far away as possible from the gas mask being held in front of her face.
“Oh, very well, Subject 16. I’ll give you one more chance,” a woman in a lab coat grants.
“I’ll try really, really hard! I swear!” Chelsea says, watching the woman return to her feet.
Chelsea has a very feminine pair of soft, size 8 feet, with caramel-shaded insteps, pink bottoms, high arches, and long, Egyptian-shaped toes.
“MRRRRRRG! MRRRG! MRRRRG! MRRRRG!” she groans through her clenched lips, desperately trying to hold her feet still, while an electric callus remover is applied to her right foot.
The poor girl is shaking from intense muscular contraction. Her hands are closed into fists, and her face is scrunched down tightly with a forced smile on her lips. As for her feet, they occasionally shake, but for the most part, she manages to hold them rock steady, as the exfoliating roller is driven all over her sole.
When the doctor puts down the device, she comments, “Good girl! You have good endurance! I know just where to send you.”
Chelsea whimpers, unsure whether she wants to know.
On the next gurney, Hazel, the blue mohawk girl, is struggling like a complete maniac, utterly desperate to escape her restraints. There’s a man sitting in front of her feet, examining her squirming soles.
“Good grief! What have you done to your feet?” he asks.
Hazel has a pair of utterly adorable, thin, size 6 feet, with short, Asian-shaped toes, and regular arches. However, these delectable examples of pedal cuteness are in a horrible state of maintenance. In a campaign against their hyper-sensitivity, she did everything in her power to make her feet rough and calloused. Namely, she never exfoliated them, and jogged barefoot twice a day. As it happens, she took one of these jogs in the morning, just before the protest, so her soles are black with filth.
“You’re going to need a much, much longer preparation than normal, girl!” the man says, picking up a very rough sponge.
“NOOOOO! HEEEEEEEEELP! NOT MY FEEEET!” she screams hysterically.
Just as the sponge is about to touch her, Hazel successfully yanks her right hand from the padded leather cuff. Her doctor immediately rushes to hold her arm and calls out, “Security!”
Two large men secure Hazel’s wrist back in place; but instead of resuming the pedicure, the doctor says, “She’s too violent for regular Feet Prep. Let’s take her to the Intensive Care room.”
Through the corner of her eye, Astrid sees Hazel’s gurney being pushed out of the room. Her own feet have already been exfoliated into complete baby-softless; it didn’t take long because they were already in excellent shape. Now a cream is being rubbed on her right foot; a procedure which isn’t actually tickling her.
Breathing the muscular relaxant, Astrid feels the doctor’s hands massaging her big, restful foot. He then picks up a device shaped like a hairdryer and starts firing it at her sole. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything at first; but gradually, her foot becomes covered by gentle tingly sensations.
“What’re you doing?!” she asks, widening her eyes.
“Oh relax. It won’t hurt. This is the activator for that cream. How does it feel?”
“It... It tingles... It tingles more and more every second!” she exclaims, hopelessly trying to move her paralized foot. “What the hell is this?!”
“It’s a cream which awakens your surface nerves. It’ll make your feet much more sensitive.”
“MORE TICKLISH?!“ she cries out, going through a surge of intense struggling; unfortunately, her muscles don’t respond, leaving her no choice but to endure this diabolical treatment, which as an added bonus, is starting to get really tickly by itself.
“Don’t worry, it’s permanent. As long as you behave, you’ll only get this done once.”
“Teehehehehe! PERMANENT?! Aaaaaarg! Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Haaa! It tiiiickles!”
Ignoring her, the man carries on shooting the device at her foot, causing the cream to penetrate her skin, and bond with her nerves.
“Enough! Ha-HAHAHAHA! That’s ticklish ENOUGH! NO-HO-HO-HO-HO! Please!” She begs, cackling uncontrollably.
“Far from it. We’re not even halfway through this application. You’re getting 20 on each foot. Standard Feet Prep.”
“NOOOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOOOO!” Astrid howls. Her eyes are like two pits of despair.
Nearby, Chelsea is doing her best to keep her foot still through her first application, but the increasingly powerful tingly sensations are driving her insane.
“Hold it steady...” the female doctor taunts, smirking.
“MRRRRRRRRRRRG! MRRRRRRRRRRRG! PLEEEEASE!” Chelsea groans and begs, holding all of her muscles tightly contracted. As the activation device shoots radiation at her left toes, she can’t help but to softly twitch them. “AAAAAARG! PLEEEEASE! MRRRRRG!”
“Just a little more...” the doctor asks, then moves the device away. Chelsea sighs with huge relief.
“Good job! You have excellent endurance, Subject 16. You’ll make an ideal subject for the Cybernetics Lab.”
Huffing and panting, the girl asks, “Cyber... netics... Let me go... Please... Won’t tell anyone...”
The doctor aims the device at her other foot and giggles, “Hehe... Of that, you’re absolutely correct. You won’t talk to anyone for a very, very long time.”
“No more... Please... I can’t take any more...” the girl begs, staring fearfully at the device.
“We’ll see about that,” the woman says, pressing the trigger.
“Mrrrrrrrg! Nooo! No more! MRRRRRRRG! It tickleeeees!” she groans, as her pretty foot starts to tingle.
Hazel, the thin mohawk girl, is now in a different room; a small one, dominated by a narrow bondage table with a set of padded foot stocks built right into it. The hyper-ticklish girl was zipped within a white, full-body straitjacket, leaving only her head and feet sticking out. This extreme bondage gear was then buckled at the ankles, thighs, waist, and chest; and secured to the table at those same points. As if this isn’t enough, her ankles were locked in stocks, close together but with a separating barrier between her feet.
The doctor who tried processing her is gone; replaced by two female doctors with long fingernails. One of them is raising the table’s back into a sitting position, while the other one is setting up a basin underneath Hazel’s dirty feet.
“My god... I had never seen a pair of feet this pretty in such a sorry state.”
“Please! I’m too ticklish! I’m too ticklish!” Hazel begs the other woman, who picks up a gas mask and fits it on her face. The mask is connected to a large canister labeled -- Muscular Relaxant + Sensitivity Enhancer + Mental Stim + Oxigen.
Meanwhile, the other woman moves a tall, wheeled machine next to the stocks; it has a series of dentistry style devices resting on their holders, such as water jets and vibrating bristles.
“Don’t tickle me! Please! Not my feet! Anything but this!”
“Are you really that ticklish?” one of the doctors asks, while they both sit in front of her feet.
“YES! I’ve got the world's most ticklish feet! The smallest tickle drives me NUTS!”
“Interesting...” the other doctor muses, “Maybe we could use her to test the limits of our tickle enhancers.”
“An excellent idea, colleague!”
At this point, Hazel screams hysterically, and goes through a surge of utterly demented struggling, but the bondage obviously holds her in place.
One of the doctors picks up a water jet and passes another to her colleague, whilst saying, “Fight all you want. You’ll never escape from this setup.” They then point the ultra-thin water jets at Hazel filthy soles and start them up.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!” The girl screams at the top of her lungs, as the jets start scrapping the dirt from her soles. She leans her feet inwards and frantically rubs them against the separating barrier, but little by little, she loses control of her muscles, and her tiny feet become restful, unable to move a single millimeter while the twin jets clean them in the most ticklish manner imaginable.
“BWAAAAAAA-HAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAAAA!” she cackles hysterically, as one of the jets focuses on her right toes, and the other one on the middle of her left sole. The doctors keep doing this for a good while, even after Hazel’s feet are completely dirt-free, seemingly just for the heck of it.
After a good 15 minutes, one of the women snaps out of it and points out that they need to exfoliate. They place the water jets back on the machine, and pick up two wired, electric callus removers.
By this point, Hazel would be passed out if not for the additives in the gas. She’s already a complete mess; her face is blushed bright red and covered in tears of laughter.
“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAARG! HAHAHAHAHAAAA!” she screams intense laughter, when two abrasive surfaces start spinning against her heels. One of the women fails to resist the temptation and starts spidering a handful of nails against the balls of her right foot, gently scratching the rough skin.
“NAAAA! NAAAA! NAAAA! NAAAA!” the girl cackles.
Both women giggle, and the other doctor also starts teasing with her nails.
“Teehee! It’s hard to resist, isn’t it?”
“Very. Tickle, tickle, tickle... Hehehe!”
“World's most ticklish feet, huh? Soon...” the woman mumbles evilly.
One hour later, Hazel’s little feet are completely transformed. Gone are the filth and the rough spots; now, her feet are two utterly delectable samples of feminine pedal perfection; silky smooth, tiny, and excruciatingly ticklish, even before any special sensitivity treatments.
