Featherdemon
3rd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Jun 17, 2003
- Messages
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Hello,
Welcome to the second part of my ongoing tribute to the great and the wonderful LBH! 🙂
This part sees the mysterious captive get a most Bogey-esque welcome and some teases that I hope will delight the reader.
The First Part can be found here:
http://www.tickletheater.com/showthread.php?t=66393
This tale takes place within the pre-established geography of the Low Roads, therefore all references of such locations are Copyrighted to LBH as its creator. All names and places and locations are also copyrighted to LBH unless stated other wise.
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The prisoner sat in the chair with her arms tied at her sides and her wrists roped together in her lap. Her bare feet were stretched out before her and rested in a sturdy pair of stocks. A blind fold hid her eyes and kept her in darkness, but the twitch of her ears and nose gave her all the information she needed about her surroundings. Her tail rose to swish mindfully behind her.
The prisoner could smell the wooden floor boards; a strong earthy scent mixed with the chemical touch of polish. She could smell the colder damp of the stone walls along with the mould that gathered on them. She could hear birds and insects and other things beyond the stone walls; they were coming from above her – she was underground.
“Damn it,” she sighed, “captured again.”
The prisoner let out a little sigh. This wasn’t the first time she had been captured or tied up. It also wouldn’t be the last time either – the Prisoner’s current life path often led her to all sorts of mischief, which often led to her being manacled or tied or even, as in this case, put firmly in stocks. Being captured was something of a regular occurrence for her of late; annoyingly, she realised, she was getting all the getting better at falling victim to it.
Still, this time was different than many of the previous instances she’d been captured. It was different for one very singular and important reason; this time the Prisoner had no recollection of who brought her here.
“Hello?” she called.
No answer.
“Anyone out there?” she called.
Again there was no answer.
The prisoner tested the bonds holding her. They were solid enough, but not so solid as to rob her of hope of escape if it became necessary. If it were not for the stocks, strong and well made, she could quite easily stand and wriggle free of the ropes in a heart beat. If she were truly worried, the Prisoner was pretty sure that she was strong enough to break free. Yet she pushed such ideas from her mind, for such bold tactics were not her only means of escape if it became necessary.
She had the option of escaping this entire realm altogether, temporarily at least, through the use of an innate power. Yet slipping away into another realm was a risky option without knowing exactly where she was; doing so carelessly could lead to even more trouble. There was also the risk to anyone unfortunate enough to witness it. No, better to wait and see rather rush to such a hasty discourse.
Besides, this was new and she was curious to see who or what had managed to get the better of her.
“Come forth,” she called into the dark. “Forgo your shyness.”
The Prisoner knew by her shackled state what tender torment was awaiting her. The thought of it gave her a pleasant buzz. A purr rose in her throat.
“I warrant you have restrained me thus for a reason?” she called. “Surely it is your intent to tease and tickle my helpless little feet? Am I wrong? Why else would I be resting thus? Oh yes, I feel a thorough and exquisitely helpless foot tickling is in my future, if you are bold enough in your desire to take it.”
Silence was her only response.
“Come forth and let me feel your tickles,” she called. “Let me laugh for you and gain a measure of those who would treasure my soles thus!”
The prisoner giggled and wriggled her toes.
“Keep me waiting not,” she purred. “Do you not see how my toes ache for the kiss of your feathers? See how my soles crease and flex, plainly eager for the stroking of torturous nails and the brush of welcome fingers? Or maybe it is your tongues that they crave?” The prisoner shivered pleasantly. “Please, sweet captors,” she purred, “keep me waiting no more. Prrrrr…come tickle me!”
The darkness held its silence.
“Do you think me an easy prey?” she called, a little frustrated.
The prisoner heard wooden creaking from beyond the wall in front of her; someone was trying to creep down the stairs.
“You will find me a tough nut to crack, I assure,” she said, wriggling provocatively. “You have many hours of tickling ahead of you, if it is your aim to break me. Many have tried to undo me with such ticklish delights that the soul can barely imagine – and only a handful can claim to have won me over with it.” Again, the prisoner sighed sweetly. “Oh such wonders you have waiting for you, my invisible friends, if you are up to the task of getting me out of my restrained shell!”
A sound came again to her ears; whoever was on the stairs had stumbled.
