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Bolts: Chapter One; The Wife of the Devil

Journia

3rd Level Blue Feather
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Feb 15, 2006
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Before I begin I just want to say that it was fun being gone from here for a while, but I felt I had to return because if I did not, then so much tickle fiction from my mind would be lost since no one would read it. But me.

This is the first chapter of a novel I plan to actually get published, probably on my own. But I want to share it with you all because it will be drastically edited once I have everything else done, including pictures.

So, read an tell me what you think, I'm very interested in finding out.

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Bolts

The Wife of the Devil


Kay and Yarrow slammed the heavy metal door shut, locked it, slid the heavy steel bar in place, and shut the peephole. They proceeded to gather the ammunition that lay to their far left on a long table, and afterward they opened the first aid boxes, tended to the cuts or bruises they had endured in their battles to the safe room, and then they sat down to rest.

Kay was tanned with fiery red hair that had begun to show its blonde roots. She was always on the lookout for a pair of scissors, because she intended to cut off the red locks; she didn't like her blonde color, but what she hated even more was her natural and artificial colors clashing. At 5'2” and 98 lbs. Kay looked like a lot of girls at 20 years of age. Only, she was leaner, because though there was food, it was hard to get at; and most of the other girls who looked like her, were either dead or dying.

She wore a black turtleneck shirt with sleeves that clearly had been cut since the frigid winter months had worked their way into the blistering summer. She wore a pair of tight, ratty denim jeans with holes in the knees and a pair of equally ratty skate shoes.

Yarrow was completely different from Kay. She was a dark haired girl who had been raised most of her life in Hong Kong, and came to the United States in her teens to finish high school. She was dressed in a pair of khakis and a pair of old trainers. She looked just like any chinese girl that you'd meet on the street.

She wore her hair in a braided ponytail, and always tucked it in her brown t-shirt to avoid it being grabbed by their foes.

Yarrow neatly placed the items on the table together on one side and then laid down on the cleared end. At 4'11” she was able to curl up just about anywhere. She promptly fell asleep. Kay on the other hand kicked off her trainers and walked around the room, thinking about what Tito had told before he had been captured.

There's a camp in Vienna where refugees have a stronghold, its near GMU, its a shopping center, that's been blocked off on all sides. They're expanding every day but are always in need of more people to help the cause. But watch out for the roaches.

Kay knew about the roaches. They were the cause of the infection. They had one of two reactions upon meeting a new host. They either turned you into a feeder, a deceptively aimless corpse that captures and tickles people for as long as they are able, or they turn you into a bolt.

Bolts, as their names imply, are the ones who run from the feeders. Bolts are very thin, because of their metabolism being sped up, but unlike their names, they aren't made faster because of their infection. They run because they are made more ticklish because of each infection. The level of ticklishness woul increase by five.

It was soon found out that to become an infecte feeder, you could not be ticklish. Meaning if you were never ticklish before, your chances of being a feeder after a bite was one hundred percent. And to be a bolt, you'd have to have been born ticklish. And the likelihood of becoming a bolt when bitten was the same as a feeder. No one escaped.

Kay had been bitten by roaches hundreds of times. The roaches themselves were not killers, but the feeders were. Being a rckless fighter by nature, Kay had become notorious for beating the pulp out of feeders. She stole her jeans from one after her pants grow to be too big for her new skinny frame.
She encountered the roaches when she was in a vacant, dilapidated house in the division avenue area of D.C. She had made camp there and that evening she woke up to the sound of a banging on the basement door. She got to her feet and went to the shaking and pounding door. She unlocked it and leapt back, allowing the delirious feeders to tumble over each other.

She grabbed a butcher's knife from the kitchen, and leapt full force into the broup, pushing them backward down the basement steps, she slashed one of their throats and blood squirted on her shirt as it fell backward clutching its throat. Two hands grabbed her sides and dug in, forcing a guffaw from her lips as she squirmed away, stabbing one of the feeders before her in the eyeball. She dashed to a corner of the room and turned to see how many more she had to kill. Four more were closing in fast. Four muscular feeders, three women and one man, eyes glowing yellow, charged with their hands like roaming claws, looking to snatch up their prey.

Kay bent down and launched herself at the largest one, catching it at the neck and forcing it to slam its occipital bone into the rock hard floor. Blood poured out of the wound and with that blood on her knuckles, she left a bloody fistprint on the face of another feeder that had grabbed her tee. The final two feeders pulled her off their mate and pinned her arms to the floor.