The two doctors are presently rubbing in a thick coat of cream on both feet. They’re not trying to tickle, but nevertheless, their touches are enough to make the poor girl laugh. Ignoring her incessant yelps and giggles, the women finish rubbing it in, then fetch two activator devices.
When Hazel’s feet start tingling, she opens her eyes wide and whimpers loudly, “What are you doing?! What is THAT?! It itches! Stop! Please STOP! NO MORE! IIIRK! HiHiHiHiHii!”
Smiling evilly, the two doctors mercilessly fire the activators at her paralyzed feet, imagining the cream’s agents sinking into the skin, and bonding with her nerves.
“Enough! Please! Haaaa-HAHAHAHA! NO MORE! NO-HO-HO-HO-HO! Please!” she begs, cackling uncontrollably. Within seconds, Hazel is laughing her head off, as her delicate feet are covered in maddeningly tingly sensations from the bottom of her heels, to the tips of her toes.
Another hour goes by. The doctors put her through five applications of the cream, then decide to test her ticklishness. They shave off Hazel’s mohawk, spread a gel over her scalp, and fit her with a sort of leather hood which includes very powerful earmuffs, a blindfold, and a network of electrodes; the latter of which are then plugged into a computer terminal.
One of the women is sitting at the computer, while the other one is sitting in front of Hazel’s feet, holding a fluffy feather.
“Let’s start with a Babinski reflex,” the second doctor says. She proceeds to drag the hard tip of the feather from the center of Hazel’s right heel, up her sole, and sideways over the balls of her foot.
The girl doesn’t move her foot because of the muscular relaxant, but she produces a loud, sharp screech. “HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRK!”
“Oh my god!” the other doctor exclaims, looking at the computer screen. “She got an average of 646 on the nerve sensory scale! And we’re not even halfway through the cream applications!”
The other woman smiles wickedly, turns the feather around, and starts waving it’s soft, fluffy tip, up and down Hazel’s right foot.
“NononononoNOOOO! HAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!” she explodes with laughter.
“What’s the number?”
“It’s oscillating between... 200 and 300. Which is pretty mind-boggling, considering you’re only using a feather.”
“And a very soft feather too. Teehee... Tickle, tickle, tickle...” the other doctor says, now waving the feather sideways under Hazel’s toes.
“YAAAAAARG! HAHAHAHA! NOT THEEEERE!”
“Number?”
“Between 300 to 400.”
“She has pretty ticklish tootsies. Tickle, tickle, tickleeeee... Are these pretty toes ticklish? Yes, they are! Gouchi, gouchi, goo!” she taunts. “Subject 17... We’re going to make your feet so sensitive, we’ll be able to tickle them through boots... Heehehe!”
“HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA! HEEEE-HE-HE-HE-HEEEEEE!”
Astrid is presently being taken out of the Feet Prep. She was put through all 20 applications of the cream, and is slowly regaining control of her muscles. Her gurney is taken inside a room with a sign above the door -- Interrogation Practice.
Once inside, she gasps in horror, because the room is actually the ground floor of a small, circular surgical theater. The walls are all covered with hanging feathers, brushes, and other things clearly chosen for their ability to elicit laughter. At the very center, there’s a sort of metal drafting table with two holes in the middle.
The girl is taken off the gurney, forced inside a straitjacket, and laid down on a soft surface under the drafting table. Her feet are then put through the holes above her, and a piece of metal with two half-circles is slid up the tabletop, onto the bottom of her ankles, and locked in place trapping her feet.
Poor Astrid whimpers as her big toes are tied back, leaving her big, silky soles quite helpless. Her only satisfaction, small as it might be, is that all surfaces she’s in contact with seem to be padded.
Minutes later, a small crowd enters the theater’s audience area and sits down, giggling excitedly. A woman then enters the floor area and announces, “Good evening class! Welcome to Tickle-Torture 101! Tonight we have a new subject to practice on, the extremely ticklish 15. It’s about time we got a new one, too. Subject 11 was taken to the recovery wing to regain her sanity; or as much of it as possible. We should have her back in six to eight months. Until then, we have Subject 15 to practice on.”
“No! Don’t tickle me! PLEEEASE!” Astrid cries out.
Everyone laughs at her. Meanwhile, the teacher gathers a few tickle tools from the walls and sits in front of the girl’s sexy soles, like a pianist before a piano.
“Now, pay attention, everyone. We’re going to start by warming her up with a bit of feathering. Are you feather-ticklish?” she asks, stroking a pair of feather dusters up and down Astrid soles.
“Yeeeeek! Tehehehehe!” the girl breaks into adorable giggles, which quickly evolve into cackles. “HeHeHeHEEE! HAA-HA-HA-HA-HA!”
“That’s a big ‘yes’. Wonderful. As you all might remember, Subject 11 required several rounds of Feet Prep until she became feather-sensitive. Subject 15 seems to be a considerably better practice subject. Hopefully we can keep her for a few years, at least.”
“YEARS!? HAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA! STOP! P-P-PLEEEASE!”
The teacher then proceeds to demonstrate various feather tickling techniques on Astrid’s big, silky soles. She wiggles feather dusters up and down, explores every millimeter with the tips of raven feathers, and pulls plumes between her toes.
The girl’s feet are constantly shaking and scrunching, but the teacher doesn’t mind. In fact, she often points out to the class how Astrid’s reactions reveal lots of information about her ticklishness, and teaches them how to exploit that to great effect.
After 20 minutes of feathery madness, the teacher decides Subject 15 has had enough warming up, and starts tickling her with an electric toothbrush.
“BWAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA!” Astrid cackles hysterically, as the spinning bristle is applied to her left sole, while the teacher holds back her toes.
“Her arches seem to be a particularly bad spot for her...” she explains, whilst mercilessly running the spinning bristle in circles, up and down her long arch.
“YEEEEEAAARG! GET OUT OF THEEEEEERE! YAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA! I’M GOING INSANE! HAAAAAA!” Astrid cries out, rolling her upper body left and right.
“Class, please come down. We’re going to do group practice,” the teacher announces.
All the students climb down to the theater floor, and start taking turns tickling Astrid’s arches with electric brushes, while the teacher provides tips, and corrects their techniques.
Once all students have had about three minutes each with one of her arches, the teacher announces they’re now going to do an evaluation in groups of two. Everyone is free to use whatever tools they want, with the goal of tickling Subject 15 as much as possible, while she observes their techniques and grades them.
Poor Astrid watches horrified as they organize into groups and fetch all sorts of horrible things from the walls; feathers, soft-brushes, forks, backscratchers, pinwheels... A grueling parade of tickle-tools she’ll be forced to endure.
The first group is a pair of Asian girls. They’ve both picked two raven feathers each.
“We will now demonstrate the effectiveness of Chinese tickle torture,” one of them says.
“NOOOOO!” Astrid cries out, wiggling her toes.
The girls bow to the teacher, then start teasing Astrid’s wrinkly soles with the feathery tips. Raven feathers are perfect for this type of torture, as their tips are soft, yet their cores are strong, allowing for plenty of pressure.
“Aaaaarg! MRRRRG! Teehehehehe! Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha! Please stop!” Astrid squeals, groans and giggles, going nuts from the teasing tickles.
“It’s not going to stop,” one of the girls taunts.
“Chinese tickle torture never stops.”
“It goes on, and on, and on...”
“Always gentle, just like this.”
“Just imagine it.”
“Nothing but teasing tickles.”
“Just like this.”
“For days without end.”
“There would always be ticklers to replace us.”
“So the tickling could go on around the clock.”
As they produce these taunting words, poor Astrid grows increasingly agitated. Her giggles quickly evolve into howls of frenzied laughter, and she starts rolling her restrained upper body sideways.
“Haaaaa-HAHAHAHA! Naa! Naaa! Haaaaa-HAHAHAHA!”
Above the table, her big soles squirm non-stop, slaves to the overwhelming need to escape the teasing feathers. As she incessantly opens and closes her toes, feathers dive between them and quickly pull out, tickling her madly, and encouraging her to keep her toes closed. But on the other hand, other feathers often run between her wrinkles, which also tickles her like crazy, and encourages her to relax her soles. She can’t win. The Chinese girls are playing her feet like a pair of instruments, making her open or close her toes at a whim.
“BWAAAAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHA! STOP! PLEASE! I CAAAN’T TAKE IT!” Astrid explodes.
This oriental torment goes on for about 10 minutes, at which the teacher asks them to stop, gives them top marks, and invites the next two students.
“Bwaaaaaa...” Astrid sobs, as the next pair assumes their place.
