So, dear friends, a few days ago, a user (whose name I won't reveal) contacted me (on devianart) to commission a story. He had very clear ideas, the structure and tone, and everything. We discussed it, I offered my availability, clarifying the price and everything. He hasn't heard from me. I contacted him to see what to do, and he, in these words: "Good evening.
Having compared several options and not fully understanding the rising prices, I've agreed with another artist for a 10k story.
I apologize for the ghosting, but it should be standard practice in the absence of confirmation.
Feel free to focus on other commissions." Now, for goodness sake, he was kind in the end, but you don't contact someone, you waste their time without following up. That said, I was very intrigued by the story and decided to write it anyway (it could easily become a series). As always, please leave your comments and let me know what you think.
***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
The path wound upward, carved by rainwater into dry rivulets that scratched the earth. Every step crunched the gravel beneath her hiking boots, and the smell of the forest was an acrid mix of resin, damp earth, and rotting leaves.
Martina had pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt, not so much for the cold—it was August, and the air was only slightly biting—but to keep her hair in check, as the mountain wind continued to ruffle it. Behind her, Luca trudged with his slightly larger backpack, sweaty but smiling. He had been the one who had insisted on this "camp": a whole week away from the city, the concrete, and the noisy bars, just the two of them, the tent, and the starry sky.
"Can you do it?" he asked, in a tone that blended concern and mockery.
"Don't worry," she replied, without turning around, "if you don't complain, I won't."
They climbed further, following the red markings on the trees, until they reached a clearing that opened like a green tongue in the thicket. The sun filtered through there more freely, illuminating the blades of grass and making the air vibrate with heat. Luca dropped his backpack with a sigh.
"I'd say this is perfect," he decreed.
Martina joined him and looked around. On one side, a stream flowed slowly, shallow water and round stones; on the other, the undergrowth thickened again, a wall of trunks and shadows. There was no sign of beaten paths or nearby houses. True solitude.
As they set up the tent—a clumsy job, with ropes and pegs that refused to stay taut—Martina laughed repeatedly at Luca's curses. Finally, the canvas took shape, an orange triangle planted in the middle of the meadow.
They lay down on the grass, side by side, watching the sky slowly darken. A hawk circled high above, disappearing and reappearing behind the clouds.
"It feels like we're the only ones in the world," Martina said, her voice faint.
"And that's exactly what I want," he replied, taking her hand.
There was a long silence, broken only by the buzzing of insects and the gurgling of the stream. But the forest is never completely silent: something was moving among the branches, a crunch of dry leaves, a dull thud in the distance. Martina turned sharply, searching with her eyes.
"A deer, perhaps," Luca said lightly. But he wasn't looking in her direction, instead staring at the sky, as if he didn't want to delve deeper.
The sun set behind the mountains, and the forest changed its voice. The crickets began their concert, monotonous and hypnotic. The air grew cooler, and from the village down in the valley came faint echoes: laughter, a car horn, perhaps the music of a party. Martina listened as if they were from another world.
They slipped into the tent, huddled in their sleeping bags, still carrying the scent of their improvised dinner—tuna pasta cooked on a rickety stove. The stifled laughter, the awkward kisses, the bodies seeking each other in the tight fabric. Then tiredness got the better of them.
It was then that, through the torpor, a different sound came. Not the wind, not an animal. Footsteps. Slow, measured, on the grass.
Martina held her breath, convinced she had imagined it. Luca barely moved, as if he too had sensed something. A shadow passed in front of the tent, briefly obscuring the filtering moonlight.
A whisper. Two voices. And a low, knowing laugh.
Martina's breathing had become regular, light, almost childlike. Nestled inside her sleeping bag, she clutched the fabric to her chest, a rebellious curl falling over her eyes. Luca, on the other hand, snored softly, an intermittent sound that escaped in fits and starts from his parted lips.
Outside, the forest sang with the persistent chirping of crickets and the distant hooting of owls. Then, a rustling. Not animal: too measured, too human. Two shadows stopped in front of the tent.
The canvas vibrated slightly under the pressure of a hand. A sharp click of the latch, and the zipper slid down, slowly, like a snake opening its mouth. Neither boy moved.
Two dark figures could be glimpsed hunched at the entrance. They laughed through gritted teeth, barely uttering a sound. One raised his head slightly, peering inside. The other immediately fiddled with the sleeping bags.
The calloused hands moved confidently, expertly, as if they had done it before: slowly dragging the fabric, turning the sleeping bodies without waking them, pulling Luca's head out on one side, Martina's bare feet on the other. Her body, shaken by the movement, shuddered, her toes flexing as if sensing the coolness of the night. She didn't wake.
"There they are," whispered the first, lowering his voice to a grin.
"Ready... just like we wanted."
Luca was now lying with his neck bent in the open, his face turned directly toward his girlfriend's feet. Martina remained motionless, unaware, her ankles protruding over the edge of the tent.
One of them placed a hand on the sole of her foot, pressing gently. The skin was warm, soft, slightly damp from the muggy sleeping bag. An involuntary jolt ran through her leg, but she didn't wake even then.
"Sofficini..." one murmured, as if assessing the texture of the bread.
"You'll see how he sings when he wakes up."
They laughed again, softly, like accomplices sharing a secret. Then they sat a few steps away, remaining in the shadows, watching the two boys stuck in that unnatural pose: he with his nose a breath away from the soles of her feet, she exposed without realizing it.
The forest resumed its nocturnal chant. But amidst that singing, now, there was another expectation: that of two men standing still, patient, watching their prey sleep, ready to play.
A shiver ran down Martina's toes. At first, she mistook it for a dream: fresh grass beneath the soles, a breath caressing her skin. Then came a firmer touch, a nail tracing a slow line along the arch of her foot.
"Mmmh..." he groaned in his sleep, shaking his leg slightly. He didn't open his eyes.
Luca, however, was the first to wake. An unpleasant sensation weighed on his face: a smell. Salty, pungent dampness, mixed with earth and sweat. He snapped his eyes open and found himself with his nostrils just inches from his girlfriend's toes. For a moment, he thought he'd turned over in his sleeping bag. Then reality dawned on him: Martina was still asleep, and her feet were outside, pointing right at him.
"What the f—" he began to mutter, but a laugh froze him.
Two dark figures loomed over them, leaning against the sides of the tent. Eyes glistening in the moonlight, wide smiles revealing white teeth. One was already gripping Martina's ankle. The other had a dead flashlight, used only as a stick to gently tickle the soles of her feet.
"Oh, finally," whispered the first, "the prince has woken up."
"Yeah... look at the beautiful position we've prepared for him."
Luca thrashed inside the sack, trying to free his arms. But the fabric was tight, and the zipper, pulled up to his neck, kept him trapped. He could only move his head. Each spasm brought him ever closer to the acrid smell of Martina's feet.
She jolted awake when the second man traced the sole of her foot with two fingers, from heel to toe. "Ahhh!" she cried, immediately suffocated by the fabric of the sack. "No, no! Ahahaha! Stop!" Her body jerked, her feet thumped spasmodically... and each blow crashed into Luca's face.
"Holy shit!" he blurted, crushed between the fabric and his kicking ankles. "Marti, stay still!"
"She can't stay still," the first man sneered. "Her soles are as sensitive as a violin."
"And look at him wrinkling his nose... your girlfriend's feet disgust you, huh?"
Martina laughed uncontrollably, her tone desperate, mingled with sobs. "Please! Enough! I can't do it!"
Luca squeezed his eyes shut, his nose buried in sweaty fingers at every thrust. The smell made him gag.
The two strangers exchanged a knowing look. "They won't last long like this," said the taller one. "Want to bet they'll tell us the phone code before dawn?"
"Sure. Just pinch a little and they'll melt."
And again the calloused fingers slid under the arch of Martina's foot, pressing, scratching with cruel delicacy. She burst into hysterical laughter, wincing all over, and Luca took a kick in the chin.
"Ahh! Christ, stop it!" he shouted, but his voice was muffled by the sack holding him tightly.
"Oh, he's complaining too," laughed the shorter one, "because he can't stand the smell. Look at this delicious couple: she can't stop her feet, he has to taste them all over his face."
The two leaned forward, amused like children playing a new game.
The calloused toes ran over Martina's soles like crazed insects. A quick scratch on the heel, a firm dig under her toes, then a sudden pinch in the center of her arch: she jumped at every touch, unable to predict where the next one would land.
"Ahhh! Hhhahaha! Enough! I can't! I can't!" she screamed, bending inside the sleeping bag, but the more she twisted, the more her feet hit Luca's face.
"For God's sake!" he bellowed, closing his eyes as the sweaty sole slid down his nose. "Stop moving, Marti!"
"I can't! Hhahahaha!"
The sharp crack of a slap landed right on her toes, making her jump. The taller one laughed loudly: "What a lovely little concert! You never stop, huh?"
The other, kneeling in front of Luca, pushed his chin up with two fingers, forcing him to open his eyes. "And you, look at this... what a beautiful sight. Your young lady's sweaty feet, fresh from the woods. Are you smelling them properly?"
