Crixus89
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This is a story I had commissioned based upon my wife. It was written by Giggletales on deviant art. There are two other parts let me know if you would like them to be posted.
Beth was thirty-four, five-foot-nine in flats, and the kind of woman who always looked like she was late for something important even when she wasn’t. Her hair was a deep, glossy brunette that fell just past her shoulders, usually twisted into a low knot by the end of the workday because she couldn’t stand the feel of it sticking to her neck. She had sharp green eyes behind thin silver frames, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a mouth that defaulted to a polite, professional half-smile. Colleagues called her “scary competent.” Friends called her Beth. She called herself perpetually exhausted.
It was Friday, 9:07 p.m., and the fifteenth floor of the Grayson Building had finally gone dark. Beth had been the last one out, as usual. She shut down her computer, slipped her blazer over the sleeveless charcoal sheath dress she’d worn all day, and grabbed her tote. The elevator ride down felt endless. When the doors opened to the underground parking garage, the air was cool and smelled faintly of oil and rubber.
She walked fast, heels clicking sharp echoes off the concrete pillars. Her feet were killing her. Size 10. Always had been. In high school she’d tried to hide them in oversized sneakers; in college she’d worn only closed-toe flats; now, at thirty-four, she still refused open sandals, refused anything that might draw attention to what she privately referred to as her “clown boats.” Tonight she had on plain black leather pumps, two and a half inches, the most professional height she could stand for twelve-hour days. The leather had molded to her arches hours ago, but the pinching around her toes was brutal.
She reached her silver SUV on level B2, keyed the fob, and the lights blinked twice. The garage was nearly empty—just a handful of cars scattered under the flickering fluorescents. She opened the driver’s door, tossed her blazer and tote onto the passenger seat, and slid in with a sigh that was half relief, half pain.
The second her door shut, she kicked the pumps off. The cool floor mat felt like heaven against her bare soles. She flexed her toes, wiggling them, grimacing at how long they looked even in the dim orange glow of the garage lights. The polish was ridiculous—electric, almost neon blue that caught every stray glint. Her nail tech had sworn it was “fun,” and Beth had caved because she was too tired to argue. Now she hated it. The color made her feet look even bigger, the second toe slightly longer than the first, the high arch almost cartoonish. She curled them self-consciously, then reached for the ignition.
She never turned the key.
A shadow fell across the windshield. Before she could look up, the passenger door was yanked open from the outside—she hadn’t locked it yet—and a gloved hand clamped over her mouth and nose. The smell hit her first: sharp, chemical, sweet. Chloroform. She knew it from documentaries, from crime podcasts she listened to on the treadmill. Her body reacted before her brain caught up. She screamed into the thick cloth, but the sound came out muffled and useless.
She kicked wildly. Her bare right foot slammed the brake pedal; the left scraped across the center console. The blue toes splayed in panic. She clawed at the arm across her face, nails digging into thick fabric. Another set of hands grabbed her ankles—rough, strong—and dragged her sideways across the seats. The seatbelt cut into her hip. Her dress rode up to her thighs. She felt cold air on her legs, her soles, everywhere.
She tried to bite the hand over her mouth. A low, amused chuckle answered her—male, calm, terrifying.
“Easy, sweetheart. Big feet like those need to save their energy.”
Another voice, farther away. “Look at those fuckin’ toes—bright blue. She’s gonna be fun.”
Her vision tunneled. The garage lights smeared into white streaks. She felt herself being lifted, pulled bodily out of the SUV, bare soles dragging across cold, gritty concrete. Her toes curled hard, trying to find purchase, but there was nothing to push against. Someone slung her over a shoulder like a rolled carpet. The world flipped. Her hair spilled down. She saw her abandoned pumps lying sideways on the driver’s floor mat, one on its side like it was waving goodbye.
Then the van door slid open with a metallic screech.
She was tossed inside. The floor was cold metal. She landed hard on her side, air whooshing from her lungs. Hands were on her immediately—wrists yanked behind her back, ankles crossed and bound with something that bit into her skin. A final rag, drier, rougher, was stuffed between her teeth and knotted tight.
The last thing she heard before the darkness swallowed her completely was a third voice, closer now, almost gentle.