“I’m going to use a pinwheel and a fork,” a male student says.
“I’m going to use a goat-hair, shoe-polishing brush, and my long fingernails,” a female announces.
“NOOO! NO! YOU’RE ALL INSANE! LET ME GOOO! I DON’T DESERVE THIS!” Astrid shouts, struggling like a madwoman.
Ignoring her outburst, the two students begin their demonstration.
“YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!” the poor girl screams, completely overwhelmed with the varied ticklish sensations.
The male student lays down the fork, and uses one hand to push back her right toes, stretching out her sole. Then, he starts rolling the pinwheel up and down, being very careful not to hurt his victim.
The female starts by vigorously brushing Astrid’s left sole. Goat-hair brushes are one of the softest shoe brushes there are, so their bristles feel exquisitely ticklish.
“YEAAAAAAAAAARG! YEAAAAAAAAARG! YEAAAAAAARG!” Astrid screams and screams, feeling like her senses are being completely overwhelmed. Before today, she had barely even been tickled before, much less with different sensations being delivered simultaneously.
Meanwhile, Chelsea is experiencing an even worse ordeal. She’s presently naked, floating inside a sensory deprivation tank, with her feet sticking out through two holes, and her wrists cuffed to the walls of the tank, keeping her in a “T” position.
The bottom half of the tank is filled with a very salt-heavy solution, on which her body floats effortlessly. There’s a feeding tube sticking out of her belly; it was surgically implanted so a special zero-waste, liquid nutrition, could be fed directly to her stomach. She has an IV catheter on her arm, and a sensory deprivation hood on her shaved head, identical to the one used in Intensive Care. She doesn’t have a gas mask, but the scientists have complete control of the environment, so they can fill the inside of the tank with whatever gases they decide.
When the tank was first closed, Chelsea actually found the experience deeply relaxing. She was floating in the void, unable to see, hear or feel anything at all, except for her feet, sticking out of the tank. Then the tickling started, and she understood the true meaning behind the phrase ‘tickle-hell’.
Now, after several hours inside the tank, with hardly any stimuli other than feet tickling, Chelsea has fallen into a mental state where she can’t even remember there’s a world beyond the void. All she knows are the things dancing over her soles and toes; they can be feathery or sharp, fast or slow; spinning or vibrating, but they always tickle hugely, and they’re utterly relentless.
She can never allow herself to move much, be it her body or just her feet, because if she does, muscle relaxant is sent by IV into her bloodstream, and her ability to move is taken away entirely, for some time.
“HAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA!” she laughs away, feeling a bunch of feathers swirling and dancing under her soles. Chelsea feels as though she’s wearing a pair of boots whose interior soles are completely covered in waving, fluttering plumes. Sometimes, their touches are quick and fleeting, other times, they’re slow and lasting. Either alternative is highly ticklish; the combination is even worse.
“HAAAA-HAAA-HAAA! NOOT THEEERE!” she cries out, as several plumes start being pulled between her toes. Yet her cry for mercy is ignored, as always. All she can do is bear through it; if she can’t, then she’ll be rendered limp, and she’ll have to bear through it anyway, or suffer something even worse.
“AAAAARG! I CAAAN’T! HAHAHA! I CAAAN’T TAKE IT!” she shouts, leaning her feet sideways, away from the feathery tickles, and scrunching down her toes. The feathers chase her feet, so she starts frantically waving them sideways; she has already broken the rules, so she might as well break them all the way, and at least have a small measure of reprieve.
For about a minute, she manages to avoid the bulk of the tickling, but little by little, she loses control of her muscles; she can actually feel the coldness of the muscular relaxant entering her vein, traveling into her heart, then being spread out across her body.
“Nooooooo!” she whimpers, feeling it travel down her legs, and approaching her feet.
Then, as her feet’s muscles become non-responsive, the feathers disappear. Without the tickling or the ability to move, Chelsea is overwhelmed by the lack of sensation. She feels dizzy and alone, completely alone in the whole universe. Whomever it is that’s tickling her feet is her only friend, and he’s gone. The poor girl feels a wave of emotion rush over her, causing her to sob and cry out, “I’m sorry! Please come back! Please! Don’t leave me alone in the dark! I’ll do better! Pleeease! You’re all I have! NOOOOO!”
The most diabolical part of this experiment is that, as unbearable as the tickling may be, it’s pretty much the subject’s only source of stimuli, so when that stimuli is taken away, the subject is left in such an abyssal void of nothingness, that she actually begs for the tickling to resume.
After what feels like a whole year spent floating in space -- but was actually less than a minute -- Chelsea feels a bunch of vibrating sticks, like electric flossers, teasing the bottom of her heels, and slowly waving upwards.
“HAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA! YES! Thank you! HAHAHAHA! I’m so sorry! HAHAHA! I’ll do better! I swear! HEHEHE! Don’t leave me again! HA-HA-HA-HAAA!” she cackles, feeling genuinely happy about her tickler’s return. She may be suffering, but at least she’s not alone anymore.
Outside the tank, there’s a scientist observing Chelsea’s brain state, and a second one making adjustments to the tickle-machine working the girl’s feet. This machine is a marvel of robotics; or at least, it will be, once it’s development is complete. But even now, it’s already capable of visually identifying the subject’s feet, isolating the most ticklish areas, and performing an endless ballet of brain-wracking tickling techniques, far more complex than the best human tickler could ever achieve.
The development of this machine is one of the lab’s three goals. Another one is to test the limit of human endurance. Through feeding tube, gas and IV, the subject can be kept alive indefinitely, and fully awake for nearly a month. For how long can the human mind experience nothing but endless tickling stimuli until it completely breaks down? So far, the most resilient subject lasted seven months; a record they hope Subject 16 will crush.
The final goal is to observe the development of an emotional dependency between the subject and someone who provides both endless suffering, and the only source of companionship; like a torturer, for example. Such information could very well prove useful for interrogation and brainwashing purposes.
After six hours of cream applications and tickle testing, Hazel is finally being let out of Intensive Care. Still wearing the full body straitjacket, she’s put on a gurney and wheeled through the hallways, dazed and half-crazed.
The gurney passes in front of the Cybernetics lab, where Chelsea is laughing hysterically inside the sensory deprivation tank. Then, it passes by Astrid, who’s also on a gurney, being pushed out of Interrogation Practice, still wearing a straitjacket. Neither girl recognizes the other, so lost are they both in post-torture delirium and exhaustion. Both of them are taken to their cells and set free for the night.
Come morning, a man in a lab coat enters Hazel’s cell, escorted by two other men.
The poor girl is huddled against a corner, her feet wrapped tightly with a bedsheet.
“Good morning, Subject 17.”
Hazel replies with a plea, “Please leave my feet alone... Please... I’ll do anything...”
Ignoring her, the doctor says, “You’ve been assigned to the Feet Enhancement Lab. But first, you need to eat, shower, etcetera. Are you going to take care of yourself? Or do we have to step in?”
“Don’t touch me! I’ll do it...” she whimpers.
“You have one hour.”
They bring her a tray with food, and leave her alone for an hour. Once the time elapses, they return to take her to the lab. Hazel is secured once more in a full body straitjacket, but also fitted with an adult diaper, because she won’t have regular bathroom breaks. She’s then loaded on a gurney and taken to a room with a sign above -- Feet Enhancement Lab. En route, she sees Astrid being carried into the Interrogation Practice room; even though her upper body is inside a straitjacket, she’s kicking and screaming like a madwoman.
When Hazel sees the Feet Enhancement Lab she screams and also goes into a frenzy, because it’s basically the same thing as the Intensive Care room, but annexed to a chemistry lab. She’s strapped down to the same setup, then a group of scientists start working to increase her pedal ticklishness. Injections, creams, lotions, gels, and dead skin purging methods are all used and abused until her feet are so sensitive, even just blowing air upon them is enough to tickle poor Hazel.
And of course, they also test her ticklishness. The Babinski reflex test is regularly used, as well as feathers, plumes, soft brushes, electric toothbrushes, and of course, fingers; because all the doctors find her tiny, gorgeous, impossibly smooth feet to be utterly irresistible tickle targets.
The lab is staffed by four scientists; two men and two women. With a sadistic smile on her face, one of the female researchers is presently twirling a feather up and down Hazel’s right sole.
“GAAA-HAA-HAA-HAA-HAA-HAA! PLEEEASE! HEEEK-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!” She cackles uncontrollably.
A male doctor looks up from his computer and says with a smirk, “Could you at least pretend you’re doing that for research? Let her rest until the next cream is mixed up.”