"Fuck you!" Luca snapped, trying to turn his head. But her ankles banged against his face, and each blow brought the damp stench right back to him.
"Listen to the way he grumbles," the other chuckled. "A true knight, ready to protect his lady from her own feet."
Martina shook her head from inside the sack, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. The laughter tore at her throat, raucous, uncontrollable. "Ahhhh! I can't anymore! Stop, please!"
The shorter guy's dirty nails dug under the edge of her foot, grazing the tender skin between her toes. Martina screamed again, a scream that broke into sobs and convulsive laughter. Her legs shook so much they seemed possessed.
Every jolt brought the sole of her foot to slam into Luca's nose and mouth. His stomach churned, his breath caught in the pungent odor. "It's torture for me too, damn it!" he spat.
"Yeah," the first guy nodded, "that's the beauty of it. Two at once: she's laughing like crazy, you're vomiting from the smell. You've never had so much fun camping, huh?"
Another series of rapid scratches along the arch of her foot. Martina squirmed, her heels kicking harder, one hitting her nose. Luca screamed, a mixture of pain and nausea.
The two tormentors burst out laughing. "Christ, what a couple!" said the taller one, slapping his thigh. "One's bent over from the tickling, the other gets kicked in the face. We couldn't have hoped for anything better."
The shorter one leaned even closer, bringing his nose closer to the girl's feet. He took a deep breath, dramatically. "Mmm... already seasoned, I'd say. They must have walked quite a bit. Want a sniff too, buddy?"
The companion laughed, reached out and forcefully dragged Luca's head even closer to the girl's fingers, almost crushing it against them. "Here, listen to this. A bouquet of sweat, earth, and woods. A delight."
Luca thrashed, his face pressed against her wet fingers, and screamed, strangled, "Let me go!"
Martina, choking with laughter, could only stammer, "Please, please! I can't take it anymore! Hhhahaha!"
The tickling continued, relentlessly, with a variable rhythm: now quick, light scratches, now slow, cruel thrusts, like knife blades drawing invisible lines. Every time she kicked, he took the hit. Every time he moaned, they laughed louder.
The forest was silent, as if holding its breath along with them.
The taller man reached out with his strong hands and, with a decisive gesture, grabbed both of Martina's ankles. "Enough joking," he murmured with a smile, "now let's play seriously."
"No! Please don't!" she cried, already out of breath, her breath ragged with laughter that rasped her throat.
The man pulled her toward him, barely shifting the sleeping bag, and with calm force, he pushed her feet directly into Luca's face. The warm, moist soles stuck to his nose, his toes curling over her lips. Luca groaned, trying to pull away, but the other man gripped the back of his neck with one hand, forcing him to stay there.
"There you go. Look at this picture: him on top, her on top. Just as it should be."
The other man laughed heartily, and without waiting, he launched himself onto the soles of her feet, scratching with ten toes at a demon-like speed.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Martina screamed, her shrill voice lost in the woods. She bent over inside the sack, her body convulsing in constant spasms. Every time she struggled, her feet pressed even harder against the boy's face, forcing her toes into his mouth, filling his nostrils with a pungent odor.
"ENOUGH! Christ! Take her feet off! She's suffocating me!" Luca shouted, his voice muffled by the damp skin pressed against his face. He coughed, snorted, but couldn't move.
The tickler didn't stop for a moment: nails running like spider legs, brutal caresses tracing arabesques on the soles, rapid pinches between the toes. Martina laughed like a madwoman, a broken, raucous laugh mingling with strangled cries.
"Ahhhh! Hhahahaha! You're killing me!" I can't take it anymore!" she pleaded, clenching her fists inside the sack.
"Listen to how he sings!" the man holding her laughed. He pushed her ankles even harder, crushing Luca's face under the pressure. "And look at your prince, my love... he's drowning in it, in the scent of your little feet!"
Luca shook his head, but every movement made him touch other parts of her sweaty sole: the heel that dragged his cheek, the arch that covered his lips, the toes that pressed against his nose. The smell was oppressive, hot, salty, a mix of woods and leather. He gagged, coughed, but couldn't turn away.
"Mmmm... look how disgusting he is!" the tickler laughed, continuing to torment the girl. "He can't handle his girlfriend's feet! What a Prince Charming!"
Martina screamed, laughed, kicked in vain, her legs trying to escape those cruel fingers but unable to because the other man was gripping them tightly. Every jolt resulted in blows to Luca's face, and he cursed through gritted teeth.
"Stop, damn it! Enough!"
"Oh no, it's never enough," replied the man behind her. "In fact, now let's go even faster."
And the fingers ran faster, frantically, tracing every millimeter of her soles, from her ankles to her nails, without respite. Martina laughed so hard she lost her breath, a broken sound that sounded like hysterical sobs.
"Help! Please, stop!"
"Look at this symphony," said the man holding her. "Two instruments in one: her laughing, him gasping. A perfect concert."
"You know what?" said the one still holding Martina's ankles firmly planted in Luca's face. "We could go on like this all night, but it would be a shame to waste our energy without... a reward."
The other, who was tickling furiously, slowed slightly, letting a slow finger run along the sensitive arch of her foot. Martina winced, already sweating, her face red and wet from tears inside her sack. "Ahhh! Not yet... please..."
"Here," continued the first, "if you want us to stop, a little number would be enough. Four tiny digits. The PIN of your cell phone, prince."
Luca froze, breathing heavily under his girlfriend's feet. "I won't give you shit."
"Ohhh, that's hard," laughed the tickler. Then, without waiting, he unleashed himself again: ten mad, swift, cruel fingers, running from foot to foot, pinching toes, scraping heels, tormenting every inch.
"AHAHAHAHA! NOOO! ENOUGH! I CAN'T TAKE IT! AHAHAHAH!" Martina screamed, laughter tearing from her throat. Her legs shook so much that her entire weight fell on the boy's face.
Luca spat, coughed, gasping for air between his fingers pressed to his nose. "Stop! You're crazy!"
"It doesn't take much," said the one holding her. "Just say four numbers and your princess will be able to breathe."
"Luca!" Martina screamed between laughs. "Please! Tell them! I can't do it! HAHAHAHAHA!"
"No, Marti! I can't! We don't know what they're doing!"
"I don't care! I want them to stop!"
The tickler laughed like a maniac, alternating rapid scratches and delicate pinches that drove her crazy. "Look how cute she is, begging her boyfriend! Come on, gentleman, save her!"
Luca gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. Every second, Martina's feet pounded against his face, and the smell made him dizzy. But he didn't give up. "I won't give you anything!" he spat, his voice hoarse.
Martina writhed, desperate, her face purple. "Luca, please! I beg you! Tell us! I can't take it anymore! HAHAHAHA!"
"How heartbreaking," the first laughed. "She begs you, and you don't say anything. What kind of boyfriend are you?"
The second increased his speed even further, his hands a flurry of fingers running over her sensitive soles. Martina screamed again, her laughter broken by a sob: "Please! I never ask you for anything! Stop! Tell her!"
Luca shook his head, still pressed against her sweaty skin. "I can't, Marti! I can't!"
"Then prepare to hear her laugh until she passes out," said the tickler. And he unleashed another volley, so rapid and ferocious that the girl's body seemed to go mad, kicking and trembling uncontrollably.
"AAAAHHHHhh! Enough! Luca, I beg you! I beg you!"
The hands of the two tormentors knew no mercy. Their fingers ran tirelessly, as if they had found a sacred rhythm that could not be broken: ten, twenty, thirty seconds without respite, and then again, faster, sharper, until they seemed like invisible blades cutting into Martina's soles.
She laughed voicelessly, her throat parched, her mouth wide open in a desperate grin. Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting the fabric of the sack. Her body bent, tensed, kicked, but her locked ankles left no escape. Each jolt made her slam her feet even harder into her boyfriend's face.
"AHAHAHH! ENOUGH! PLEASE! I CAN'T... I CAN'T! HAHAHA!”
The tickler laughed in turn, a low, evil sound. “Look at her writhing! It's a sight, buddy, a sight!”
Luca, crushed, coughed and spat, his breath cut off by the pungent smell. Every time he tried to turn his head, his partner repositioned him, forcing him to breathe through the girl's sweaty fingers. “Enough! Enough! You're going to kill her!”
“Then give us the PIN,” the other replied in a calm, almost paternal voice.
“I won't give it to you!” Luca growled, his voice strangled. “I'll never give it to you!”
Martina felt her strength crumbling. Each wave of tickling left her breathless, her laughter turning into a sob, then a broken gasp. "Luca... please... Luca..." Her voice trailed off in her throat.
"Hey, hey... don't close your eyes now," the tickler laughed, still dragging his nails along the arch of her foot. "The party's not over."
A scream exploded in her throat, but immediately followed by an eerie silence. Martina collapsed inside the sack, her legs still shaking with inertia, then still.
"Marti?!" Luca snapped, pushing against the grip of the man holding him. "Martina! Answer me!" His voice was filled with panic.
No response. Only the chirping of crickets, indifferent. Her feet lay limp against his face, the nervous tension no longer shaking them.