“Sleep tight, ChubbyToes. We’ve got big plans for those size tens.”
The van door slammed. The engine roared. Tires squealed. And Beth disappeared into the night, barefoot, gagged, and utterly, helplessly alone.
Beth woke to the smell of rust, mildew, and old piss.
Her head throbbed. Mouth dry, tongue pressed against a thick, sour-tasting cloth gag that had been knotted so tight the corners of her lips burned. A blindfold (soft cotton, but pulled brutally tight) sealed away every scrap of light. She tried to move and discovered she could not. Not an inch.
Her arms were stretched high above her head, wrists crossed and wrapped multiple times with coarse rope that bit into her skin every time she flexed. The ropes ran through a metal ring bolted to the wall and were tied off somewhere far behind her. Her shoulders screamed from the strain. Her back lay flat on a thin, lumpy mattress that smelled like decades of sweat. The frame beneath it was cold iron (an ancient jail cot, she realized dimly).
Her legs were spread just enough to keep her hips open. Ankles lashed to the lower corners of the cot with the same rough rope, soles facing straight up toward the ceiling. Completely, terrifyingly exposed.
And she was naked. Completely naked. The realization hit her like a slap. No dress, no bra, no panties (nothing). Cool air kissed every inch of her skin, raising gooseflesh across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs… and especially across the big, bare size-10 feet she had spent her entire adult life trying to hide.
Voices drifted in from the darkness (three male voices, low and laughing).
“Jesus Christ, look at those fuckin’ boats. Size ten easy. Maybe ten and a half.”
“Blue polish too. Like she wanted us to notice.”
“ChubbyToes is right. Look how plump those toes are. Like little sausages.”
The laughter rolled over her in waves. Beth jerked against the ropes, a muffled scream vibrating uselessly into the gag. Her soles wrinkled instinctively, toes curling hard, trying to shrink, to disappear.
A hand (big, calloused) patted the top of her right foot like it was a pet.
“Relax, ChubbyToes. We’re just admiring the merchandise.”
Another hand gripped her left ankle, thumb pressing into the soft hollow beneath her ankle bone.
“Sensitive already, huh? Haven’t even started.”
She shook her head violently, tears already soaking the blindfold. A third man stepped closer; she could smell cigarette smoke on his clothes.
“Been watching you for weeks, Beth. Every Friday night you kick those ugly pumps off the second you sit down. Always the same routine. Thought you’d like to go the rest of the way barefoot tonight.”
The other two laughed harder.
“Bet she’s never had all ten of those fat toes on display at once.”
“Bet she’s never had anyone really play with them either.”
Beth whimpered, a high, desperate sound behind the gag. She tugged harder, ropes creaking, but the knots didn’t budge. Her back arched off the cot, breasts lifting, soles stretching involuntarily as she tried to pull her feet away. It only presented them more perfectly.
“Look at those arches,” the first voice crooned, tracing one finger down the high curve of her right sole. Beth jolted like she’d been shocked. “High and tight. And soft. City girl never walks barefoot, does she, ChubbyToes?”
She screamed into the gag again, shaking her head no, no, no.
“Aw, listen to her. She’s already begging and we haven’t even tickled her yet.”
Fingers danced lightly across both soles at once (just grazing, testing).
Beth’s entire body went rigid. A strangled, hysterical giggle burst out of her throat.
“MMPPHH—HMMMPPHHH!”
The men burst out laughing.
“Oh fuck, she’s bad.”
“Sensitive little piggy toes, huh?”
“ChubbyToes is gonna be our new favorite toy.”
One of them leaned close enough that she felt hot breath on her ear.
“Welcome to your new life, ChubbyToes. From now on, these big, ugly feet are the only thing anyone’s ever gonna care about. And we’re just getting started.”
Beth thrashed, sobbing behind the gag, bright blue toes curling and uncurling in terror.
The laughter in the room only grew louder.
The first real touch came without warning.
Ten stiff fingers dug into her soles at once, five on each foot, scribbling wildly from her heels to the balls of her feet like they were trying to erase every inch of skin.
Beth’s scream exploded against the gag, high and muffled and instantly shredded into laughter.
“MMMMMPPHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
The men roared with delight.
“Jesus, listen to her go!”
“Already breaking, ChubbyToes? We haven’t even warmed up.”
They didn’t stop. The fingers never stopped. They raked up and down her high arches in perfect unison, nails dragging lightly enough to make her skin crawl, hard enough to make her lose her mind.
Beth’s body jackknifed against the ropes. Her shoulders jerked so violently the metal ring above her head clanged. Her bound ankles rattled the cot frame, soles wrinkling desperately, blue toes splaying and curling in frantic rhythm.
“MMMMMPPHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—STOP—HAHAHAHAHA!”
One of the men (the one with the cigarette voice) grabbed both of her big toes and yanked them back hard, stretching her soles perfectly taut.
“Hold still, ChubbyToes. Gotta get every spot.”
With her feet locked drum-tight, the other two attacked with fresh cruelty.
Four sets of fingers spidered under her toes, scribbling at the soft pads and the tender webs between them. Another eight nails skittered across the balls of her feet in rapid, overlapping circles.
Beth’s laughter turned hoarse and frantic.
“MMMMMPH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—NOOOO—HAHAHAHAHA!”
“Look at those fat toes dance. Blue little sausages trying to run away.”
They moved lower, raking down the centers of her arches in long, slow strokes that made her feel like her soles were being peeled open. Then faster. Then faster still.
Her ribs and armpits got no mercy either. Two of them leaned over the cot and dug into her exposed hollows with wiggling fingers while the third kept tormenting her feet.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—MMMMMPH—PLEASE—HAHAHAHAHA!”
The gag turned every plea into a wet, pathetic gurgle.
They found baby oil somewhere (she heard the cap pop) and suddenly warm rivers of it were pouring over her soles, running between every toe, dripping off her heels onto the mattress. The ropes around her ankles creaked as she tried to kick, but the bonds held her perfectly still.
Now the fingers glided. Slid. Never lost contact. Ten slick fingertips skating across her oiled arches in perfect, merciless rhythm.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—TOO SLIPPERY—HAHAHAHAHA—CAN’T—HAHAHAHAHA!”
“ChubbyToes can’t stand a little oil? Wait till we bring out the brushes.”
They didn’t wait long.
A wide, stiff-bristled hairbrush appeared on her right sole first. The man pressed it flat and scrubbed in tight, vicious circles right in the center of her arch.
Beth’s entire body convulsed.
“MMMMMMPHHHHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
The second brush attacked her left sole at the exact same moment. Identical pressure. Identical speed. Identical spot.
The bristles felt like fire and electricity and pure insanity.
They scrubbed up and down her arches, heel to ball, ball to heel, never pausing, never slowing. The oil made the bristles glide and bite at the same time.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—NO MORE—HAHAHAHAHA—BRUSHES—HAHAHAHAHA!”
“Look at these big feet jerk. Thought you hated them, ChubbyToes? They’re the star of the show now.”
They switched to the balls of her feet, scrubbing in rapid figure-eights while a third man kept spidering fingers into her armpits and ribs.
Beth’s laughter cracked. Tears poured beneath the blindfold. Her chest heaved so hard the ropes creaked.
Then they pulled her toes back again (harder this time) and attacked the soft pads underneath with the bristles.
“MMMMMPHHHHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—TOES—TOES—HAHAHAHAHA!”
Every stroke under her toes felt like lightning. The brushes never stopped. Up and down. Side to side. Circles. Zig-zags.
They added electric toothbrushes (four of them). Two buzzed mercilessly in her armpits, two more danced across her oiled soles, spinning directly on the most sensitive spots.
The noise in the room was deafening: her muffled, hysterical screams of laughter, the men’s cruel laughter, the angry buzz of the brushes, the wet slap of oil.
They took turns holding her toes back, stretching her soles until the skin shone, then scrubbing again with hairbrushes, then the spinning heads, then fingernails, then all of it at once.
Her ribs, her armpits, her waist (every ticklish place they could reach) got attention, but it always came back to her feet. Always.
“ChubbyToes loves this, listen to her!”
“Bet those big blue toes have never had so much attention in their life.”
They kept going. And going. And going.