The woman glances at him, then lays down the feather and replies, “Fine. I was getting bored, anyway.”
Twenty minutes later, Hazel is screaming with laughter due to the spinning brush that’s traveling up and down her left arch. The tool, similar to an electric toothbrush, is being held by the other male doctor.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAARG! HAAAAAA-HAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA!”
“Number?”
“Peak value, 1158.”
“Impressive. But we can make it go higher.”
“Definitely.”
“MERCY! GAAAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA!” the girl screams into the gas mask. Tears of laughter stream from underneath the blindfold, and her face is bright red.
The tickler lays down the brush and leans in closer, caressing her left instep with his hand. Hazel’s soles are so very pretty; so tiny and smooth; and so helpless, despite the lack of toe ties. The doctor takes a moment to admire her incredible feet, but the moment is interrupted when he exhales on them, accidentally tickling the poor girl.
“AAAARG!” she squeals. Hazel would have shuddered if she had control over her body, but she doesn’t, so despite the ticklish stimuli, she can only lay down, tightly wrapped in canvas, like the BDSM version of an ancient Egyptian mummy.
“Guys, can I have a couple minutes alone with her?” the man asks, sounding rather horny.
“Sure. We’ll get some coffee,” another scientist replies. They then leave the room.
The doctor removes Hazel’s earmuffs, then returns to her sexy little feet.
“Don’t tickle me! PLEEEEEAAAASE!” Hazel sobs.
Ignoring her plea, the man extends his tongue, and wiggles its tip up and down the center of her sole. As a result, Hazel inhales deeply, then uses all that air to produce a howl of hysterical laughter.
“HOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO!”
Encouraged by her reaction, the doctor starts licking up her soft, tiny sole. Hazel goes completely nuts. Every single one of her brain cells is screaming for relief from the impossibly ticklish sensations.
“Gosh... Your feet are so tasty... And so tiny... I think I can fit one inside my mouth.”
Huffing and panting, Hazel cries out, “DON’T! YOU SICKO! YOU PERVERT!”
The doctor smirks, and starts suckling and nibbling her cute little toes. Hazel’s reaction is even more intense than before. She screeches sharply and loudly before actually starting to laugh.
“YIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRK! HIIII-HIIII-HIIII! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAA!”
Still with her paralyzed toes inside his mouth, the man glances at the computer monitor and widens his eyes in shock -- The nerve sensory scale is oscillating around 2000.
He stops sucking and gives her big toe a kiss. Then he says, “You love this! Lickles, nibbles and sucking are your favorite, aren’t they? Especially on your tasty tootsies.”
“Nooo... I can’t take it...” the girl whimpers.
The man then starts massaging her little soles with his thumbs, marveled with her impossibly soft skin. Hazel inhales deeply once again, but this time, instead of screaming, she releases a moan of pleasure.
“Feels good, huh?”
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... That feels insanely good...” she moans, feeling her senses being flooded with intensely pleasurable sensations.
“Does it turn you on?”
“I... I... No... Not really.”
“I wonder how high we’ll have to jack up your sensitivity until we can make you orgasm just with a foot rub...” he muses.
“Nooo... Please... Not higher... Please... I can’t stand it as it is...”
“We may also have to do some conditioning... But we’ll get it done, I guarantee it.”
“Nooo... NO! Why?! Why would you do this to meee?!” she squeals.
“For science, of course,” he replies, but judging by the bulge on his trousers, science isn’t the only goal he has in mind.
And so are the fates of Astrid, Chelsea and Hazel, the newest unwilling test subjects of a feet tickling research facility.
Astrid’s large soles have become practice surfaces, where tickle-torture students can hone their skills. Chelsea has gone on a long journey through a dark, deep void, with only a tickling machine to keep her company. Hazel’s tiny feet have become a testing ground for sensitivity enhancing technologies, their ticklishness being endlessly amplified to satisfy scientific curiosities which can never be quenched; not to mention the scientists’ lust for her adorable, impossibly soft, unbearably ticklish little soles.
The girls’ stories don’t end here, though. In fact, their ticklish ordeals have only just begun.
I'm going to post it here in it's entirety, but the text formatting is better on DeviantArt, so check it out there if you can.
If you like this story, please go drop a fav or a comment on DeviantArt. I'd really appreciate it.
The story:
https://www.deviantart.com/featherheart22/art/Unethical-Research-A-Tickling-Story-880620746
Unethical Research: A Tickling Story
Various/FFF ● Tickle Torture Research ● Feet Only
Written by
FeatherHeart22
Commissioned for
WardenKeller/MarauderTk
Various/FFF ● Tickle Torture Research ● Feet Only
Written by
FeatherHeart22
Commissioned for
WardenKeller/MarauderTk
Synopsis:
This is the story of three female protesters who were singled out by the CIA for their great aversion to feet tickling. In the chaos of a riot, they were arrested and sent to a secret detention center, where they were turned into unwilling research subjects for extreme feet tickling torture, interrogation, and ticklishness augmentation experiments.
“You don’t get a phone call. You’ve been selected to help the CIA refine humane interrogation techniques. From now on your designation is Subject 15.”
-- Unidentified CIA Employee
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction written for entertainment purposes.
◄●►
In the last few days of the Trump administration, a series of electoral fraud accusations sparked public protests. The worst of these protests spiraled into small riots, one of which is taking place right now in the streets of New York. A small drone is surveying the riot, identifying the rioters by facial recognition and by means of their smartphones.
Behind a computer screen, a woman in a business suit is going through the data being collected by the drone. She’s searching the rioters’ email, messaging, social network accounts, and search engine queries for the keywords -- ‘Unbearable’, ‘Extremely’, ‘Can’t stand’, ‘Hate’, ‘Feet’, ‘Toe’, ‘Sole’, ‘Ticklish’ and ‘Tickling’.
On a separate window, the program displays a list of rioters which are a positive match for the search query, reordering them in real time by relevance, and by social association. After 30 minutes, three young women consistently hold the top of the list. The woman in the business suit selects these three and expands their files.
The first one is a pretty-looking, 25-years-old punk girl who answers to the name Astrid. She’s caucasian, curvy, 1.77m tall, has facial piercings, tattoos, and her black hair is styled in a messy bob cut with dark green ends. The program has identified multiple instances in social networks where she admitted her feet are “... unbearably ticklish! Anyone who touches my feet is getting kicked in the face!”
The second girl is called Chelsea. She’s a 23-years-old, slender, 1.72m tall girl, with caramel-toned skin, and very short, curly black hair. She’s pretty, but has the same annoyed expression in every picture. She once wrote, “I do my own pedicures because I CAN’T STAND anyone touching them!”
The last girl is named Hazel. She’s 20-years-old, caucasian, stands at 1.65m, is very thin, possibly anorexic, and has a blue Mohawk. Of these three girls, Hazel has the greatest number of keyword matches, with almost 30 instances where she either complained of having extremely ticklish feet or searched for ways of making them less sensitive.
The woman in the business suit takes a quick look at their social security files, birth certificates and social connections, to arrive at the conclusion that the three girls are friends, and either have no living relatives or don't keep in touch with their families. She then accesses their criminal records and updates them, labeling them as suspected domestic terrorists, wanted by the CIA. With a couple more clicks, the NYPD is made aware of their presence in the riot, and immediately assigns several agents to arrest them.
◄●►
Astrid, Chelsea and Hazel are confused by the way the police singled them out, as they weren’t really making a bigger mess than the other rioters. But they don’t resist the arrest, knowing that doing so would only get them in more trouble.
They’re taken to a police station, but then something strange happens; instead of being booked into a cell, they’re loaded into an unmarked, windowless black van and transferred somewhere else. Not long after, the van pulls into a loading dock. The girls can’t see this, but they are being taken into a mysterious, windowless skyscraper in downtown Manhattan. The building has no signs other than the address -- 33 Thomas Street. Rumor has, it’s an NSA listening post, but no one really knows what goes on inside.
Without a single word of explanation, the girls are taken to a processing area. While they’re being stripped down to their underwear, they all briefly hear the unmistakable sound of distant laughter coming from a ventilation grill. It’s quite brief, but it makes them glance at each other with worry on their faces. Even though it was laughter, whomever was producing it didn’t sound happy at all.
After processing, they are locked inside tiny prison cells with a toilet, sink, shower, and sleeping cot.
◄●►
Half-naked and scared, Astrid is sitting on her cell’s cot, holding her knees against her chest. She’s been stuck here for hours; at least it feels that way. Suddenly, the door opens, and a woman in a business suit enters, escorted by four huge men.