"What the fuck did you do to her?!" Luca screamed, his heart pounding. "Martina! Oh God, Martina!"
The two exchanged a look and a stifled laugh. "She's just overdoing it a bit... poor thing, she's out of breath."
"Calm down, curly-haired one," said the other. "She'll wake up. But you... you're too nervous."
Before Luca could reply, he felt a sharp blow to his temple. A sudden, sharp pain, like a white flash. His vision blurred, the world tilted. The forest spun, his breath drained away.
"What the f—" he tried to say, but the sentence died on his lips.
And everything fell into darkness.
A buzzing noise enveloped her head, like a crazed beehive. Martina moaned, trying to move, but a stiff pain in her neck and arms pinned her down immediately. She tried to pull her hands back, but they wouldn't come: something was squeezing her wrists. Her eyes fluttered open, and the light burned inside her.
The sky above her was no longer the dark sky of the forest, but dotted with colorful flags and fabrics fluttering in the wind. Noise all around: laughter, footsteps, distant drums, a flute playing a cheerful melody.
"Where... where am I?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. She tried to turn her head, but the wood held her still, forcing her forward. Only then did she understand: her throat, her shoulders, her wrists encased in a heavy board, secured with a padlock. A pillory.
A wave of panic rose in her stomach. She kicked instinctively, and felt her ankles equally locked, stuck in the holes of a log lower down. Her feet were bare, exposed to the cool air, their skin still matted with the night's sweat. She tried to bend her knees, but the wood held them still, the soles facing forward, ready as targets.
Around her, the voices.
"Look, they've already prepared the witch!"
"Ah, but she's beautiful!"
"She seems real... look how she's twitching!"
Martina's eyes widened, her heart pounding. Through the limited space in the wood, she could just make out the silhouettes of the people passing by. There were many: men, women, and children, dressed in bright costumes, medieval skirts, and feathered hats. Some held glasses of beer, others licked cotton candy. They were all looking at her.
"Help!" she cried, her voice hoarse but filled with desperation. "Please! This isn't a show! They've kidnapped me!"
A roar of laughter answered her. A man with a fake jester's beard clapped his hands: "What a show! Bravo, bravado! Don't fall for it, witch!"
Martina felt a chill creep up her spine. She tried to free her hands, to break the wood, but the log gripped her relentlessly. She pulled her knees up, but her feet remained trapped, immobile, bare, vulnerable.
And then, above her head, two familiar voices rang out in the crowd, as cheerful as those of fairground announcers.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the first shouted theatrically. "Here is the witch of the woods, captured last night while she was working her spells!"
"Look how well she's pretending!" the other added, walking in front of her and raising his hands to draw applause. "She screams, cries, begs... it seems real! But don't worry, she's a Methodist actress, she gets so into the part that it will seem real!"
The crowd laughed, nodded, applauded. A child tugged at his mother's sleeve: "Mommy, Mommy, is it real?"
"It's an act, darling," the woman said, smiling. "Look how well she's pretending!"
Martina shook her head in despair. "It's not pretending! It's not pretending, I swear!"
But the roar of the crowd drowned out her voice. Drums began to beat louder, and someone shouted: "Punish the witch! Make her laugh!"
The words chilled her blood. Punish. Make her laugh.
Only then did she feel the cool air brush the soles of her feet, exposed, vulnerable, and she understood what was about to happen.
Martina pulled, tugged, trying in vain to free herself from the wood. Each jolt cracked her wrists, each spasm brought her back to the starting point. The crowd around her grew, people stopping with mugs in hand, children on their shoulders, all watching.
"Look at her fight!" shouted one of the two tormentors, perched on a crate beside her, his arms raised like an auctioneer. "She doesn't like the pillory, huh? But do you know why? Because she has a weak spot..."
She leaned toward the crowd, pretending to share a secret. "Her feet are very sensitive."
"Very sensitive!" the other repeated, stepping in front of Martina's exposed feet and patting them with two fingers.
Martina immediately screamed, leaping back as far as the wood would allow. "No! Don't touch me! This isn't a joke!"
The audience burst into laughter. A boy in a feathered hat whistled and held out his hand defiantly. He barely touched the sole of her foot, a swift stroke like a caress. Martina jumped, shrieking, "Ahhh! Enough!"
The laughter grew even louder. "Did you see?!" shouted the shorter tormentor. "She can't even resist a breath! She's truly a witch!"
Another, a man in his forties with a beer, bent down and ran two quick fingers under the toes of her right foot. Martina screamed again, pulling her legs but remaining trapped. "Ahhh! Please!"
"God, she looks real!" the man commented, laughing. "What an actress!"
The voices grew louder:
"Tickle her!"
"Punish the witch!"
"At her feet! At her feet!"
Martina shook her head in despair, her hair falling in her eyes. "It's not an act! I beg you, release me! It's all real!"
The roar of laughter drowned out her words. Then, from the crowd, a woman stepped forward. She wasn't laughing raucously like the others, but had a calm, almost maternal smile. She wore a long blue dress with a tight bodice, and walked slowly until she knelt before the girl's frozen feet.
"Leave it to me," she said in a calm but determined tone.
Martina stared at her with wide eyes. "Please, lady! Help me! This isn't a show, I swear!"
The woman bowed her head, almost touched. "How clever. How realistic. She never stops acting." Then, with precise movements, she raised both hands and placed them on the soles of Martina's feet.
The contact was like an electric shock. Ten fingers began to run slowly, in wide circles, then tighter, until they slipped into the spaces between her toes, brushed her arches, and pressed under her heels.
"AHAHAHAHAHA! NOOO! PLEASE! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!" Martina burst into convulsive laughter, leaning forward, trying to kick, but the wood held her still. Tears streamed down her face, her breath caught in the middle of each scream.
The audience cheered. "Yes! Bravo! Like that! Make her laugh!"
"What an actress! My God, she really looks desperate!"
"More, more!"
The woman worked with methodical calm, without apparent sadism, but with a precision that made her seem expert: fingers moving up and down as if she were playing an instrument, without a break.
"Ahhhahahaha! Nooo! I can't resist! Stop! Stop!!” Martina shouted, but each plea was swallowed up by the crowd's laughter.
One of her companions applauded loudly. “Ladies and gentlemen, here's the witch's punishment! Don't stop: anyone can try! All it takes is an offering in the basket!”
And people were already pushing forward, curious, excited, ready to lay their hands on the poor girl, convinced she was part of the game.
The woman in blue continued tickling with surgical precision, her hands sliding slowly and then quickly, as if she already knew where to strike. Martina screamed, doubled over, tears streaming, her voice breaking in hysterical laughter.
“And now…” said one of her companions, raising his arms toward the crowd, “who will be next to punish the witch?”
A young man in a linen shirt, his face red from wine, came forward laughing. "I'll take care of it!" He set the beer on the ground and, without hesitation, knelt beside the woman. His calloused fingers placed on Martina's heels and began to drum loudly, fast as war drums.
"AHHHhhahahaha! Enough! Enough, please!" she shouted, bending over until the log creaked.
The crowd applauded, cheering him on: "Yes! Tap your heels! Bravo!"
Someone laughed: "God, it stinks! You can smell it even from here!"
"Ah, that's brilliant!" said another. "They even made the feet stink to make it more realistic!"
Martina felt herself dying inside. "No! It's not make-believe! It's not a show!" she begged, between sobs and convulsive laughter.
But the more she struggled, the more her hands alternated: the woman tormenting her toes, the man tapping her heels in a frantic rhythm. Her body was a tightrope, shaken relentlessly.
"Good, good," said the other tormentor in a theatrical tone, "now let's make room for other spectators, gentlemen. Don't be shy: the witch is here for you!"
An elderly lady, bent but with lively eyes, stepped forward, laughing like a child. "Let's see if she can take this." She calmly bent down and, with two slender fingers, began to slowly scratch the arches of her feet. Each touch felt like a blade.
"HAHAHAHHhh! I can't take it anymore! Stop! Stop me!" Martina screamed, her voice breaking, and the crowd laughed even louder.
"Oh my God, how real she looks!"
"They should take her to the theater!"
"No, no, better here! It's more fun this way!"
The next turn was for two little boys, perhaps brothers, urged on by their laughing parents. They knelt down timidly, then plucked up courage and began moving their fingers on the soles of their feet as if they were pianos. Martina almost went crazy.
"Ahhhh! Noooo, kids! Noooo, please! Stop! It's not a game!"
"Mommy, mommy!" cried the youngest, laughing. "It looks like she's really crying!"
"Of course, darling, she's great!" replied the mother.
The crowd applauded, laughed, and made comments. A man behind shouted, "Give her some air, I want to try it too!"
And then another stepped forward, a young man with a medieval hood pulled down over his eyes. He bent down at Martina's feet, took a deep breath, and laughed: "My goodness, this sucks! They did a perfect job!" Then he began pinching the creases between her toes with two fingers.
Martina burst into screams and shrill laughter again, pulling her legs until they shook in the block. "ENOUGH! ENOUGH, PLEASE!"