Minutes blurred into an eternity of slick, buzzing, scratching hell.
Beth’s body shook with continuous, uncontrollable spasms. Her laughter had long since turned raw and broken, nothing left but desperate, wheezing sobs behind the gag.
And still the tickling continued.
The brushes never stopped scrubbing.
The fingers never stopped dancing.
The laughter never stopped pouring out of her.
The tickling had not paused once.
Not for a breath. Not for a second.
The hairbrushes scrubbed her soles in endless, vicious circles.
The electric toothbrushes buzzed under her stretched toes and deep in her armpits.
Fingernails skittered across every slick inch of her arches while the metal pins of the dog-grooming brushes raked again and again over the balls of her feet.
Beth was beyond screaming now.
Her laughter came in broken, hiccupping waves, each one weaker than the last, soaked in tears and drool that had long since soaked the gag and dripped down her chin.
The cigarette-voiced man finally leaned in close to her ear.
“Time to take that thing out, ChubbyToes. Let’s hear that pretty voice beg.”
He untied the knot behind her head. The soaked cloth was pulled free with a wet pop. Beth coughed, gasped, sobbed.
“Please… please stop… I can’t… I can’t take it anymore…”
The other two laughed.
“Listen to her! Already crying!”
“Look at those big blue toes curling like they’re trying to hide. Too late, ChubbyToes.”
They didn’t slow down. If anything, the fingers and brushes got faster.
Beth’s voice cracked into a raw scream.
“STOP! PLEASE GOD STOP! HAHAHAHA—MY FEET—HAHAHA—I’LL DO ANYTHING—HAHAHA!”
“Anything?” the first man asked, mock-innocent, while he dragged a single stiff fingernail slowly from her heel to the base of her toes.
“ANYTHING! HAHAHAHA—PLEASE—HAHAHA!”
“Say it,” another voice growled. “Say the words.”
She shook her head violently, hair plastered to her wet face.
“Never—HAHAHAHA—never—HAHAHA!”
The brushes attacked again, harder. Someone poured fresh oil straight between her toes and scrubbed it in with the electric toothbrush heads.
Beth broke.
“I’M A TICKLE SLAVE! HAHAHAHA—I’M YOUR TICKLE SLAVE—HAHAHAHA—PLEASE STOP!”
The room went still except for the buzzing tools hovering an inch from her skin.
The cigarette-voiced man leaned down again.
“Louder, ChubbyToes. And use your new name.”
She was sobbing openly now, chest heaving, blue toes twitching helplessly.
“I’m ChubbyToes! HAHAHA—I’m your tickle slave—please—please—I’ll be good—I’ll be your tickle slave forever—just stop tickling my big, ugly feet!”
The brushes dropped to the floor.
One of the men patted her oily sole like a dog.
“Good girl.”
They untied her wrists first. Her arms flopped uselessly to her sides, numb and shaking. Then her ankles. The second the ropes came off her legs, she curled into a ball on the filthy mattress, arms clamped tight over her ribs, soles pressed together to hide them.
“On the floor, ChubbyToes,” the leader ordered. “All fours. Time to go meet your new owner.”
Beth tried to stand. Her legs buckled instantly. She dropped to her hands and knees, trembling, naked, tears dripping onto the concrete.
A thick leather collar was buckled around her neck. A short chain leash clipped to it.
One of the men gave the leash a gentle tug.
“Crawl.”
She crawled.
The cold floor scraped her knees and palms. Every inch dragged her sensitive soles across gritty concrete, making her whimper and giggle even now.
They led her out of the cell, down a long corridor that smelled of rust and despair. The blindfold stayed on. She could only follow the tug of the leash and the sound of three sets of boots echoing ahead of her.
Behind her, one of the men gave her bare sole a playful scratch with a single fingernail as she crawled.
She yelped and scurried faster, blue toes curling against the floor.
“Keep those big feet moving, ChubbyToes. Your new owner paid extra for the sensitive ones.”
The van door slid open again.
Beth crawled inside on shaking hands and knees, collar chain clinking, tears still falling, soles still tingling from the longest, cruelest tickling of her life.
The door slammed shut.
The engine started.