“Who are you? What is this place? I want my phone call!” she demands. This isn’t the first time Astrid has been arrested, so even though her processing hasn’t been standard, she’s expecting her rights to be respected.
The woman looks down upon her with indifference in her eyes and says, “You don’t get a phone call. You’ve been selected to help the CIA refine humane interrogation techniques. From now on your designation is Subject 15.”
This statement hits the girl like a truck. “WHAT?!” she cries out, quickly standing up.
“I already know everything about you. Just answer me this -- Is it true your feet are unbearably ticklish?”
Astrid is usually a pretty tough girl, but this question shocks her to the core. She doesn’t answer verbally; instead, she gasps, and her pale face loses whatever color it had left.
The woman smirks and replies, “Thank you. That answers my question rather nicely. Take her to Feet Prep.” She then exits the cell, leaving Astrid stuck with the four men.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” she shouts. After a brief struggle, the men take her out of the cell and secure her to a gurney equipped with psychiatric restraints.
Astrid is pushed down a sterile hallway, into a room where a row of young women, restrained in the same way she is, are laughing their heads off while things are done to their feet. The room is broken up into “parking bays” for gurneys. At the far end of each bay, there’s a man or woman wearing a lab coat, sitting on a chair, surrounded by medical equipment.
The punk girl simply stares at this hellish scene, incredulously blinking her eyes as she’s wheeled past several women. “No... No! NO! You CAN’T do this to me!” she shouts, struggling maniacally against her bondage.
Despite her outburst, her gurney is pushed into one of the bays, leaving her feet facing a man in a lab coat. Without saying a word, he unceremoniously yanks out her socks, exposing her cute, big, wide, pale, silky smooth, very plushy, size 10 (US) feet, with Roman shaped toes and regular arches.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” she squeals, trying to bring her feet close together, but the ankle cuffs hold them too far apart.
The man raises an eyebrow and comments, “Oh my! Your feet look amazing! There’s hardly any cleaning for me to do. And they’re so big! I’ll recommend you for Interrogation Practice.”
“Int... Int... Interrogation... P-P-Practice?” Astrid stutters, scrunching her toes tightly.
“And according to your file... You’re very ticklish already, right?” he asks, gently fluttering his nails up her feet. This tease causes Astrid to straighten herself out like a board.
“YEAAARG!” she squeals loudly with a big, forced smile on her lips, and her eyes wide open. She also leans her feet outwards and back, in a desperate effort to get away from the tickles.
“Hehe! That’s a big yes. Let’s get started, then.”
“NO! Please! Whatever you’re gonna do, PLEASE DON’T! I really can’t stand having my feet tickled!” she cries out, her courage vanishing by the second.
“Excellent! You’ll make a great practice subject,” he replies, whilst putting on a pair of rubber gloves. “Now, keep your feet still, or I’ll have to use a muscle relaxant.”
“SCREW YOU!” she shouts, using up her last drops of bravery.
The man picks up a wet sponge and gives her squirmy feet a good clean. This doesn’t actually tickle her much, so she relaxes a bit. Then, he picks up an electric callus remover, whose sight makes her squirm nervously.
“HAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!” she erupts with laughter when the abrasive surface starts spinning against her right heel.
“Hold it still...” he reminds her, trying to hold her foot steady.
“I CAN’T! HAHAHA! I really CAN’T! NononoNOO-HO-HO-HO-HOOO!” she cackles, struggling against her bondage.
“Have it your way, then.”
The man gets up, secures a small gas tank to the gurney, and fits a breathing mask to Astrid’s face. The girl tries holding her breath, but it’s only a matter of seconds until she starts breathing in lungfuls of the gas. Then, over the course of five minutes, her body becomes limp as a wet noodle.
“Noooo...” she whimpers, following the man with her eyes as he returns to her feet.
“Let’s try this again, huh?” He asks, bringing the callus remover back to her foot.
“HAAAAAA-HAA-HAA-HAA-HAAAAA!” she starts laughing, now without being able to move her feet, or anything else really, other than her eyes.
The device is mercilessly applied to her feet, leaving her already silky foot, utterly baby soft.
◄●►
On the bay next to Astrid, her dark-skinned friend Chelsea, who had a chance to see the gas in action, is begging her doctor not to do the same to her.
“I’ll hold them still! I swear! Don’t make me go limp! Please!” she begs, moving as far away as possible from the gas mask being held in front of her face.
“Oh, very well, Subject 16. I’ll give you one more chance,” a woman in a lab coat grants.
“I’ll try really, really hard! I swear!” Chelsea says, watching the woman return to her feet.
Chelsea has a very feminine pair of soft, size 8 feet, with caramel-shaded insteps, pink bottoms, high arches, and long, Egyptian-shaped toes.
“MRRRRRRG! MRRRG! MRRRRG! MRRRRG!” she groans through her clenched lips, desperately trying to hold her feet still, while an electric callus remover is applied to her right foot.
The poor girl is shaking from intense muscular contraction. Her hands are closed into fists, and her face is scrunched down tightly with a forced smile on her lips. As for her feet, they occasionally shake, but for the most part, she manages to hold them rock steady, as the exfoliating roller is driven all over her sole.
When the doctor puts down the device, she comments, “Good girl! You have good endurance! I know just where to send you.”
Chelsea whimpers, unsure whether she wants to know.
◄●►
On the next gurney, Hazel, the blue mohawk girl, is struggling like a complete maniac, utterly desperate to escape her restraints. There’s a man sitting in front of her feet, examining her squirming soles.
“Good grief! What have you done to your feet?” he asks.
Hazel has a pair of utterly adorable, thin, size 6 feet, with short, Asian-shaped toes, and regular arches. However, these delectable examples of pedal cuteness are in a horrible state of maintenance. In a campaign against their hyper-sensitivity, she did everything in her power to make her feet rough and calloused. Namely, she never exfoliated them, and jogged barefoot twice a day. As it happens, she took one of these jogs in the morning, just before the protest, so her soles are black with filth.
“You’re going to need a much, much longer preparation than normal, girl!” the man says, picking up a very rough sponge.
“NOOOOO! HEEEEEEEEELP! NOT MY FEEEET!” she screams hysterically.
Just as the sponge is about to touch her, Hazel successfully yanks her right hand from the padded leather cuff. Her doctor immediately rushes to hold her arm and calls out, “Security!”
Two large men secure Hazel’s wrist back in place; but instead of resuming the pedicure, the doctor says, “She’s too violent for regular Feet Prep. Let’s take her to the Intensive Care room.”
◄●►
Through the corner of her eye, Astrid sees Hazel’s gurney being pushed out of the room. Her own feet have already been exfoliated into complete baby-softless; it didn’t take long because they were already in excellent shape. Now a cream is being rubbed on her right foot; a procedure which isn’t actually tickling her.
Breathing the muscular relaxant, Astrid feels the doctor’s hands massaging her big, restful foot. He then picks up a device shaped like a hairdryer and starts firing it at her sole. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything at first; but gradually, her foot becomes covered by gentle tingly sensations.
“What’re you doing?!” she asks, widening her eyes.
“Oh relax. It won’t hurt. This is the activator for that cream. How does it feel?”
“It... It tingles... It tingles more and more every second!” she exclaims, hopelessly trying to move her paralized foot. “What the hell is this?!”
“It’s a cream which awakens your surface nerves. It’ll make your feet much more sensitive.”
“MORE TICKLISH?!“ she cries out, going through a surge of intense struggling; unfortunately, her muscles don’t respond, leaving her no choice but to endure this diabolical treatment, which as an added bonus, is starting to get really tickly by itself.
“Don’t worry, it’s permanent. As long as you behave, you’ll only get this done once.”
“Teehehehehe! PERMANENT?! Aaaaaarg! Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Haaa! It tiiiickles!”
Ignoring her, the man carries on shooting the device at her foot, causing the cream to penetrate her skin, and bond with her nerves.
“Enough! Ha-HAHAHAHA! That’s ticklish ENOUGH! NO-HO-HO-HO-HO! Please!” She begs, cackling uncontrollably.
“Far from it. We’re not even halfway through this application. You’re getting 20 on each foot. Standard Feet Prep.”
“NOOOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOOOO!” Astrid howls. Her eyes are like two pits of despair.
◄●►
Nearby, Chelsea is doing her best to keep her foot still through her first application, but the increasingly powerful tingly sensations are driving her insane.
“Hold it steady...” the female doctor taunts, smirking.
“MRRRRRRRRRRRG! MRRRRRRRRRRRG! PLEEEEASE!” Chelsea groans and begs, holding all of her muscles tightly contracted. As the activation device shoots radiation at her left toes, she can’t help but to softly twitch them. “AAAAAARG! PLEEEEASE! MRRRRRG!”