"Bravissimo, bravissimo!" shouted one of her fellow revelers, passing a hat through the crowd. "An offering to punish the witch! More coins, more laughter!"
The hands alternated ceaselessly. Each new spectator brought a different approach:
some caressed her soles like feathers,
some scratched them furiously,
some laughed at the stench, holding their noses,
some commented aloud: "God, it seems real!"
Martina was voiceless, tears streaming down her face, her breath ragged between sobs and laughter. Each plea was a futile cry that echoed through the party like part of the spectacle.
And the two "snack buddies" laughed, collected offerings, cheered. They were masters of the game, and the crowd was their instrument.
The crowd was already dispersing a bit, after a long series of curious hands and laughter. Martina was bent forward, exhausted, her hair wet with sweat and plastered to her cheeks. Her chest heaved, panting, and her feet remained motionless in the block, damp and red from the many toes that had tormented them.
It was then that a deep voice rose above the hubbub.
"Allow me?"
A burly man with a trim gray beard and a leather vest that made him look like a medieval innkeeper stepped forward. In his hand, he held two leashes: two large, short-haired dogs, tongues lolling, and bright eyes. The crowd parted, curious, to let him pass.
"What's he up to?" someone murmured.
"Look, he's bringing the dogs! Hahaha, unbelievable!"
Martina jerked her head up, her eyes welling with tears. "No! No, please! What are you doing? Don't let him come any closer!"
The man smiled, his expression the expression of a pleased lord. "I wanted to propose a little... experiment." "I've got some cream ice cream here with me," he said, showing a small glass he held in his other hand. "If we spread it on the witch's feet, my friends here will be delighted to... clean her up."
A roar of laughter and applause erupted from the crowd.
"Brilliant!"
"Fantastic, yes!"
"Do it! Do it!"
Martina struggled furiously, her arms pulling against the wood, her wrists becoming red. "NO! Please! Don't you dare! Don't you dare!"
One of the fellows at the table gave a dramatic bow. "Ladies, your idea is magnificent. Please, the stage is yours!"
The other chuckled: "Let's see if our witch can handle this too!"
The man bent over Martina, opened the glass, and dipped two fingers into the creamy, white ice cream. She began to scream in desperation. "No! Don't do it! I beg you, don't do it!"
But her words were swallowed up by the laughter of the audience. With meticulous calm, the man spread the fresh ice cream on the soles of her feet. A cold shiver ran through her body. She jumped, shivered, kicked in vain.
"Ahhh! God, it's cold! Nooo! Take it off! Take it off!"
The ice cream dripped between her toes, leaving white trails that glistened in the torchlight. Meanwhile, the dogs had already begun panting, tugging on their leashes, their tongues hanging out.
"Go on, boys," the man said with a satisfied smile.
The two beasts pounced immediately, their warm tongues sliding over the cream-soaked soles of her feet. Martina screamed, a scream that quickly turned into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "AAAAHHhhahaha! NOOO! PLEASE! STOP THEM!"
Their tongues were rough, relentless, licking every inch of her: her heel, her arch, the spaces between her toes, sucking the ice cream but continuing to go over and over, as if it were never enough.
"AHAHAHAHHHhh! NOOO! I CAN'T DO IT! HELP!"
The audience exploded with joy.
"This is crazy!"
"Look at her, she looks real!"
"What an incredible actress! Brilliant!"
Martina leaned forward, her hair tossed, her face contorted between tears and the most ferocious laughter. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixed with sweat. Each lick was a shock, a different torment: heat and tickle at the same time, one tongue slipping between her fingers, the other sliding along the entire arch.
"AHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! ENOUGH, I BEGIVE YOU!"
The man laughed, holding the leashes tight, letting the two dogs work tirelessly.
"There you go, the witch licked to the core!"
The crowd clapped, cheered, and shouted. Some threw coins into the basket, others asked for a turn. Their companions scooped it all up with triumphant smiles.
And Martina, stuck in the pillory, discovered there was no end to the ridicule, the humiliation, the pain disguised as a celebration.
The first tongue thrust was a hot, harsh flash that traveled across the entire sole of her right foot. Martina screamed, the cry immediately breaking into violent, uncontrollable laughter. Her legs shook the block, her arms bent until they hurt, but she couldn't move.
The other dog immediately threw itself on the other foot, its tongue digging between her ice cream-stained toes, rising, falling, coming back. Two simultaneous fires. Two alternating tortures.
"AHAHAHAHAHhh! NOOO! NOOO! STOP THEM! PLEASE!" she screamed, leaning forward, her voice cracking, her eyes wide. The tears flowed steadily, her face purple.
The rough tongues never stopped: they slid up and down, scooping up the ice cream, and then returned, as if the salty smell of her skin were an irresistible lure. One licked with slow, broad strokes, from her big toe to her heel. The other precisely dipped between her toes, digging, licking deeply, driving her mad.
"Look at her! Look at her!" shouted one of her companions, pointing to the girl bent over in the pillory. "She can't stop laughing! She's the most sensitive witch you've ever seen!"
The audience applauded, shouted, laughed.
"Incredible!"
"My God, she really looks like she's in pain!"
"Bravissima!"
"I'm not acting!" shouted Martina, with the little breath she had left. "I SWEAR I'M NOT ACTING!"
The words were swallowed by a roar of laughter. A man doubled over, slapping his knees. "What a genius! What an act! He never breaks character!"
The dogs continued, relentlessly, breathlessly. Their tongues scraped the arches of her feet, slid under her toes, and ran over her heels over and over again. Martina screamed and laughed at the same time, an inhuman sound that mingled with the drums of the fair.
"AHAHAHAHA! ENOUGH! I CAN'T DO IT! I'M GOING CRAZY!"
The spectators' hands were waving, many demanding a turn:
"Let me try after the dogs!"
"I want one too!"
"Tickle her while they lick her!"
The shorter snack companion held up his basket, filled with jingling coins. "Come on, come on, gentlemen! Offer, and the witch will be yours!"
The man with the dogs laughed with satisfaction, keeping their leashes tight. "Good boys... good... don't leave anything behind." And the two animals obeyed, diligently, passing over and over again, until their soles were shiny, wet, completely red.
Martina could no longer distinguish where the cold cream ended and the heat of the tongues began. She felt only the torment, constant, cruel. Her body trembled, the spasms shook her relentlessly, and she was increasingly short of breath.
"HAHAHAHAHHhh! I CAN'T RESIST ANYMORE!"
And the crowd laughed again, convinced they were witnessing the most realistic performance they had ever seen.
The dogs' tongues were tireless. One, rough and fast, ran continuously along the arch of her left foot, from heel to toes, digging into the spaces and sucking away every sticky residue. The other rose slowly and heavily along the right sole, leaving warm trails that immediately began again, back and forth, like waves.
Martina screamed, laughed, cried, a jumble of sounds that blended together. "AHHHhhahahahh! ENOUGH! PLEASE! I CAN'T! AHAHAHH!" Her throat burned, her voice came out broken, hoarse. She pulled her wrists against the wood until they scratched, she pushed her knees, but the log held her still.
The crowd went wild.
"Look at her! She's losing her breath!"
"God, how real!"
"A phenomenal actress!"
And as she screamed, "I SWEAR, IT'S NOT AN ACTING! IT'S ALL TRUE!", laughter drowned out every word. One woman laughed until she cried: "What a genius who cast her! She seems real because she never stops!"
The dogs, excited by the sweet taste and warmth of her skin, gave no respite. One tongue insistently penetrated deep between two toes, while the other rose in rapid strokes to the instep. Martina bent forward, her face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her mouth wide open in a scream that broke into a gasp.
Her body trembled, convulsed by uncontrollable spasms. Every muscle tense, every fiber ready to give way. Her laughter became a strangled sob, her breathing shallow and ragged.
"Look!" shouted one of her companions, gesturing broadly to the scene. "The witch can't take it anymore! She's collapsing! Punish, punish!"
"Punish!" the crowd shouted in unison, clapping their hands and throwing coins into the basket.
Martina let out another desperate scream, a final shake of her body, then her head fell forward, heavy, her hair covering her face. She remained still, only her chest heaving softly, dragging air as if drowning.
The dogs were still licking, tirelessly. The bearded man finally stopped them, tugging on their leashes. "Enough, boys, they've done their job." He rewarded them with a satisfied caress.
Martina was bent over, lifeless, her throat barely emitting a breath. The crowd applauded as if after a performance. "Bravo!"
"What an actress! Oscar-worthy!"
"God, it almost sounded like she was actually dying!"
The din covered everything, a wall of sound: laughter, drums, voices, applause.
Cut
In a dimly lit room, the din of the fair was muffled, distant, along with Martina's distorted screams. They came from a monitor on a table: the flickering frame showed the pillory, the girl's bare feet still wet from ice cream, the laughing crowd.
In front of the screen, tied to a chair with ropes that tightened around his wrists, was Luca. His face pale, his eyes wide, forced to watch. Every breath he took was short, labored, as he stared helplessly at the scene.
A sob escaped his lips. "Martina..." he whispered. He pulled against the ropes, but they were too tight. He couldn't look away. He couldn't do anything.