Looking like a floorbound christ, Kay was forced to endure the beginning of the feeders' work as each of them took a side and ran a set of fingers from up in her armpits and down into her tummy. Kay pulled and bucked and roared with laughter. She would not beg the feeders who would not stop for all the pleads in the world. It was not their way. They would dance upon her until she could not laugh anymore.

She saw the formerly punched feeder coming up to her sneakers. It grabbed a leg and tugged off her trainer, revealing a filthy worn ankle sock. The feeder looked at it for a moment, possibly trying to understand what it was. Maybe it had not seen a sock before. It did not take it long before it planted its nails in her foot, and found that no matter what it looked like, a foot was still ticklish.

“FUUUUUUUUCK!” Kay screamed as the first nails made landfall on her arches. She jerked her leg and fought harder and wilder to release her foot form the grip, but slowly, her resolve had begun to wear down. Her belly ached badly and she wanted to throw up. Her throat burned from the screaming and her cheeks were bright red and tear-soaked.

After ten minutes the feeders changed their game up; the eeder on her right had left her side and the feeder on her left, mounted her so she would not escape. The feeder at her feet stripped off her sock and dropped it to the floor. It began dragging a finger up and down her amazingly wrinkled arch. Her toes moved like they were set aflame. Kay figured out where the final feeder had gone when she felt her jeans come unbuttoned.

Oh God, don't let them rape me! She thought as her belly manufactured giggle after giggle from her foot. She felt the feeder pulling her jeans down to her knees. She continued to pray for the worst not to happen.

Then she found out she was ticklish down there.

The feeling of the fingernails of the feeder as it dragged them over the front of her cotton panties was the funniest tickle she'd experienced and the sensation seemed to scoop the deepest and most forceful laughter from the pit of her belly.
“NYAAARHARHARHARHAAA!! GRAAAAAHAHAHAAA!!” Kay banged her head on the floor and writhed like a snake on a hot plate. The hands of the feeder on her stomach dug into her armpits and locked there. The feeder at her foot decided to use its mouth, and its slick, rough tongue weaved skillfully through her toes, danced along her arch, and it nibbled her heel.

The effect the panty work had on Kay was enough to disable her for twenty minutes before she built up the reserve of resolve to kick the foot feeder off of her, slamming her sneaker into the slurping beast's skull, killing it after a few hard kicks to the temple. She then kneed the panty tickler in the groin, causing it to fall on the pit tickler, and knock him to the floor. She was able to take out her knife and stab the pit tickler in the temple as well.

The panty feeder was undeterred however, and landed on her legs, and put a stron arm around her neck, holding her back while it continued to dance her fingers on Kay's cotton clad cut. She was now howling like a crazy woman, a mixture of the tickling, the stress and the sudden waves of unusual pleasure radiating from below as she fought to gain control of the situation.

“GRRR fuck...FUCK....HAARHARHARHARRR!! IT TICKLES! FUCK!!” Kay felt like she wanted to piss herself, but it was not to be. She finally hooked onto the collar of the feeder's shirt and brought it closer. As a result, it grabbed her middle with one arm, and danced that hand up and down her side. It rolled over so she was on top of it and wrapped its legs around hers.

Not at all what she expected.

Kay was now pressed into the wiggling fingers and she was beet red now, and sweating hard from the exertion and from the new pressure being added by her being on top. She arched her back and let out a scream of laughter that comedians wish they got from an audience. The feeder held her tighter, and the tighter she was held, the harder the fingers tickled, the harder the fingers tickled, the harder she laughed, the harder she laughed, the tigher she was held, and the longer it went on, the more it rocked her world.

This was the problem that was with feeders. The fact that feeders used touch would inevitably excite the sexual aspect of people, and make them want more and more of the same thing. It was a fatal mistake that men and women had been making for months. They'd stop fighting the feeders because pleasure overtook them. They'd sometimes try to fuck the feeders only to realize that it was no use, and no one got pleasure out of it. Then the feeder would begin the ripping.

But Kay didn't want to fuck the feeder. She wouldn't try anyway, but she couldn't help but pound the feeder with her pelvis, it was too close, it tickled too much, and the mere touch of the sick woman's nails sent her into hysterics and so she would jerk back in order to keep away from the fingers, but like any bound creature, she'd always return for more, and she took it with the same protests of laughter that she had before. Because she knew she was ticklish, and she knew she had a snowball's chance in hell of stopping it, so she could only hope that somewhere between her bucking and pounding that she'd either break the fingers of her captrix or the feeder would stop altogether. Otherwise, Kay knew she'd explode.