“Just a little more...” the doctor asks, then moves the device away. Chelsea sighs with huge relief.
“Good job! You have excellent endurance, Subject 16. You’ll make an ideal subject for the Cybernetics Lab.”
Huffing and panting, the girl asks, “Cyber... netics... Let me go... Please... Won’t tell anyone...”
The doctor aims the device at her other foot and giggles, “Hehe... Of that, you’re absolutely correct. You won’t talk to anyone for a very, very long time.”
“No more... Please... I can’t take any more...” the girl begs, staring fearfully at the device.
“We’ll see about that,” the woman says, pressing the trigger.
“Mrrrrrrrg! Nooo! No more! MRRRRRRRG! It tickleeeees!” she groans, as her pretty foot starts to tingle.
◄●►
Hazel, the thin mohawk girl, is now in a different room; a small one, dominated by a narrow bondage table with a set of padded foot stocks built right into it. The hyper-ticklish girl was zipped within a white, full-body straitjacket, leaving only her head and feet sticking out. This extreme bondage gear was then buckled at the ankles, thighs, waist, and chest; and secured to the table at those same points. As if this isn’t enough, her ankles were locked in stocks, close together but with a separating barrier between her feet.
The doctor who tried processing her is gone; replaced by two female doctors with long fingernails. One of them is raising the table’s back into a sitting position, while the other one is setting up a basin underneath Hazel’s dirty feet.
“My god... I had never seen a pair of feet this pretty in such a sorry state.”
“Please! I’m too ticklish! I’m too ticklish!” Hazel begs the other woman, who picks up a gas mask and fits it on her face. The mask is connected to a large canister labeled -- Muscular Relaxant + Sensitivity Enhancer + Mental Stim + Oxigen.
Meanwhile, the other woman moves a tall, wheeled machine next to the stocks; it has a series of dentistry style devices resting on their holders, such as water jets and vibrating bristles.
“Don’t tickle me! Please! Not my feet! Anything but this!”
“Are you really that ticklish?” one of the doctors asks, while they both sit in front of her feet.
“YES! I’ve got the world's most ticklish feet! The smallest tickle drives me NUTS!”
“Interesting...” the other doctor muses, “Maybe we could use her to test the limits of our tickle enhancers.”
“An excellent idea, colleague!”
At this point, Hazel screams hysterically, and goes through a surge of utterly demented struggling, but the bondage obviously holds her in place.
One of the doctors picks up a water jet and passes another to her colleague, whilst saying, “Fight all you want. You’ll never escape from this setup.” They then point the ultra-thin water jets at Hazel filthy soles and start them up.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!” The girl screams at the top of her lungs, as the jets start scrapping the dirt from her soles. She leans her feet inwards and frantically rubs them against the separating barrier, but little by little, she loses control of her muscles, and her tiny feet become restful, unable to move a single millimeter while the twin jets clean them in the most ticklish manner imaginable.
“BWAAAAAAA-HAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAAAA!” she cackles hysterically, as one of the jets focuses on her right toes, and the other one on the middle of her left sole. The doctors keep doing this for a good while, even after Hazel’s feet are completely dirt-free, seemingly just for the heck of it.
After a good 15 minutes, one of the women snaps out of it and points out that they need to exfoliate. They place the water jets back on the machine, and pick up two wired, electric callus removers.
By this point, Hazel would be passed out if not for the additives in the gas. She’s already a complete mess; her face is blushed bright red and covered in tears of laughter.
“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAARG! HAHAHAHAHAAAA!” she screams intense laughter, when two abrasive surfaces start spinning against her heels. One of the women fails to resist the temptation and starts spidering a handful of nails against the balls of her right foot, gently scratching the rough skin.
“NAAAA! NAAAA! NAAAA! NAAAA!” the girl cackles.
Both women giggle, and the other doctor also starts teasing with her nails.
“Teehee! It’s hard to resist, isn’t it?”
“Very. Tickle, tickle, tickle... Hehehe!”
“World's most ticklish feet, huh? Soon...” the woman mumbles evilly.
◄●►
One hour later, Hazel’s little feet are completely transformed. Gone are the filth and the rough spots; now, her feet are two utterly delectable samples of feminine pedal perfection; silky smooth, tiny, and excruciatingly ticklish, even before any special sensitivity treatments.
The two doctors are presently rubbing in a thick coat of cream on both feet. They’re not trying to tickle, but nevertheless, their touches are enough to make the poor girl laugh. Ignoring her incessant yelps and giggles, the women finish rubbing it in, then fetch two activator devices.
When Hazel’s feet start tingling, she opens her eyes wide and whimpers loudly, “What are you doing?! What is THAT?! It itches! Stop! Please STOP! NO MORE! IIIRK! HiHiHiHiHii!”
Smiling evilly, the two doctors mercilessly fire the activators at her paralyzed feet, imagining the cream’s agents sinking into the skin, and bonding with her nerves.
“Enough! Please! Haaaa-HAHAHAHA! NO MORE! NO-HO-HO-HO-HO! Please!” she begs, cackling uncontrollably. Within seconds, Hazel is laughing her head off, as her delicate feet are covered in maddeningly tingly sensations from the bottom of her heels, to the tips of her toes.
◄●►
Another hour goes by. The doctors put her through five applications of the cream, then decide to test her ticklishness. They shave off Hazel’s mohawk, spread a gel over her scalp, and fit her with a sort of leather hood which includes very powerful earmuffs, a blindfold, and a network of electrodes; the latter of which are then plugged into a computer terminal.
One of the women is sitting at the computer, while the other one is sitting in front of Hazel’s feet, holding a fluffy feather.
“Let’s start with a Babinski reflex,” the second doctor says. She proceeds to drag the hard tip of the feather from the center of Hazel’s right heel, up her sole, and sideways over the balls of her foot.
The girl doesn’t move her foot because of the muscular relaxant, but she produces a loud, sharp screech. “HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRK!”
“Oh my god!” the other doctor exclaims, looking at the computer screen. “She got an average of 646 on the nerve sensory scale! And we’re not even halfway through the cream applications!”
The other woman smiles wickedly, turns the feather around, and starts waving it’s soft, fluffy tip, up and down Hazel’s right foot.
“NononononoNOOOO! HAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!” she explodes with laughter.
“What’s the number?”
“It’s oscillating between... 200 and 300. Which is pretty mind-boggling, considering you’re only using a feather.”
“And a very soft feather too. Teehee... Tickle, tickle, tickle...” the other doctor says, now waving the feather sideways under Hazel’s toes.
“YAAAAAARG! HAHAHAHA! NOT THEEEERE!”
“Number?”
“Between 300 to 400.”
“She has pretty ticklish tootsies. Tickle, tickle, tickleeeee... Are these pretty toes ticklish? Yes, they are! Gouchi, gouchi, goo!” she taunts. “Subject 17... We’re going to make your feet so sensitive, we’ll be able to tickle them through boots... Heehehe!”
“HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA! HEEEE-HE-HE-HE-HEEEEEE!”
◄●►
Astrid is presently being taken out of the Feet Prep. She was put through all 20 applications of the cream, and is slowly regaining control of her muscles. Her gurney is taken inside a room with a sign above the door -- Interrogation Practice.
Once inside, she gasps in horror, because the room is actually the ground floor of a small, circular surgical theater. The walls are all covered with hanging feathers, brushes, and other things clearly chosen for their ability to elicit laughter. At the very center, there’s a sort of metal drafting table with two holes in the middle.
The girl is taken off the gurney, forced inside a straitjacket, and laid down on a soft surface under the drafting table. Her feet are then put through the holes above her, and a piece of metal with two half-circles is slid up the tabletop, onto the bottom of her ankles, and locked in place trapping her feet.
Poor Astrid whimpers as her big toes are tied back, leaving her big, silky soles quite helpless. Her only satisfaction, small as it might be, is that all surfaces she’s in contact with seem to be padded.
Minutes later, a small crowd enters the theater’s audience area and sits down, giggling excitedly. A woman then enters the floor area and announces, “Good evening class! Welcome to Tickle-Torture 101! Tonight we have a new subject to practice on, the extremely ticklish 15. It’s about time we got a new one, too. Subject 11 was taken to the recovery wing to regain her sanity; or as much of it as possible. We should have her back in six to eight months. Until then, we have Subject 15 to practice on.”
“No! Don’t tickle me! PLEEEASE!” Astrid cries out.
Everyone laughs at her. Meanwhile, the teacher gathers a few tickle tools from the walls and sits in front of the girl’s sexy soles, like a pianist before a piano.