And on the screen, his girlfriend continued to tremble in the pillory, surrounded by applause.
Having compared several options and not fully understanding the rising prices, I've agreed with another artist for a 10k story.
I apologize for the ghosting, but it should be standard practice in the absence of confirmation.
Feel free to focus on other commissions." Now, for goodness sake, he was kind in the end, but you don't contact someone, you waste their time without following up. That said, I was very intrigued by the story and decided to write it anyway (it could easily become a series). As always, please leave your comments and let me know what you think.
***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
The path wound upward, carved by rainwater into dry rivulets that scratched the earth. Every step crunched the gravel beneath her hiking boots, and the smell of the forest was an acrid mix of resin, damp earth, and rotting leaves.
Martina had pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt, not so much for the cold—it was August, and the air was only slightly biting—but to keep her hair in check, as the mountain wind continued to ruffle it. Behind her, Luca trudged with his slightly larger backpack, sweaty but smiling. He had been the one who had insisted on this "camp": a whole week away from the city, the concrete, and the noisy bars, just the two of them, the tent, and the starry sky.
"Can you do it?" he asked, in a tone that blended concern and mockery.
"Don't worry," she replied, without turning around, "if you don't complain, I won't."
They climbed further, following the red markings on the trees, until they reached a clearing that opened like a green tongue in the thicket. The sun filtered through there more freely, illuminating the blades of grass and making the air vibrate with heat. Luca dropped his backpack with a sigh.
"I'd say this is perfect," he decreed.
Martina joined him and looked around. On one side, a stream flowed slowly, shallow water and round stones; on the other, the undergrowth thickened again, a wall of trunks and shadows. There was no sign of beaten paths or nearby houses. True solitude.
As they set up the tent—a clumsy job, with ropes and pegs that refused to stay taut—Martina laughed repeatedly at Luca's curses. Finally, the canvas took shape, an orange triangle planted in the middle of the meadow.
They lay down on the grass, side by side, watching the sky slowly darken. A hawk circled high above, disappearing and reappearing behind the clouds.
"It feels like we're the only ones in the world," Martina said, her voice faint.
"And that's exactly what I want," he replied, taking her hand.
There was a long silence, broken only by the buzzing of insects and the gurgling of the stream. But the forest is never completely silent: something was moving among the branches, a crunch of dry leaves, a dull thud in the distance. Martina turned sharply, searching with her eyes.
"A deer, perhaps," Luca said lightly. But he wasn't looking in her direction, instead staring at the sky, as if he didn't want to delve deeper.
The sun set behind the mountains, and the forest changed its voice. The crickets began their concert, monotonous and hypnotic. The air grew cooler, and from the village down in the valley came faint echoes: laughter, a car horn, perhaps the music of a party. Martina listened as if they were from another world.
They slipped into the tent, huddled in their sleeping bags, still carrying the scent of their improvised dinner—tuna pasta cooked on a rickety stove. The stifled laughter, the awkward kisses, the bodies seeking each other in the tight fabric. Then tiredness got the better of them.
It was then that, through the torpor, a different sound came. Not the wind, not an animal. Footsteps. Slow, measured, on the grass.
Martina held her breath, convinced she had imagined it. Luca barely moved, as if he too had sensed something. A shadow passed in front of the tent, briefly obscuring the filtering moonlight.
A whisper. Two voices. And a low, knowing laugh.
Martina's breathing had become regular, light, almost childlike. Nestled inside her sleeping bag, she clutched the fabric to her chest, a rebellious curl falling over her eyes. Luca, on the other hand, snored softly, an intermittent sound that escaped in fits and starts from his parted lips.
Outside, the forest sang with the persistent chirping of crickets and the distant hooting of owls. Then, a rustling. Not animal: too measured, too human. Two shadows stopped in front of the tent.
The canvas vibrated slightly under the pressure of a hand. A sharp click of the latch, and the zipper slid down, slowly, like a snake opening its mouth. Neither boy moved.
Two dark figures could be glimpsed hunched at the entrance. They laughed through gritted teeth, barely uttering a sound. One raised his head slightly, peering inside. The other immediately fiddled with the sleeping bags.
The calloused hands moved confidently, expertly, as if they had done it before: slowly dragging the fabric, turning the sleeping bodies without waking them, pulling Luca's head out on one side, Martina's bare feet on the other. Her body, shaken by the movement, shuddered, her toes flexing as if sensing the coolness of the night. She didn't wake.
"There they are," whispered the first, lowering his voice to a grin.
"Ready... just like we wanted."
Luca was now lying with his neck bent in the open, his face turned directly toward his girlfriend's feet. Martina remained motionless, unaware, her ankles protruding over the edge of the tent.
One of them placed a hand on the sole of her foot, pressing gently. The skin was warm, soft, slightly damp from the muggy sleeping bag. An involuntary jolt ran through her leg, but she didn't wake even then.
"Sofficini..." one murmured, as if assessing the texture of the bread.
"You'll see how he sings when he wakes up."
They laughed again, softly, like accomplices sharing a secret. Then they sat a few steps away, remaining in the shadows, watching the two boys stuck in that unnatural pose: he with his nose a breath away from the soles of her feet, she exposed without realizing it.
The forest resumed its nocturnal chant. But amidst that singing, now, there was another expectation: that of two men standing still, patient, watching their prey sleep, ready to play.
A shiver ran down Martina's toes. At first, she mistook it for a dream: fresh grass beneath the soles, a breath caressing her skin. Then came a firmer touch, a nail tracing a slow line along the arch of her foot.
"Mmmh..." he groaned in his sleep, shaking his leg slightly. He didn't open his eyes.
Luca, however, was the first to wake. An unpleasant sensation weighed on his face: a smell. Salty, pungent dampness, mixed with earth and sweat. He snapped his eyes open and found himself with his nostrils just inches from his girlfriend's toes. For a moment, he thought he'd turned over in his sleeping bag. Then reality dawned on him: Martina was still asleep, and her feet were outside, pointing right at him.
"What the f—" he began to mutter, but a laugh froze him.
Two dark figures loomed over them, leaning against the sides of the tent. Eyes glistening in the moonlight, wide smiles revealing white teeth. One was already gripping Martina's ankle. The other had a dead flashlight, used only as a stick to gently tickle the soles of her feet.
"Oh, finally," whispered the first, "the prince has woken up."
"Yeah... look at the beautiful position we've prepared for him."
Luca thrashed inside the sack, trying to free his arms. But the fabric was tight, and the zipper, pulled up to his neck, kept him trapped. He could only move his head. Each spasm brought him ever closer to the acrid smell of Martina's feet.
She jolted awake when the second man traced the sole of her foot with two fingers, from heel to toe. "Ahhh!" she cried, immediately suffocated by the fabric of the sack. "No, no! Ahahaha! Stop!" Her body jerked, her feet thumped spasmodically... and each blow crashed into Luca's face.
"Holy shit!" he blurted, crushed between the fabric and his kicking ankles. "Marti, stay still!"
"She can't stay still," the first man sneered. "Her soles are as sensitive as a violin."
"And look at him wrinkling his nose... your girlfriend's feet disgust you, huh?"
Martina laughed uncontrollably, her tone desperate, mingled with sobs. "Please! Enough! I can't do it!"
Luca squeezed his eyes shut, his nose buried in sweaty fingers at every thrust. The smell made him gag.
The two strangers exchanged a knowing look. "They won't last long like this," said the taller one. "Want to bet they'll tell us the phone code before dawn?"
"Sure. Just pinch a little and they'll melt."
And again the calloused fingers slid under the arch of Martina's foot, pressing, scratching with cruel delicacy. She burst into hysterical laughter, wincing all over, and Luca took a kick in the chin.
"Ahh! Christ, stop it!" he shouted, but his voice was muffled by the sack holding him tightly.
"Oh, he's complaining too," laughed the shorter one, "because he can't stand the smell. Look at this delicious couple: she can't stop her feet, he has to taste them all over his face."
The two leaned forward, amused like children playing a new game.
The calloused toes ran over Martina's soles like crazed insects. A quick scratch on the heel, a firm dig under her toes, then a sudden pinch in the center of her arch: she jumped at every touch, unable to predict where the next one would land.
"Ahhh! Hhhahaha! Enough! I can't! I can't!" she screamed, bending inside the sleeping bag, but the more she twisted, the more her feet hit Luca's face.
"For God's sake!" he bellowed, closing his eyes as the sweaty sole slid down his nose. "Stop moving, Marti!"
"I can't! Hhahahaha!"
The sharp crack of a slap landed right on her toes, making her jump. The taller one laughed loudly: "What a lovely little concert! You never stop, huh?"
The other, kneeling in front of Luca, pushed his chin up with two fingers, forcing him to open his eyes. "And you, look at this... what a beautiful sight. Your young lady's sweaty feet, fresh from the woods. Are you smelling them properly?"
"Fuck you!" Luca snapped, trying to turn his head. But her ankles banged against his face, and each blow brought the damp stench right back to him.