“Come,” she said, “apply your ticklish ways to the most eager parts of my helpless flesh and see me buck in your bonds!”
The prisoner waited for a response that never came. She made a slightly frustrated sound, surprised that any tickle lover worth their salt could resist her words. Did she have it wrong? Was the figure on the stairs not what she thought?
Then she heard a door creak open.
“At last,” she said with relish and a purr. “My wait is over.”
“Now, Miss, you best be keeping those amorous words in your head, if you being so kind,” said a voice.
“Hello,” she said, “I was hoping my teases would stir some attention.”
“That they have, Miss,” said the voice. “And beside me there are five others upstairs who have heard you.”
The Prisoner grinned – this one was not alone, yet no one else had come.
“Perhaps you should come here and silence me,” she said, “I can be naughty with my words when I choose, though not as naughty as you wish me to be, am I right?”
The voice cleared its throat. “Quite so, Miss,” it said.
The prisoner tilted her head at the sound of the voice. “Curious,” she said, “you have a young man’s voice – that much is clear from its tone, but it is both more and less than it sounds. Such a curious contradiction of notions; of man and something that is not man – like there is something else speaking your voice.”
“You are shrewd, Miss,” said the voice. “Those ears, so cutely visible through your fine hair are keen beyond my first imagining.”
“Oh you have no idea,” said the prisoner. “Pray tell, stranger, what manner of being are thee?”
There was a moment of silence. “For now all I am is your keeper, Miss,” said the voice.
“Surely you are more than that,” she said. “No mere man could have rendered me thus, so expertly bound and helpless, not without my permission at any rate. If you know who I am then you will know I am no easy catch.”
Again the voice cleared it self. “I know of you,” it said. “And I know rightly you are a fearsome catch for any of us.”
“Then tell me who are you?”
“You are right, Miss,” the voice said. “I am much more than a simple man. I am now, proud and eager, a fully fledged member of the Bogey brotherhood.” The voice paused, to give the words gravity. “You will be wise to learn that name and fear what it comes to mean, lest you have it in your heart to love those wonderful touches that render us Bogeys so enrapt.”
The Prisoner smiled. The name Bogey was well known to her, as were their practices. She felt a shiver of expectant delight pass down her spine. Yet the voice of this Bogey did not carry in his heart the pride he spoke of. It stirred an interest in the prisoner – something niggled at the back of her thoughts.
“Does my sweet Bogey captor have a name?” she asked.
“Spooner,” said the voice.
“Hello, Spooner,” said the Prisoner. “And what are the names of your fellows? I assume they will be joining us soon enough. It would be rude for me not to know them as well.”
Spooner scoffed. “Hello to you, Miss, lest my manners fail me,” he said. “As for the others, they will remain anonymous for the time being but you will meet them all in due course. Better if it is only Spooner who keeps you company, till things are resolved.”
The prisoner smiled. “Better to keep them away from me, eh?” she said, purring. “Oh, Spooner, I sense you have great hunger for me, don’t you?”
The Prisoner heard Spooner gulp. “You would not be wrong there, Miss,” he said. “Point of fact, there be no Bogey in all the Low Roads who would not lose their soul a second time to have your sweet senses at their disposal.”
The Prisoner made a purring sound. Low Roads – that was a name she’d heard legends of well enough. At least now she knew where she was.
“Mm,” purred the prisoner. “Tabor’s finest and silkiest of secrets; Bogeys. I can think of no better company for my ticklish senses”
“My kin are well known for our vice, Miss,” said the voice. “No secret are we.”
The Prisoner wriggled coyly in her bonds. “So, all Bogeys dream of having me helpless do they?” she asked.
“Indeed they do, Miss,” said Spooner.
“Helpless…like you have me, right now?” she said with a tease in her voice. “You have me helpless, don’t you sweet Spooner, hmm?”
“I reckon as much,” said Spooner, “though it was one heck of a fight.”
“Oh dear,” said the Prisoner, “I hope I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“We Bogeys are tough,” said Spooner thinly, “though you made a fight of it.”
“And none as tough as you, eh?” said the Prisoner.
Spooner paused. “Me?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said the Prisoner, “you. Have you not done what all those other Bogeys, helpless themselves with envy once word of your deeds get out, could not do?”
The door closed and the prisoner heard booted feet approach.
“That I have Miss,” he said, closer now. There was a need in his voice that she knew well.