And ChubbyToes disappeared into the night, broken, barefoot, and belonging completely to whoever waited at the other end of the leash.
Beth was thirty-four, five-foot-nine in flats, and the kind of woman who always looked like she was late for something important even when she wasn’t. Her hair was a deep, glossy brunette that fell just past her shoulders, usually twisted into a low knot by the end of the workday because she couldn’t stand the feel of it sticking to her neck. She had sharp green eyes behind thin silver frames, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a mouth that defaulted to a polite, professional half-smile. Colleagues called her “scary competent.” Friends called her Beth. She called herself perpetually exhausted.
It was Friday, 9:07 p.m., and the fifteenth floor of the Grayson Building had finally gone dark. Beth had been the last one out, as usual. She shut down her computer, slipped her blazer over the sleeveless charcoal sheath dress she’d worn all day, and grabbed her tote. The elevator ride down felt endless. When the doors opened to the underground parking garage, the air was cool and smelled faintly of oil and rubber.
She walked fast, heels clicking sharp echoes off the concrete pillars. Her feet were killing her. Size 10. Always had been. In high school she’d tried to hide them in oversized sneakers; in college she’d worn only closed-toe flats; now, at thirty-four, she still refused open sandals, refused anything that might draw attention to what she privately referred to as her “clown boats.” Tonight she had on plain black leather pumps, two and a half inches, the most professional height she could stand for twelve-hour days. The leather had molded to her arches hours ago, but the pinching around her toes was brutal.
She reached her silver SUV on level B2, keyed the fob, and the lights blinked twice. The garage was nearly empty—just a handful of cars scattered under the flickering fluorescents. She opened the driver’s door, tossed her blazer and tote onto the passenger seat, and slid in with a sigh that was half relief, half pain.
The second her door shut, she kicked the pumps off. The cool floor mat felt like heaven against her bare soles. She flexed her toes, wiggling them, grimacing at how long they looked even in the dim orange glow of the garage lights. The polish was ridiculous—electric, almost neon blue that caught every stray glint. Her nail tech had sworn it was “fun,” and Beth had caved because she was too tired to argue. Now she hated it. The color made her feet look even bigger, the second toe slightly longer than the first, the high arch almost cartoonish. She curled them self-consciously, then reached for the ignition.
She never turned the key.
A shadow fell across the windshield. Before she could look up, the passenger door was yanked open from the outside—she hadn’t locked it yet—and a gloved hand clamped over her mouth and nose. The smell hit her first: sharp, chemical, sweet. Chloroform. She knew it from documentaries, from crime podcasts she listened to on the treadmill. Her body reacted before her brain caught up. She screamed into the thick cloth, but the sound came out muffled and useless.
She kicked wildly. Her bare right foot slammed the brake pedal; the left scraped across the center console. The blue toes splayed in panic. She clawed at the arm across her face, nails digging into thick fabric. Another set of hands grabbed her ankles—rough, strong—and dragged her sideways across the seats. The seatbelt cut into her hip. Her dress rode up to her thighs. She felt cold air on her legs, her soles, everywhere.
She tried to bite the hand over her mouth. A low, amused chuckle answered her—male, calm, terrifying.
“Easy, sweetheart. Big feet like those need to save their energy.”
Another voice, farther away. “Look at those fuckin’ toes—bright blue. She’s gonna be fun.”
Her vision tunneled. The garage lights smeared into white streaks. She felt herself being lifted, pulled bodily out of the SUV, bare soles dragging across cold, gritty concrete. Her toes curled hard, trying to find purchase, but there was nothing to push against. Someone slung her over a shoulder like a rolled carpet. The world flipped. Her hair spilled down. She saw her abandoned pumps lying sideways on the driver’s floor mat, one on its side like it was waving goodbye.
Then the van door slid open with a metallic screech.
She was tossed inside. The floor was cold metal. She landed hard on her side, air whooshing from her lungs. Hands were on her immediately—wrists yanked behind her back, ankles crossed and bound with something that bit into her skin. A final rag, drier, rougher, was stuffed between her teeth and knotted tight.
The last thing she heard before the darkness swallowed her completely was a third voice, closer now, almost gentle.
“Sleep tight, ChubbyToes. We’ve got big plans for those size tens.”