"Listen to the way he grumbles," the other chuckled. "A true knight, ready to protect his lady from her own feet."
Martina shook her head from inside the sack, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. The laughter tore at her throat, raucous, uncontrollable. "Ahhhh! I can't anymore! Stop, please!"
The shorter guy's dirty nails dug under the edge of her foot, grazing the tender skin between her toes. Martina screamed again, a scream that broke into sobs and convulsive laughter. Her legs shook so much they seemed possessed.
Every jolt brought the sole of her foot to slam into Luca's nose and mouth. His stomach churned, his breath caught in the pungent odor. "It's torture for me too, damn it!" he spat.
"Yeah," the first guy nodded, "that's the beauty of it. Two at once: she's laughing like crazy, you're vomiting from the smell. You've never had so much fun camping, huh?"
Another series of rapid scratches along the arch of her foot. Martina squirmed, her heels kicking harder, one hitting her nose. Luca screamed, a mixture of pain and nausea.
The two tormentors burst out laughing. "Christ, what a couple!" said the taller one, slapping his thigh. "One's bent over from the tickling, the other gets kicked in the face. We couldn't have hoped for anything better."
The shorter one leaned even closer, bringing his nose closer to the girl's feet. He took a deep breath, dramatically. "Mmm... already seasoned, I'd say. They must have walked quite a bit. Want a sniff too, buddy?"
The companion laughed, reached out and forcefully dragged Luca's head even closer to the girl's fingers, almost crushing it against them. "Here, listen to this. A bouquet of sweat, earth, and woods. A delight."
Luca thrashed, his face pressed against her wet fingers, and screamed, strangled, "Let me go!"
Martina, choking with laughter, could only stammer, "Please, please! I can't take it anymore! Hhhahaha!"
The tickling continued, relentlessly, with a variable rhythm: now quick, light scratches, now slow, cruel thrusts, like knife blades drawing invisible lines. Every time she kicked, he took the hit. Every time he moaned, they laughed louder.
The forest was silent, as if holding its breath along with them.
The taller man reached out with his strong hands and, with a decisive gesture, grabbed both of Martina's ankles. "Enough joking," he murmured with a smile, "now let's play seriously."
"No! Please don't!" she cried, already out of breath, her breath ragged with laughter that rasped her throat.
The man pulled her toward him, barely shifting the sleeping bag, and with calm force, he pushed her feet directly into Luca's face. The warm, moist soles stuck to his nose, his toes curling over her lips. Luca groaned, trying to pull away, but the other man gripped the back of his neck with one hand, forcing him to stay there.
"There you go. Look at this picture: him on top, her on top. Just as it should be."
The other man laughed heartily, and without waiting, he launched himself onto the soles of her feet, scratching with ten toes at a demon-like speed.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Martina screamed, her shrill voice lost in the woods. She bent over inside the sack, her body convulsing in constant spasms. Every time she struggled, her feet pressed even harder against the boy's face, forcing her toes into his mouth, filling his nostrils with a pungent odor.
"ENOUGH! Christ! Take her feet off! She's suffocating me!" Luca shouted, his voice muffled by the damp skin pressed against his face. He coughed, snorted, but couldn't move.
The tickler didn't stop for a moment: nails running like spider legs, brutal caresses tracing arabesques on the soles, rapid pinches between the toes. Martina laughed like a madwoman, a broken, raucous laugh mingling with strangled cries.
"Ahhhh! Hhahahaha! You're killing me!" I can't take it anymore!" she pleaded, clenching her fists inside the sack.
"Listen to how he sings!" the man holding her laughed. He pushed her ankles even harder, crushing Luca's face under the pressure. "And look at your prince, my love... he's drowning in it, in the scent of your little feet!"
Luca shook his head, but every movement made him touch other parts of her sweaty sole: the heel that dragged his cheek, the arch that covered his lips, the toes that pressed against his nose. The smell was oppressive, hot, salty, a mix of woods and leather. He gagged, coughed, but couldn't turn away.
"Mmmm... look how disgusting he is!" the tickler laughed, continuing to torment the girl. "He can't handle his girlfriend's feet! What a Prince Charming!"
Martina screamed, laughed, kicked in vain, her legs trying to escape those cruel fingers but unable to because the other man was gripping them tightly. Every jolt resulted in blows to Luca's face, and he cursed through gritted teeth.
"Stop, damn it! Enough!"
"Oh no, it's never enough," replied the man behind her. "In fact, now let's go even faster."
And the fingers ran faster, frantically, tracing every millimeter of her soles, from her ankles to her nails, without respite. Martina laughed so hard she lost her breath, a broken sound that sounded like hysterical sobs.
"Help! Please, stop!"
"Look at this symphony," said the man holding her. "Two instruments in one: her laughing, him gasping. A perfect concert."
"You know what?" said the one still holding Martina's ankles firmly planted in Luca's face. "We could go on like this all night, but it would be a shame to waste our energy without... a reward."
The other, who was tickling furiously, slowed slightly, letting a slow finger run along the sensitive arch of her foot. Martina winced, already sweating, her face red and wet from tears inside her sack. "Ahhh! Not yet... please..."
"Here," continued the first, "if you want us to stop, a little number would be enough. Four tiny digits. The PIN of your cell phone, prince."
Luca froze, breathing heavily under his girlfriend's feet. "I won't give you shit."
"Ohhh, that's hard," laughed the tickler. Then, without waiting, he unleashed himself again: ten mad, swift, cruel fingers, running from foot to foot, pinching toes, scraping heels, tormenting every inch.
"AHAHAHAHA! NOOO! ENOUGH! I CAN'T TAKE IT! AHAHAHAH!" Martina screamed, laughter tearing from her throat. Her legs shook so much that her entire weight fell on the boy's face.
Luca spat, coughed, gasping for air between his fingers pressed to his nose. "Stop! You're crazy!"
"It doesn't take much," said the one holding her. "Just say four numbers and your princess will be able to breathe."
"Luca!" Martina screamed between laughs. "Please! Tell them! I can't do it! HAHAHAHAHA!"
"No, Marti! I can't! We don't know what they're doing!"
"I don't care! I want them to stop!"
The tickler laughed like a maniac, alternating rapid scratches and delicate pinches that drove her crazy. "Look how cute she is, begging her boyfriend! Come on, gentleman, save her!"
Luca gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. Every second, Martina's feet pounded against his face, and the smell made him dizzy. But he didn't give up. "I won't give you anything!" he spat, his voice hoarse.
Martina writhed, desperate, her face purple. "Luca, please! I beg you! Tell us! I can't take it anymore! HAHAHAHA!"
"How heartbreaking," the first laughed. "She begs you, and you don't say anything. What kind of boyfriend are you?"
The second increased his speed even further, his hands a flurry of fingers running over her sensitive soles. Martina screamed again, her laughter broken by a sob: "Please! I never ask you for anything! Stop! Tell her!"
Luca shook his head, still pressed against her sweaty skin. "I can't, Marti! I can't!"
"Then prepare to hear her laugh until she passes out," said the tickler. And he unleashed another volley, so rapid and ferocious that the girl's body seemed to go mad, kicking and trembling uncontrollably.
"AAAAHHHHhh! Enough! Luca, I beg you! I beg you!"
The hands of the two tormentors knew no mercy. Their fingers ran tirelessly, as if they had found a sacred rhythm that could not be broken: ten, twenty, thirty seconds without respite, and then again, faster, sharper, until they seemed like invisible blades cutting into Martina's soles.
She laughed voicelessly, her throat parched, her mouth wide open in a desperate grin. Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting the fabric of the sack. Her body bent, tensed, kicked, but her locked ankles left no escape. Each jolt made her slam her feet even harder into her boyfriend's face.
"AHAHAHH! ENOUGH! PLEASE! I CAN'T... I CAN'T! HAHAHA!”
The tickler laughed in turn, a low, evil sound. “Look at her writhing! It's a sight, buddy, a sight!”
Luca, crushed, coughed and spat, his breath cut off by the pungent smell. Every time he tried to turn his head, his partner repositioned him, forcing him to breathe through the girl's sweaty fingers. “Enough! Enough! You're going to kill her!”
“Then give us the PIN,” the other replied in a calm, almost paternal voice.
“I won't give it to you!” Luca growled, his voice strangled. “I'll never give it to you!”
Martina felt her strength crumbling. Each wave of tickling left her breathless, her laughter turning into a sob, then a broken gasp. "Luca... please... Luca..." Her voice trailed off in her throat.
"Hey, hey... don't close your eyes now," the tickler laughed, still dragging his nails along the arch of her foot. "The party's not over."
A scream exploded in her throat, but immediately followed by an eerie silence. Martina collapsed inside the sack, her legs still shaking with inertia, then still.
"Marti?!" Luca snapped, pushing against the grip of the man holding him. "Martina! Answer me!" His voice was filled with panic.
No response. Only the chirping of crickets, indifferent. Her feet lay limp against his face, the nervous tension no longer shaking them.
"What the fuck did you do to her?!" Luca screamed, his heart pounding. "Martina! Oh God, Martina!"