“Yes, you have rendered this sweet morsel quite helpless,” she said. “Few others have caught me like you have, Spooner.”
The Prisoner heard a chair being scraped across a wood floor felt someone sit.
“Was not I who caught you, Miss,” said Spooner.
The Prisoner frowned. “Really?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Found you here we did. Would have missed you entirely were it not for your sweet scent.”
The Prisoner smiled. “It is quite a strong scent, is it not?”
“Found and bound you we did,” said Spooner, “and you will be keen to know that each of us were eager to have taste of you, if you understand me.”
“Oh I do,” she said. “I understand with sweet clarity, Spooner. I wonder how one such as you has not been allowed to enjoy me, as fine a bounty as I am.”
“Hard fists and stern words,” Spooner said with no shortage of unhappiness, “and in that order; fists and words keep us loyal to our vow Miss. You are not to be touched till the one who leads us returns,” said Spooner.
“Poor Spooner,” cooed the Prisoner. “This must be such an awful test of your willpower; to have me and in such a helpless state and not be allowed to ply your wicked Bogey talents.”
“You know not half of it Miss,” said Spooner. “You do not know the call of the Bogey, how it haunts your every thought and second. It fills each moment and wraps about each though. Being here now, alone with you, is almost intolerable for me.”
The Prisoner twitched provocatively, teasing and inviting to him.
“And will you waste this chance?” she asked, a coy tease in purred words. “My soft, helpless feet are all trapped before you. Will you not spare them even a flick from a feather or the rub of a brush? Ooh, I bet you are such a masterful tickler, are you not Spooner?”
The Prisoner heard Spooner’s breathing quicken. “You mock me, Miss,” he said, “and that be very foolish.”
“Oh no, sweet and masterful Spooner,” she said. “Not mock, never mock you!”
“Then why say such things?” he asked. “Why give call to my heart like a Siren to a ship?”
The Prisoner smiled. “Because I know of the need you speak of,” she said. “It is in me as much as it is in you.”
“How is that so?” said Spooner. “Are you a Voluptuary?”
The Prisoner smiled. “Something very similar,” she said. “Come on, sweet Spooner, let my feet feel your skill – see how they are all set before you?”
Spooner coughed to clear his throat.
The Prisoner let out a sweet sound – a groan of anticipation. “Ooh,” she said, “I can almost feel it now; my feet propped like hard won trophies in your lap and me sitting all willing and receptive to the wonderful intoxication of your skill. Mm. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, sweet Spooner?”
Spooner gulped. “Y-you would sit willing for me while I gave your sweet flesh my gift?”
The Prisoner nodded. “You have my word,” she said. “And what is sweeter than a willing captive, mm? How about a captive who not only understands the depths of your hunger, skilled Spooner, but a captive who shares it in equal lust?”
Spooner gulped again.
“One who revels in it?” teased the Prisoner. “Imagine me, sweet and gentle Spooner, laughing lovely cries of torment under your dancing limbs, is that not worth a hard first and stern word?”
“If this be a trick, you will suffer torments unimaginable on your most delicate of flesh, Miss,” Spooner said.
“No trick,” she said. “And if my words do prove to be trickery, what chance would I have at getting the best of you sweet Spooner?”
Spooner hesitated for a moment. “You have strength enough to best me if it is in your mind, Miss,” he said. “You have all ready shown that much, but…your words excite me more than the fear of any punishment that awaits me.”
“I promise I will not lay a single finger on you,” said the Prisoner, “unless you beg me to, of course.”
The Prisoner heard the wooden latches of her locks and the top of the stock lift clear. She sat still, a helpless grin of excitement on her face as Spooner freed her arms. She felt cool hands, gentle but with far too many fingers to be human, lift her feet clear and place them on a pair of knees. The Prisoner giggled and wiggled her toes teasingly, holding the seat of the stool with her hands.
“Long have I waited for this,” said Spooner.
“My feet are all yours,” said the Prisoner. “Though, would you permit me to watch you while you work your magic?”
“A reasonable request,” said Spooner.
The blind fold was pulled quickly from the Prisoner’s eyes and for a moment the world around her was blur of dim shadow. Quickly enough the world settled and she for the first time her captor and her surroundings. She was indeed in a stone cellar, braced with wooden beams. There were barrels Stone stairs rose up the wall directly in front of her to a closed wooden door; there was no other way out.