The van door slammed. The engine roared. Tires squealed. And Beth disappeared into the night, barefoot, gagged, and utterly, helplessly alone.
Beth woke to the smell of rust, mildew, and old piss.
Her head throbbed. Mouth dry, tongue pressed against a thick, sour-tasting cloth gag that had been knotted so tight the corners of her lips burned. A blindfold (soft cotton, but pulled brutally tight) sealed away every scrap of light. She tried to move and discovered she could not. Not an inch.
Her arms were stretched high above her head, wrists crossed and wrapped multiple times with coarse rope that bit into her skin every time she flexed. The ropes ran through a metal ring bolted to the wall and were tied off somewhere far behind her. Her shoulders screamed from the strain. Her back lay flat on a thin, lumpy mattress that smelled like decades of sweat. The frame beneath it was cold iron (an ancient jail cot, she realized dimly).
Her legs were spread just enough to keep her hips open. Ankles lashed to the lower corners of the cot with the same rough rope, soles facing straight up toward the ceiling. Completely, terrifyingly exposed.
And she was naked. Completely naked. The realization hit her like a slap. No dress, no bra, no panties (nothing). Cool air kissed every inch of her skin, raising gooseflesh across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs… and especially across the big, bare size-10 feet she had spent her entire adult life trying to hide.
Voices drifted in from the darkness (three male voices, low and laughing).
“Jesus Christ, look at those fuckin’ boats. Size ten easy. Maybe ten and a half.”
“Blue polish too. Like she wanted us to notice.”
“ChubbyToes is right. Look how plump those toes are. Like little sausages.”
The laughter rolled over her in waves. Beth jerked against the ropes, a muffled scream vibrating uselessly into the gag. Her soles wrinkled instinctively, toes curling hard, trying to shrink, to disappear.
A hand (big, calloused) patted the top of her right foot like it was a pet.
“Relax, ChubbyToes. We’re just admiring the merchandise.”
Another hand gripped her left ankle, thumb pressing into the soft hollow beneath her ankle bone.
“Sensitive already, huh? Haven’t even started.”
She shook her head violently, tears already soaking the blindfold. A third man stepped closer; she could smell cigarette smoke on his clothes.
“Been watching you for weeks, Beth. Every Friday night you kick those ugly pumps off the second you sit down. Always the same routine. Thought you’d like to go the rest of the way barefoot tonight.”
The other two laughed harder.
“Bet she’s never had all ten of those fat toes on display at once.”
“Bet she’s never had anyone really play with them either.”
Beth whimpered, a high, desperate sound behind the gag. She tugged harder, ropes creaking, but the knots didn’t budge. Her back arched off the cot, breasts lifting, soles stretching involuntarily as she tried to pull her feet away. It only presented them more perfectly.
“Look at those arches,” the first voice crooned, tracing one finger down the high curve of her right sole. Beth jolted like she’d been shocked. “High and tight. And soft. City girl never walks barefoot, does she, ChubbyToes?”
She screamed into the gag again, shaking her head no, no, no.
“Aw, listen to her. She’s already begging and we haven’t even tickled her yet.”
Fingers danced lightly across both soles at once (just grazing, testing).
Beth’s entire body went rigid. A strangled, hysterical giggle burst out of her throat.
“MMPPHH—HMMMPPHHH!”
The men burst out laughing.
“Oh fuck, she’s bad.”
“Sensitive little piggy toes, huh?”
“ChubbyToes is gonna be our new favorite toy.”
One of them leaned close enough that she felt hot breath on her ear.
“Welcome to your new life, ChubbyToes. From now on, these big, ugly feet are the only thing anyone’s ever gonna care about. And we’re just getting started.”
Beth thrashed, sobbing behind the gag, bright blue toes curling and uncurling in terror.
The laughter in the room only grew louder.
The first real touch came without warning.
Ten stiff fingers dug into her soles at once, five on each foot, scribbling wildly from her heels to the balls of her feet like they were trying to erase every inch of skin.
Beth’s scream exploded against the gag, high and muffled and instantly shredded into laughter.
“MMMMMPPHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
The men roared with delight.
“Jesus, listen to her go!”