The two exchanged a look and a stifled laugh. "She's just overdoing it a bit... poor thing, she's out of breath."
"Calm down, curly-haired one," said the other. "She'll wake up. But you... you're too nervous."
Before Luca could reply, he felt a sharp blow to his temple. A sudden, sharp pain, like a white flash. His vision blurred, the world tilted. The forest spun, his breath drained away.
"What the f—" he tried to say, but the sentence died on his lips.
And everything fell into darkness.
A buzzing noise enveloped her head, like a crazed beehive. Martina moaned, trying to move, but a stiff pain in her neck and arms pinned her down immediately. She tried to pull her hands back, but they wouldn't come: something was squeezing her wrists. Her eyes fluttered open, and the light burned inside her.
The sky above her was no longer the dark sky of the forest, but dotted with colorful flags and fabrics fluttering in the wind. Noise all around: laughter, footsteps, distant drums, a flute playing a cheerful melody.
"Where... where am I?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. She tried to turn her head, but the wood held her still, forcing her forward. Only then did she understand: her throat, her shoulders, her wrists encased in a heavy board, secured with a padlock. A pillory.
A wave of panic rose in her stomach. She kicked instinctively, and felt her ankles equally locked, stuck in the holes of a log lower down. Her feet were bare, exposed to the cool air, their skin still matted with the night's sweat. She tried to bend her knees, but the wood held them still, the soles facing forward, ready as targets.
Around her, the voices.
"Look, they've already prepared the witch!"
"Ah, but she's beautiful!"
"She seems real... look how she's twitching!"
Martina's eyes widened, her heart pounding. Through the limited space in the wood, she could just make out the silhouettes of the people passing by. There were many: men, women, and children, dressed in bright costumes, medieval skirts, and feathered hats. Some held glasses of beer, others licked cotton candy. They were all looking at her.
"Help!" she cried, her voice hoarse but filled with desperation. "Please! This isn't a show! They've kidnapped me!"
A roar of laughter answered her. A man with a fake jester's beard clapped his hands: "What a show! Bravo, bravado! Don't fall for it, witch!"
Martina felt a chill creep up her spine. She tried to free her hands, to break the wood, but the log gripped her relentlessly. She pulled her knees up, but her feet remained trapped, immobile, bare, vulnerable.
And then, above her head, two familiar voices rang out in the crowd, as cheerful as those of fairground announcers.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the first shouted theatrically. "Here is the witch of the woods, captured last night while she was working her spells!"
"Look how well she's pretending!" the other added, walking in front of her and raising his hands to draw applause. "She screams, cries, begs... it seems real! But don't worry, she's a Methodist actress, she gets so into the part that it will seem real!"
The crowd laughed, nodded, applauded. A child tugged at his mother's sleeve: "Mommy, Mommy, is it real?"
"It's an act, darling," the woman said, smiling. "Look how well she's pretending!"
Martina shook her head in despair. "It's not pretending! It's not pretending, I swear!"
But the roar of the crowd drowned out her voice. Drums began to beat louder, and someone shouted: "Punish the witch! Make her laugh!"
The words chilled her blood. Punish. Make her laugh.
Only then did she feel the cool air brush the soles of her feet, exposed, vulnerable, and she understood what was about to happen.
Martina pulled, tugged, trying in vain to free herself from the wood. Each jolt cracked her wrists, each spasm brought her back to the starting point. The crowd around her grew, people stopping with mugs in hand, children on their shoulders, all watching.
"Look at her fight!" shouted one of the two tormentors, perched on a crate beside her, his arms raised like an auctioneer. "She doesn't like the pillory, huh? But do you know why? Because she has a weak spot..."
She leaned toward the crowd, pretending to share a secret. "Her feet are very sensitive."
"Very sensitive!" the other repeated, stepping in front of Martina's exposed feet and patting them with two fingers.
Martina immediately screamed, leaping back as far as the wood would allow. "No! Don't touch me! This isn't a joke!"
The audience burst into laughter. A boy in a feathered hat whistled and held out his hand defiantly. He barely touched the sole of her foot, a swift stroke like a caress. Martina jumped, shrieking, "Ahhh! Enough!"
The laughter grew even louder. "Did you see?!" shouted the shorter tormentor. "She can't even resist a breath! She's truly a witch!"
Another, a man in his forties with a beer, bent down and ran two quick fingers under the toes of her right foot. Martina screamed again, pulling her legs but remaining trapped. "Ahhh! Please!"
"God, she looks real!" the man commented, laughing. "What an actress!"
The voices grew louder:
"Tickle her!"
"Punish the witch!"
"At her feet! At her feet!"
Martina shook her head in despair, her hair falling in her eyes. "It's not an act! I beg you, release me! It's all real!"
The roar of laughter drowned out her words. Then, from the crowd, a woman stepped forward. She wasn't laughing raucously like the others, but had a calm, almost maternal smile. She wore a long blue dress with a tight bodice, and walked slowly until she knelt before the girl's frozen feet.
"Leave it to me," she said in a calm but determined tone.
Martina stared at her with wide eyes. "Please, lady! Help me! This isn't a show, I swear!"
The woman bowed her head, almost touched. "How clever. How realistic. She never stops acting." Then, with precise movements, she raised both hands and placed them on the soles of Martina's feet.
The contact was like an electric shock. Ten fingers began to run slowly, in wide circles, then tighter, until they slipped into the spaces between her toes, brushed her arches, and pressed under her heels.
"AHAHAHAHAHA! NOOO! PLEASE! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!" Martina burst into convulsive laughter, leaning forward, trying to kick, but the wood held her still. Tears streamed down her face, her breath caught in the middle of each scream.
The audience cheered. "Yes! Bravo! Like that! Make her laugh!"
"What an actress! My God, she really looks desperate!"
"More, more!"
The woman worked with methodical calm, without apparent sadism, but with a precision that made her seem expert: fingers moving up and down as if she were playing an instrument, without a break.
"Ahhhahahaha! Nooo! I can't resist! Stop! Stop!!” Martina shouted, but each plea was swallowed up by the crowd's laughter.
One of her companions applauded loudly. “Ladies and gentlemen, here's the witch's punishment! Don't stop: anyone can try! All it takes is an offering in the basket!”
And people were already pushing forward, curious, excited, ready to lay their hands on the poor girl, convinced she was part of the game.
The woman in blue continued tickling with surgical precision, her hands sliding slowly and then quickly, as if she already knew where to strike. Martina screamed, doubled over, tears streaming, her voice breaking in hysterical laughter.
“And now…” said one of her companions, raising his arms toward the crowd, “who will be next to punish the witch?”
A young man in a linen shirt, his face red from wine, came forward laughing. "I'll take care of it!" He set the beer on the ground and, without hesitation, knelt beside the woman. His calloused fingers placed on Martina's heels and began to drum loudly, fast as war drums.
"AHHHhhahahaha! Enough! Enough, please!" she shouted, bending over until the log creaked.
The crowd applauded, cheering him on: "Yes! Tap your heels! Bravo!"
Someone laughed: "God, it stinks! You can smell it even from here!"
"Ah, that's brilliant!" said another. "They even made the feet stink to make it more realistic!"
Martina felt herself dying inside. "No! It's not make-believe! It's not a show!" she begged, between sobs and convulsive laughter.
But the more she struggled, the more her hands alternated: the woman tormenting her toes, the man tapping her heels in a frantic rhythm. Her body was a tightrope, shaken relentlessly.
"Good, good," said the other tormentor in a theatrical tone, "now let's make room for other spectators, gentlemen. Don't be shy: the witch is here for you!"
An elderly lady, bent but with lively eyes, stepped forward, laughing like a child. "Let's see if she can take this." She calmly bent down and, with two slender fingers, began to slowly scratch the arches of her feet. Each touch felt like a blade.
"HAHAHAHHhh! I can't take it anymore! Stop! Stop me!" Martina screamed, her voice breaking, and the crowd laughed even louder.
"Oh my God, how real she looks!"
"They should take her to the theater!"
"No, no, better here! It's more fun this way!"
The next turn was for two little boys, perhaps brothers, urged on by their laughing parents. They knelt down timidly, then plucked up courage and began moving their fingers on the soles of their feet as if they were pianos. Martina almost went crazy.
"Ahhhh! Noooo, kids! Noooo, please! Stop! It's not a game!"
"Mommy, mommy!" cried the youngest, laughing. "It looks like she's really crying!"
"Of course, darling, she's great!" replied the mother.
The crowd applauded, laughed, and made comments. A man behind shouted, "Give her some air, I want to try it too!"
And then another stepped forward, a young man with a medieval hood pulled down over his eyes. He bent down at Martina's feet, took a deep breath, and laughed: "My goodness, this sucks! They did a perfect job!" Then he began pinching the creases between her toes with two fingers.
Martina burst into screams and shrill laughter again, pulling her legs until they shook in the block. "ENOUGH! ENOUGH, PLEASE!"
"Bravissimo, bravissimo!" shouted one of her fellow revelers, passing a hat through the crowd. "An offering to punish the witch! More coins, more laughter!"