“Now, pay attention, everyone. We’re going to start by warming her up with a bit of feathering. Are you feather-ticklish?” she asks, stroking a pair of feather dusters up and down Astrid soles.
“Yeeeeek! Tehehehehe!” the girl breaks into adorable giggles, which quickly evolve into cackles. “HeHeHeHEEE! HAA-HA-HA-HA-HA!”
“That’s a big ‘yes’. Wonderful. As you all might remember, Subject 11 required several rounds of Feet Prep until she became feather-sensitive. Subject 15 seems to be a considerably better practice subject. Hopefully we can keep her for a few years, at least.”
“YEARS!? HAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA! STOP! P-P-PLEEEASE!”
The teacher then proceeds to demonstrate various feather tickling techniques on Astrid’s big, silky soles. She wiggles feather dusters up and down, explores every millimeter with the tips of raven feathers, and pulls plumes between her toes.
The girl’s feet are constantly shaking and scrunching, but the teacher doesn’t mind. In fact, she often points out to the class how Astrid’s reactions reveal lots of information about her ticklishness, and teaches them how to exploit that to great effect.
◄●►
After 20 minutes of feathery madness, the teacher decides Subject 15 has had enough warming up, and starts tickling her with an electric toothbrush.
“BWAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA!” Astrid cackles hysterically, as the spinning bristle is applied to her left sole, while the teacher holds back her toes.
“Her arches seem to be a particularly bad spot for her...” she explains, whilst mercilessly running the spinning bristle in circles, up and down her long arch.
“YEEEEEAAARG! GET OUT OF THEEEEEERE! YAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA! I’M GOING INSANE! HAAAAAA!” Astrid cries out, rolling her upper body left and right.
“Class, please come down. We’re going to do group practice,” the teacher announces.
All the students climb down to the theater floor, and start taking turns tickling Astrid’s arches with electric brushes, while the teacher provides tips, and corrects their techniques.
◄●►
Once all students have had about three minutes each with one of her arches, the teacher announces they’re now going to do an evaluation in groups of two. Everyone is free to use whatever tools they want, with the goal of tickling Subject 15 as much as possible, while she observes their techniques and grades them.
Poor Astrid watches horrified as they organize into groups and fetch all sorts of horrible things from the walls; feathers, soft-brushes, forks, backscratchers, pinwheels... A grueling parade of tickle-tools she’ll be forced to endure.
The first group is a pair of Asian girls. They’ve both picked two raven feathers each.
“We will now demonstrate the effectiveness of Chinese tickle torture,” one of them says.
“NOOOOO!” Astrid cries out, wiggling her toes.
The girls bow to the teacher, then start teasing Astrid’s wrinkly soles with the feathery tips. Raven feathers are perfect for this type of torture, as their tips are soft, yet their cores are strong, allowing for plenty of pressure.
“Aaaaarg! MRRRRG! Teehehehehe! Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha! Please stop!” Astrid squeals, groans and giggles, going nuts from the teasing tickles.
“It’s not going to stop,” one of the girls taunts.
“Chinese tickle torture never stops.”
“It goes on, and on, and on...”
“Always gentle, just like this.”
“Just imagine it.”
“Nothing but teasing tickles.”
“Just like this.”
“For days without end.”
“There would always be ticklers to replace us.”
“So the tickling could go on around the clock.”
As they produce these taunting words, poor Astrid grows increasingly agitated. Her giggles quickly evolve into howls of frenzied laughter, and she starts rolling her restrained upper body sideways.
“Haaaaa-HAHAHAHA! Naa! Naaa! Haaaaa-HAHAHAHA!”
Above the table, her big soles squirm non-stop, slaves to the overwhelming need to escape the teasing feathers. As she incessantly opens and closes her toes, feathers dive between them and quickly pull out, tickling her madly, and encouraging her to keep her toes closed. But on the other hand, other feathers often run between her wrinkles, which also tickles her like crazy, and encourages her to relax her soles. She can’t win. The Chinese girls are playing her feet like a pair of instruments, making her open or close her toes at a whim.
“BWAAAAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHA! STOP! PLEASE! I CAAAN’T TAKE IT!” Astrid explodes.
This oriental torment goes on for about 10 minutes, at which the teacher asks them to stop, gives them top marks, and invites the next two students.
“Bwaaaaaa...” Astrid sobs, as the next pair assumes their place.
“I’m going to use a pinwheel and a fork,” a male student says.
“I’m going to use a goat-hair, shoe-polishing brush, and my long fingernails,” a female announces.
“NOOO! NO! YOU’RE ALL INSANE! LET ME GOOO! I DON’T DESERVE THIS!” Astrid shouts, struggling like a madwoman.
Ignoring her outburst, the two students begin their demonstration.
“YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!” the poor girl screams, completely overwhelmed with the varied ticklish sensations.
The male student lays down the fork, and uses one hand to push back her right toes, stretching out her sole. Then, he starts rolling the pinwheel up and down, being very careful not to hurt his victim.
The female starts by vigorously brushing Astrid’s left sole. Goat-hair brushes are one of the softest shoe brushes there are, so their bristles feel exquisitely ticklish.
“YEAAAAAAAAAARG! YEAAAAAAAAARG! YEAAAAAAARG!” Astrid screams and screams, feeling like her senses are being completely overwhelmed. Before today, she had barely even been tickled before, much less with different sensations being delivered simultaneously.
◄●►
Meanwhile, Chelsea is experiencing an even worse ordeal. She’s presently naked, floating inside a sensory deprivation tank, with her feet sticking out through two holes, and her wrists cuffed to the walls of the tank, keeping her in a “T” position.
The bottom half of the tank is filled with a very salt-heavy solution, on which her body floats effortlessly. There’s a feeding tube sticking out of her belly; it was surgically implanted so a special zero-waste, liquid nutrition, could be fed directly to her stomach. She has an IV catheter on her arm, and a sensory deprivation hood on her shaved head, identical to the one used in Intensive Care. She doesn’t have a gas mask, but the scientists have complete control of the environment, so they can fill the inside of the tank with whatever gases they decide.
When the tank was first closed, Chelsea actually found the experience deeply relaxing. She was floating in the void, unable to see, hear or feel anything at all, except for her feet, sticking out of the tank. Then the tickling started, and she understood the true meaning behind the phrase ‘tickle-hell’.
Now, after several hours inside the tank, with hardly any stimuli other than feet tickling, Chelsea has fallen into a mental state where she can’t even remember there’s a world beyond the void. All she knows are the things dancing over her soles and toes; they can be feathery or sharp, fast or slow; spinning or vibrating, but they always tickle hugely, and they’re utterly relentless.
She can never allow herself to move much, be it her body or just her feet, because if she does, muscle relaxant is sent by IV into her bloodstream, and her ability to move is taken away entirely, for some time.
“HAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA!” she laughs away, feeling a bunch of feathers swirling and dancing under her soles. Chelsea feels as though she’s wearing a pair of boots whose interior soles are completely covered in waving, fluttering plumes. Sometimes, their touches are quick and fleeting, other times, they’re slow and lasting. Either alternative is highly ticklish; the combination is even worse.
“HAAAA-HAAA-HAAA! NOOT THEEERE!” she cries out, as several plumes start being pulled between her toes. Yet her cry for mercy is ignored, as always. All she can do is bear through it; if she can’t, then she’ll be rendered limp, and she’ll have to bear through it anyway, or suffer something even worse.
“AAAAARG! I CAAAN’T! HAHAHA! I CAAAN’T TAKE IT!” she shouts, leaning her feet sideways, away from the feathery tickles, and scrunching down her toes. The feathers chase her feet, so she starts frantically waving them sideways; she has already broken the rules, so she might as well break them all the way, and at least have a small measure of reprieve.
For about a minute, she manages to avoid the bulk of the tickling, but little by little, she loses control of her muscles; she can actually feel the coldness of the muscular relaxant entering her vein, traveling into her heart, then being spread out across her body.
“Nooooooo!” she whimpers, feeling it travel down her legs, and approaching her feet.
Then, as her feet’s muscles become non-responsive, the feathers disappear. Without the tickling or the ability to move, Chelsea is overwhelmed by the lack of sensation. She feels dizzy and alone, completely alone in the whole universe. Whomever it is that’s tickling her feet is her only friend, and he’s gone. The poor girl feels a wave of emotion rush over her, causing her to sob and cry out, “I’m sorry! Please come back! Please! Don’t leave me alone in the dark! I’ll do better! Pleeease! You’re all I have! NOOOOO!”