“Already breaking, ChubbyToes? We haven’t even warmed up.”
They didn’t stop. The fingers never stopped. They raked up and down her high arches in perfect unison, nails dragging lightly enough to make her skin crawl, hard enough to make her lose her mind.
Beth’s body jackknifed against the ropes. Her shoulders jerked so violently the metal ring above her head clanged. Her bound ankles rattled the cot frame, soles wrinkling desperately, blue toes splaying and curling in frantic rhythm.
“MMMMMPPHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—STOP—HAHAHAHAHA!”
One of the men (the one with the cigarette voice) grabbed both of her big toes and yanked them back hard, stretching her soles perfectly taut.
“Hold still, ChubbyToes. Gotta get every spot.”
With her feet locked drum-tight, the other two attacked with fresh cruelty.
Four sets of fingers spidered under her toes, scribbling at the soft pads and the tender webs between them. Another eight nails skittered across the balls of her feet in rapid, overlapping circles.
Beth’s laughter turned hoarse and frantic.
“MMMMMPH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—NOOOO—HAHAHAHAHA!”
“Look at those fat toes dance. Blue little sausages trying to run away.”
They moved lower, raking down the centers of her arches in long, slow strokes that made her feel like her soles were being peeled open. Then faster. Then faster still.
Her ribs and armpits got no mercy either. Two of them leaned over the cot and dug into her exposed hollows with wiggling fingers while the third kept tormenting her feet.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—MMMMMPH—PLEASE—HAHAHAHAHA!”
The gag turned every plea into a wet, pathetic gurgle.
They found baby oil somewhere (she heard the cap pop) and suddenly warm rivers of it were pouring over her soles, running between every toe, dripping off her heels onto the mattress. The ropes around her ankles creaked as she tried to kick, but the bonds held her perfectly still.
Now the fingers glided. Slid. Never lost contact. Ten slick fingertips skating across her oiled arches in perfect, merciless rhythm.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—TOO SLIPPERY—HAHAHAHAHA—CAN’T—HAHAHAHAHA!”
“ChubbyToes can’t stand a little oil? Wait till we bring out the brushes.”
They didn’t wait long.
A wide, stiff-bristled hairbrush appeared on her right sole first. The man pressed it flat and scrubbed in tight, vicious circles right in the center of her arch.
Beth’s entire body convulsed.
“MMMMMMPHHHHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
The second brush attacked her left sole at the exact same moment. Identical pressure. Identical speed. Identical spot.
The bristles felt like fire and electricity and pure insanity.
They scrubbed up and down her arches, heel to ball, ball to heel, never pausing, never slowing. The oil made the bristles glide and bite at the same time.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—NO MORE—HAHAHAHAHA—BRUSHES—HAHAHAHAHA!”
“Look at these big feet jerk. Thought you hated them, ChubbyToes? They’re the star of the show now.”
They switched to the balls of her feet, scrubbing in rapid figure-eights while a third man kept spidering fingers into her armpits and ribs.
Beth’s laughter cracked. Tears poured beneath the blindfold. Her chest heaved so hard the ropes creaked.
Then they pulled her toes back again (harder this time) and attacked the soft pads underneath with the bristles.
“MMMMMPHHHHHH—HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—TOES—TOES—HAHAHAHAHA!”
Every stroke under her toes felt like lightning. The brushes never stopped. Up and down. Side to side. Circles. Zig-zags.
They added electric toothbrushes (four of them). Two buzzed mercilessly in her armpits, two more danced across her oiled soles, spinning directly on the most sensitive spots.
The noise in the room was deafening: her muffled, hysterical screams of laughter, the men’s cruel laughter, the angry buzz of the brushes, the wet slap of oil.
They took turns holding her toes back, stretching her soles until the skin shone, then scrubbing again with hairbrushes, then the spinning heads, then fingernails, then all of it at once.
Her ribs, her armpits, her waist (every ticklish place they could reach) got attention, but it always came back to her feet. Always.
“ChubbyToes loves this, listen to her!”
“Bet those big blue toes have never had so much attention in their life.”
They kept going. And going. And going.
Minutes blurred into an eternity of slick, buzzing, scratching hell.