The hands alternated ceaselessly. Each new spectator brought a different approach:
some caressed her soles like feathers,
some scratched them furiously,
some laughed at the stench, holding their noses,
some commented aloud: "God, it seems real!"
Martina was voiceless, tears streaming down her face, her breath ragged between sobs and laughter. Each plea was a futile cry that echoed through the party like part of the spectacle.
And the two "snack buddies" laughed, collected offerings, cheered. They were masters of the game, and the crowd was their instrument.
The crowd was already dispersing a bit, after a long series of curious hands and laughter. Martina was bent forward, exhausted, her hair wet with sweat and plastered to her cheeks. Her chest heaved, panting, and her feet remained motionless in the block, damp and red from the many toes that had tormented them.
It was then that a deep voice rose above the hubbub.
"Allow me?"
A burly man with a trim gray beard and a leather vest that made him look like a medieval innkeeper stepped forward. In his hand, he held two leashes: two large, short-haired dogs, tongues lolling, and bright eyes. The crowd parted, curious, to let him pass.
"What's he up to?" someone murmured.
"Look, he's bringing the dogs! Hahaha, unbelievable!"
Martina jerked her head up, her eyes welling with tears. "No! No, please! What are you doing? Don't let him come any closer!"
The man smiled, his expression the expression of a pleased lord. "I wanted to propose a little... experiment." "I've got some cream ice cream here with me," he said, showing a small glass he held in his other hand. "If we spread it on the witch's feet, my friends here will be delighted to... clean her up."
A roar of laughter and applause erupted from the crowd.
"Brilliant!"
"Fantastic, yes!"
"Do it! Do it!"
Martina struggled furiously, her arms pulling against the wood, her wrists becoming red. "NO! Please! Don't you dare! Don't you dare!"
One of the fellows at the table gave a dramatic bow. "Ladies, your idea is magnificent. Please, the stage is yours!"
The other chuckled: "Let's see if our witch can handle this too!"
The man bent over Martina, opened the glass, and dipped two fingers into the creamy, white ice cream. She began to scream in desperation. "No! Don't do it! I beg you, don't do it!"
But her words were swallowed up by the laughter of the audience. With meticulous calm, the man spread the fresh ice cream on the soles of her feet. A cold shiver ran through her body. She jumped, shivered, kicked in vain.
"Ahhh! God, it's cold! Nooo! Take it off! Take it off!"
The ice cream dripped between her toes, leaving white trails that glistened in the torchlight. Meanwhile, the dogs had already begun panting, tugging on their leashes, their tongues hanging out.
"Go on, boys," the man said with a satisfied smile.
The two beasts pounced immediately, their warm tongues sliding over the cream-soaked soles of her feet. Martina screamed, a scream that quickly turned into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "AAAAHHhhahaha! NOOO! PLEASE! STOP THEM!"
Their tongues were rough, relentless, licking every inch of her: her heel, her arch, the spaces between her toes, sucking the ice cream but continuing to go over and over, as if it were never enough.
"AHAHAHAHHHhh! NOOO! I CAN'T DO IT! HELP!"
The audience exploded with joy.
"This is crazy!"
"Look at her, she looks real!"
"What an incredible actress! Brilliant!"
Martina leaned forward, her hair tossed, her face contorted between tears and the most ferocious laughter. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixed with sweat. Each lick was a shock, a different torment: heat and tickle at the same time, one tongue slipping between her fingers, the other sliding along the entire arch.
"AHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! ENOUGH, I BEGIVE YOU!"
The man laughed, holding the leashes tight, letting the two dogs work tirelessly.
"There you go, the witch licked to the core!"
The crowd clapped, cheered, and shouted. Some threw coins into the basket, others asked for a turn. Their companions scooped it all up with triumphant smiles.
And Martina, stuck in the pillory, discovered there was no end to the ridicule, the humiliation, the pain disguised as a celebration.
The first tongue thrust was a hot, harsh flash that traveled across the entire sole of her right foot. Martina screamed, the cry immediately breaking into violent, uncontrollable laughter. Her legs shook the block, her arms bent until they hurt, but she couldn't move.
The other dog immediately threw itself on the other foot, its tongue digging between her ice cream-stained toes, rising, falling, coming back. Two simultaneous fires. Two alternating tortures.
"AHAHAHAHAHhh! NOOO! NOOO! STOP THEM! PLEASE!" she screamed, leaning forward, her voice cracking, her eyes wide. The tears flowed steadily, her face purple.
The rough tongues never stopped: they slid up and down, scooping up the ice cream, and then returned, as if the salty smell of her skin were an irresistible lure. One licked with slow, broad strokes, from her big toe to her heel. The other precisely dipped between her toes, digging, licking deeply, driving her mad.
"Look at her! Look at her!" shouted one of her companions, pointing to the girl bent over in the pillory. "She can't stop laughing! She's the most sensitive witch you've ever seen!"
The audience applauded, shouted, laughed.
"Incredible!"
"My God, she really looks like she's in pain!"
"Bravissima!"
"I'm not acting!" shouted Martina, with the little breath she had left. "I SWEAR I'M NOT ACTING!"
The words were swallowed by a roar of laughter. A man doubled over, slapping his knees. "What a genius! What an act! He never breaks character!"
The dogs continued, relentlessly, breathlessly. Their tongues scraped the arches of her feet, slid under her toes, and ran over her heels over and over again. Martina screamed and laughed at the same time, an inhuman sound that mingled with the drums of the fair.
"AHAHAHAHA! ENOUGH! I CAN'T DO IT! I'M GOING CRAZY!"
The spectators' hands were waving, many demanding a turn:
"Let me try after the dogs!"
"I want one too!"
"Tickle her while they lick her!"
The shorter snack companion held up his basket, filled with jingling coins. "Come on, come on, gentlemen! Offer, and the witch will be yours!"
The man with the dogs laughed with satisfaction, keeping their leashes tight. "Good boys... good... don't leave anything behind." And the two animals obeyed, diligently, passing over and over again, until their soles were shiny, wet, completely red.
Martina could no longer distinguish where the cold cream ended and the heat of the tongues began. She felt only the torment, constant, cruel. Her body trembled, the spasms shook her relentlessly, and she was increasingly short of breath.
"HAHAHAHAHHhh! I CAN'T RESIST ANYMORE!"
And the crowd laughed again, convinced they were witnessing the most realistic performance they had ever seen.
The dogs' tongues were tireless. One, rough and fast, ran continuously along the arch of her left foot, from heel to toes, digging into the spaces and sucking away every sticky residue. The other rose slowly and heavily along the right sole, leaving warm trails that immediately began again, back and forth, like waves.
Martina screamed, laughed, cried, a jumble of sounds that blended together. "AHHHhhahahahh! ENOUGH! PLEASE! I CAN'T! AHAHAHH!" Her throat burned, her voice came out broken, hoarse. She pulled her wrists against the wood until they scratched, she pushed her knees, but the log held her still.
The crowd went wild.
"Look at her! She's losing her breath!"
"God, how real!"
"A phenomenal actress!"
And as she screamed, "I SWEAR, IT'S NOT AN ACTING! IT'S ALL TRUE!", laughter drowned out every word. One woman laughed until she cried: "What a genius who cast her! She seems real because she never stops!"
The dogs, excited by the sweet taste and warmth of her skin, gave no respite. One tongue insistently penetrated deep between two toes, while the other rose in rapid strokes to the instep. Martina bent forward, her face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her mouth wide open in a scream that broke into a gasp.
Her body trembled, convulsed by uncontrollable spasms. Every muscle tense, every fiber ready to give way. Her laughter became a strangled sob, her breathing shallow and ragged.
"Look!" shouted one of her companions, gesturing broadly to the scene. "The witch can't take it anymore! She's collapsing! Punish, punish!"
"Punish!" the crowd shouted in unison, clapping their hands and throwing coins into the basket.
Martina let out another desperate scream, a final shake of her body, then her head fell forward, heavy, her hair covering her face. She remained still, only her chest heaving softly, dragging air as if drowning.
The dogs were still licking, tirelessly. The bearded man finally stopped them, tugging on their leashes. "Enough, boys, they've done their job." He rewarded them with a satisfied caress.
Martina was bent over, lifeless, her throat barely emitting a breath. The crowd applauded as if after a performance. "Bravo!"
"What an actress! Oscar-worthy!"
"God, it almost sounded like she was actually dying!"
The din covered everything, a wall of sound: laughter, drums, voices, applause.
Cut
In a dimly lit room, the din of the fair was muffled, distant, along with Martina's distorted screams. They came from a monitor on a table: the flickering frame showed the pillory, the girl's bare feet still wet from ice cream, the laughing crowd.
In front of the screen, tied to a chair with ropes that tightened around his wrists, was Luca. His face pale, his eyes wide, forced to watch. Every breath he took was short, labored, as he stared helplessly at the scene.
A sob escaped his lips. "Martina..." he whispered. He pulled against the ropes, but they were too tight. He couldn't look away. He couldn't do anything.
And on the screen, his girlfriend continued to tremble in the pillory, surrounded by applause.