The most diabolical part of this experiment is that, as unbearable as the tickling may be, it’s pretty much the subject’s only source of stimuli, so when that stimuli is taken away, the subject is left in such an abyssal void of nothingness, that she actually begs for the tickling to resume.
After what feels like a whole year spent floating in space -- but was actually less than a minute -- Chelsea feels a bunch of vibrating sticks, like electric flossers, teasing the bottom of her heels, and slowly waving upwards.
“HAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA! YES! Thank you! HAHAHAHA! I’m so sorry! HAHAHA! I’ll do better! I swear! HEHEHE! Don’t leave me again! HA-HA-HA-HAAA!” she cackles, feeling genuinely happy about her tickler’s return. She may be suffering, but at least she’s not alone anymore.
Outside the tank, there’s a scientist observing Chelsea’s brain state, and a second one making adjustments to the tickle-machine working the girl’s feet. This machine is a marvel of robotics; or at least, it will be, once it’s development is complete. But even now, it’s already capable of visually identifying the subject’s feet, isolating the most ticklish areas, and performing an endless ballet of brain-wracking tickling techniques, far more complex than the best human tickler could ever achieve.
The development of this machine is one of the lab’s three goals. Another one is to test the limit of human endurance. Through feeding tube, gas and IV, the subject can be kept alive indefinitely, and fully awake for nearly a month. For how long can the human mind experience nothing but endless tickling stimuli until it completely breaks down? So far, the most resilient subject lasted seven months; a record they hope Subject 16 will crush.
The final goal is to observe the development of an emotional dependency between the subject and someone who provides both endless suffering, and the only source of companionship; like a torturer, for example. Such information could very well prove useful for interrogation and brainwashing purposes.
◄●►
After six hours of cream applications and tickle testing, Hazel is finally being let out of Intensive Care. Still wearing the full body straitjacket, she’s put on a gurney and wheeled through the hallways, dazed and half-crazed.
The gurney passes in front of the Cybernetics lab, where Chelsea is laughing hysterically inside the sensory deprivation tank. Then, it passes by Astrid, who’s also on a gurney, being pushed out of Interrogation Practice, still wearing a straitjacket. Neither girl recognizes the other, so lost are they both in post-torture delirium and exhaustion. Both of them are taken to their cells and set free for the night.
◄●►
Come morning, a man in a lab coat enters Hazel’s cell, escorted by two other men.
The poor girl is huddled against a corner, her feet wrapped tightly with a bedsheet.
“Good morning, Subject 17.”
Hazel replies with a plea, “Please leave my feet alone... Please... I’ll do anything...”
Ignoring her, the doctor says, “You’ve been assigned to the Feet Enhancement Lab. But first, you need to eat, shower, etcetera. Are you going to take care of yourself? Or do we have to step in?”
“Don’t touch me! I’ll do it...” she whimpers.
“You have one hour.”
They bring her a tray with food, and leave her alone for an hour. Once the time elapses, they return to take her to the lab. Hazel is secured once more in a full body straitjacket, but also fitted with an adult diaper, because she won’t have regular bathroom breaks. She’s then loaded on a gurney and taken to a room with a sign above -- Feet Enhancement Lab. En route, she sees Astrid being carried into the Interrogation Practice room; even though her upper body is inside a straitjacket, she’s kicking and screaming like a madwoman.
When Hazel sees the Feet Enhancement Lab she screams and also goes into a frenzy, because it’s basically the same thing as the Intensive Care room, but annexed to a chemistry lab. She’s strapped down to the same setup, then a group of scientists start working to increase her pedal ticklishness. Injections, creams, lotions, gels, and dead skin purging methods are all used and abused until her feet are so sensitive, even just blowing air upon them is enough to tickle poor Hazel.
And of course, they also test her ticklishness. The Babinski reflex test is regularly used, as well as feathers, plumes, soft brushes, electric toothbrushes, and of course, fingers; because all the doctors find her tiny, gorgeous, impossibly smooth feet to be utterly irresistible tickle targets.
The lab is staffed by four scientists; two men and two women. With a sadistic smile on her face, one of the female researchers is presently twirling a feather up and down Hazel’s right sole.
“GAAA-HAA-HAA-HAA-HAA-HAA! PLEEEASE! HEEEK-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!” She cackles uncontrollably.
A male doctor looks up from his computer and says with a smirk, “Could you at least pretend you’re doing that for research? Let her rest until the next cream is mixed up.”
The woman glances at him, then lays down the feather and replies, “Fine. I was getting bored, anyway.”
Twenty minutes later, Hazel is screaming with laughter due to the spinning brush that’s traveling up and down her left arch. The tool, similar to an electric toothbrush, is being held by the other male doctor.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAARG! HAAAAAA-HAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA!”
“Number?”
“Peak value, 1158.”
“Impressive. But we can make it go higher.”
“Definitely.”
“MERCY! GAAAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA!” the girl screams into the gas mask. Tears of laughter stream from underneath the blindfold, and her face is bright red.
The tickler lays down the brush and leans in closer, caressing her left instep with his hand. Hazel’s soles are so very pretty; so tiny and smooth; and so helpless, despite the lack of toe ties. The doctor takes a moment to admire her incredible feet, but the moment is interrupted when he exhales on them, accidentally tickling the poor girl.
“AAAARG!” she squeals. Hazel would have shuddered if she had control over her body, but she doesn’t, so despite the ticklish stimuli, she can only lay down, tightly wrapped in canvas, like the BDSM version of an ancient Egyptian mummy.
“Guys, can I have a couple minutes alone with her?” the man asks, sounding rather horny.
“Sure. We’ll get some coffee,” another scientist replies. They then leave the room.
The doctor removes Hazel’s earmuffs, then returns to her sexy little feet.
“Don’t tickle me! PLEEEEEAAAASE!” Hazel sobs.
Ignoring her plea, the man extends his tongue, and wiggles its tip up and down the center of her sole. As a result, Hazel inhales deeply, then uses all that air to produce a howl of hysterical laughter.
“HOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO!”
Encouraged by her reaction, the doctor starts licking up her soft, tiny sole. Hazel goes completely nuts. Every single one of her brain cells is screaming for relief from the impossibly ticklish sensations.
“Gosh... Your feet are so tasty... And so tiny... I think I can fit one inside my mouth.”
Huffing and panting, Hazel cries out, “DON’T! YOU SICKO! YOU PERVERT!”
The doctor smirks, and starts suckling and nibbling her cute little toes. Hazel’s reaction is even more intense than before. She screeches sharply and loudly before actually starting to laugh.
“YIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRK! HIIII-HIIII-HIIII! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAA!”
Still with her paralyzed toes inside his mouth, the man glances at the computer monitor and widens his eyes in shock -- The nerve sensory scale is oscillating around 2000.
He stops sucking and gives her big toe a kiss. Then he says, “You love this! Lickles, nibbles and sucking are your favorite, aren’t they? Especially on your tasty tootsies.”
“Nooo... I can’t take it...” the girl whimpers.
The man then starts massaging her little soles with his thumbs, marveled with her impossibly soft skin. Hazel inhales deeply once again, but this time, instead of screaming, she releases a moan of pleasure.
“Feels good, huh?”
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... That feels insanely good...” she moans, feeling her senses being flooded with intensely pleasurable sensations.
“Does it turn you on?”
“I... I... No... Not really.”
“I wonder how high we’ll have to jack up your sensitivity until we can make you orgasm just with a foot rub...” he muses.
“Nooo... Please... Not higher... Please... I can’t stand it as it is...”
“We may also have to do some conditioning... But we’ll get it done, I guarantee it.”
“Nooo... NO! Why?! Why would you do this to meee?!” she squeals.
“For science, of course,” he replies, but judging by the bulge on his trousers, science isn’t the only goal he has in mind.
◄●►
And so are the fates of Astrid, Chelsea and Hazel, the newest unwilling test subjects of a feet tickling research facility.
Astrid’s large soles have become practice surfaces, where tickle-torture students can hone their skills. Chelsea has gone on a long journey through a dark, deep void, with only a tickling machine to keep her company. Hazel’s tiny feet have become a testing ground for sensitivity enhancing technologies, their ticklishness being endlessly amplified to satisfy scientific curiosities which can never be quenched; not to mention the scientists’ lust for her adorable, impossibly soft, unbearably ticklish little soles.
The girls’ stories don’t end here, though. In fact, their ticklish ordeals have only just begun.
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the story!
If you like my writing style and creativity, know that I'm open to commissions.
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If you like my writing style and creativity, know that I'm open to commissions.
Contact me if interested.
MORE DETAILS
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