Beth’s body shook with continuous, uncontrollable spasms. Her laughter had long since turned raw and broken, nothing left but desperate, wheezing sobs behind the gag.
And still the tickling continued.
The brushes never stopped scrubbing.
The fingers never stopped dancing.
The laughter never stopped pouring out of her.
The tickling had not paused once.
Not for a breath. Not for a second.
The hairbrushes scrubbed her soles in endless, vicious circles.
The electric toothbrushes buzzed under her stretched toes and deep in her armpits.
Fingernails skittered across every slick inch of her arches while the metal pins of the dog-grooming brushes raked again and again over the balls of her feet.
Beth was beyond screaming now.
Her laughter came in broken, hiccupping waves, each one weaker than the last, soaked in tears and drool that had long since soaked the gag and dripped down her chin.
The cigarette-voiced man finally leaned in close to her ear.
“Time to take that thing out, ChubbyToes. Let’s hear that pretty voice beg.”
He untied the knot behind her head. The soaked cloth was pulled free with a wet pop. Beth coughed, gasped, sobbed.
“Please… please stop… I can’t… I can’t take it anymore…”
The other two laughed.
“Listen to her! Already crying!”
“Look at those big blue toes curling like they’re trying to hide. Too late, ChubbyToes.”
They didn’t slow down. If anything, the fingers and brushes got faster.
Beth’s voice cracked into a raw scream.
“STOP! PLEASE GOD STOP! HAHAHAHA—MY FEET—HAHAHA—I’LL DO ANYTHING—HAHAHA!”
“Anything?” the first man asked, mock-innocent, while he dragged a single stiff fingernail slowly from her heel to the base of her toes.
“ANYTHING! HAHAHAHA—PLEASE—HAHAHA!”
“Say it,” another voice growled. “Say the words.”
She shook her head violently, hair plastered to her wet face.
“Never—HAHAHAHA—never—HAHAHA!”
The brushes attacked again, harder. Someone poured fresh oil straight between her toes and scrubbed it in with the electric toothbrush heads.
Beth broke.
“I’M A TICKLE SLAVE! HAHAHAHA—I’M YOUR TICKLE SLAVE—HAHAHAHA—PLEASE STOP!”
The room went still except for the buzzing tools hovering an inch from her skin.
The cigarette-voiced man leaned down again.
“Louder, ChubbyToes. And use your new name.”
She was sobbing openly now, chest heaving, blue toes twitching helplessly.
“I’m ChubbyToes! HAHAHA—I’m your tickle slave—please—please—I’ll be good—I’ll be your tickle slave forever—just stop tickling my big, ugly feet!”
The brushes dropped to the floor.
One of the men patted her oily sole like a dog.
“Good girl.”
They untied her wrists first. Her arms flopped uselessly to her sides, numb and shaking. Then her ankles. The second the ropes came off her legs, she curled into a ball on the filthy mattress, arms clamped tight over her ribs, soles pressed together to hide them.
“On the floor, ChubbyToes,” the leader ordered. “All fours. Time to go meet your new owner.”
Beth tried to stand. Her legs buckled instantly. She dropped to her hands and knees, trembling, naked, tears dripping onto the concrete.
A thick leather collar was buckled around her neck. A short chain leash clipped to it.
One of the men gave the leash a gentle tug.
“Crawl.”
She crawled.
The cold floor scraped her knees and palms. Every inch dragged her sensitive soles across gritty concrete, making her whimper and giggle even now.
They led her out of the cell, down a long corridor that smelled of rust and despair. The blindfold stayed on. She could only follow the tug of the leash and the sound of three sets of boots echoing ahead of her.
Behind her, one of the men gave her bare sole a playful scratch with a single fingernail as she crawled.
She yelped and scurried faster, blue toes curling against the floor.
“Keep those big feet moving, ChubbyToes. Your new owner paid extra for the sensitive ones.”
The van door slid open again.
Beth crawled inside on shaking hands and knees, collar chain clinking, tears still falling, soles still tingling from the longest, cruelest tickling of her life.
The door slammed shut.
The engine started.
And ChubbyToes disappeared into the night, broken, barefoot, and belonging completely to whoever waited at the other end of the leash.