“GOD HELP MEEEHAHAHAAAAA WOOOOOOOHAHAHAAAAAA! GREEEHEHEHEEE!! FUCK!” She kicked her legs and squealed harder as the feeder pressed her again, the tightest yet. Her eyes were wide, her pupils tiny, and ready to start rolling like a woman possessed.

“SWEET JEEEEEEEEEESUS!” She yelped as she hit an orgasm. If she was ticklish beforehand, as she was one of the most, at this orgasm her ticklishness increased so much that every feeling in her body was a tickle. It was magnified hundredfold, and her howls could be heard for three blocks. It was attracting more feeders, and she could hear their shouts of hunger above her laughter.

The feeders wanted in, and she was in no position to argue against. The fingers continued to dance and poke and stroke her in the midsts of the wave of orgasm. She arched her back and howled hard, and the feeders howled in response as they broke the front door down. Moments passed before she felt hands and fingers and tongues all over her. Her barefoot was given the tender, loving care only a feeder could give, and her sneaker was snatched away and her socked foot was given the treatment by four beasts at the same time.

If there was a religion that the feeders followed, then Kay would have been their goddess. The fire that engulfed her did not burn, it tickled. It tickled like only Hell could do, and what made it Hellish for Kay was that in all the years that she hated being tickled, finally, as the world had begun to end, she had learned to love it at the hands of the destroyers of the world. It would be hours before the feeders stopped as abruptly as they had appeared.

When they stopped, they left Kay a giggling, sweaty mess on the floor. They walked out of the house and left altogether, and the building was quiet. She lay there for five minutes containing herself, and then, still laughing like a fool, made her way to the bathroom upstairs. And cleaned herself up. When she finished, she opened the door and found herself face to face with a woman in a black suit.

“No, not again.” She cried as she backed up.

“Hush mortal.” the woman said in a deep voice. I will see you again. You will be my wife. But until then, you will be marked, because you are my property.”

“I am no one's property, and I don't like women like that.”

“This is not an option.” The woman held out a hand and inside it was a long, brown german cockroach. It spread its wings and flew onto Kay's belly and bit. The bit was like fire. Out of the sleeves of the woman's jacket more roaches flew, and they all swarmed the now stumbling Kay. She fell on the floor, and was covered in biting roaches. As more and more of them fell upon her, the woman shrunk and shrunk ad her skin broke into pieces which proved to also be roaches. She was reduced to nothing but articles of clothing.


Kay lay on the floor later, a mass of red bumps and running a fever. The fever would wear off in a couple of days, but until that time, her recovery would be hell. During the fever she had a dream of the woma coming to her and kneeling at her feverish body.

“You will be my wife, I said. It is not an option. And if they decide to kill you, I will take them into my heart and crush them with its heaviness. Be they my own soldiers or yours. I will have you, Kay.” She leaned closer in and whispered. “So it is written...so shall it be done.”

As she toyed with her sneakers now, tossing it left and right to pass the time, the intense tickle sensation she felt as the shoe slid on her foot that was now an everyday occurrence for her, was a result o the bites. When they healed she was significantly thinner, and she kept shrinking until she was 98 pounds. She was significantly stronger as well.She roundhouse kicked a feeder so hard that its head flew of and killed another. She later found out what she had become. She knew it was forever, and she was at peace to live with it.

“Hey, Yarrow.” Kay called as the girl stirred in her sleep. “Yarrow, wake up.”
A sigh, “What is it?”
“How did you get that name? Yarrow isn't Chinese.”
“My dad liked the name. Besides I don't need a Chinese name ust because I'm chinese. There are lots of Chinese girls with the name Lauren and Deborah, and Michelle.”
“So, your dad picked the name?”
“Yup.”
“Did your mom have any say?”
“Nope.”
“That's fucked up.”
“Not really.”
“It's her baby she's been carrying for nine months. She deserves to give a name to the child.”
“Look at it this way. There are lots of things that we'll get in this particular society, by virtue of the fact we're women. All he wants to do is have his children have special names. Besides, if it weren't for his sperm, my mom wouldn't have even had me. So, technicaly, he's my mom.” She rolled over and went back to sleep, leaving Kay to think over the situation.

“That;s still fucked up.”
 
Have you published yet? Have you finished the novel?

This was excellent work, although the thought of roaches is not exactly thrilling lol.
 
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