It was Spooner that caught her attention, however. Her captor, for the most part, had the body of a young man, barely out of his twenties. His bare torso and wool wrapped legs looked human, but his arms were little more than lengths of silver and iron braced with all manner of tools and
implements. She saw that his hands, gloved and multi-fingered, hovered spider like above her feet. Spooner’s face was that of a once pretty young lad with metal tools for ears and a nose.
The Prisoner felt a sudden pang of pity for him. “Sweet Spooner,” she said and flashed him a smile. “It is good to know my torment will be delivered by a cute—“
Spooner stiffened and cut her off. “There is nothing cute about me, Miss,” he said with an edged voice.
“Of course,” said the Prisoner after a moment’s pause; that word ‘cute’ had caused him such distress that for a moment his voice was unrecognisable. It bothered her. “Forgive me Spooner, I meant no offence by my words – only as a compliment to the one who will soon give me such sweet boons.”
“No harm done Miss,” said Spooner. “You were not to know. Just know that I am no soft dullard labourer now.”
The Prisoner’s smile softened. “Indeed,” she said. ”Though I doubt you were ever a dullard or soft. I’m sure you’ve heard such compliments as ‘cute’ before on many occasions, am I right Spooner?”
A flicker of emotion wrinkled Spooner’s brow – a reaction to a bitter sweet memory. “Once, but that was a life time ago” he said. “Or so it feels to me.”
“You are new to this Bogey life then?” she asked.
“New enough,” said Spooner.
“And it was not a choice?”
“I had no choice to be anything else,” said Spooner, “but at the time of asking I wanted nothing more than this life.”
“So you are happy?” she asked.
Spooner shot her a dark look. “Different,” he said. “I am beyond happiness, Miss Mew. I have had immortality thrust on me through the most infernal of touches; a feel so alien and irresistible it transforms even the space where my soul used to be. I am eternal hunger personified, stripped of my flimsy soul by a walking God and given a form that will best suite the fulfilment of my need.” Spooner looked away from her. “Nothing soft or tender remains of this bogey.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. For a moment the two figures remained still, one lost in the contemplation of some dark feeling and the other lost in her observation of the former.
“I think I understand,” said the Prisoner softly, partly to him but mainly to her own thoughts. Smiling, she leaned forward carefully and reaching up with one of her hands, she turned Spooner’s head so that he could look at her. “I hope, though, you still have it in you tickle me Mr Spooner.”
Spooner smiled. “Oh I do Miss Mew,” he said.
“Good,” she said, “my skin is crawling for your touch.”
Spooner let his hands drop with the delicacy of snow flakes on the tops of her feet. They were perfectly shaped and immaculately kept, the perfect gift for any Bogey with ticklish delights on his mind. The multitude of Spooner’s fingers slid down the softness of the Prisoner’s feet, all the way to her ankles where his fingers pressed a little deeper.
“Mm,” cooed the Prisoner. “I can feel ha ha ha ha the first butterfly kisses of helpless ticklishness in my belly Mr Spooner. Eee hee hee hee…your touch, masterful for one so young, summons giggles to my mouth with a stunning ease. Careful, hee hee hee ha ha ha ha now!”
Spooner grinned, relishing her every little giggle and noise. “Oh no,” he said. “Careful is the wrong word, Miss. This is but the prelude to what awaits you – of what I am capable of.”
Spooner’s fingers rose to wriggle with a devilish skill over her toes and under them, digging and wriggling all at their own speed.
“Hee hee hee!” purred the Prisoner, keeping her feet in his lap despite the wonderful fire that his fingers wrought. “My, how quick you have found my toes, Mr Spooner! Ah ha ha ha ha aaee heee heeeooo ha ha! See how they dance at your touch!”
Spooner did see and the sight of such wonderful movements thrilled him. It was like a hypnotic dance to him, so see such sweet ticklish treats wriggle like they did. To behold such a treat was boon for any Bogey.
“You are a very rare treat,” said Spooner. “One I will not soon forget! Every bit of you moves perfectly to my touch, as if they had rehearsed it.”
“I am no stranger to the ticklish treats, Mr Spooner,” said the Prisoner, laughing softly and helplessly. “Oh, do please tickle me more! Please!”
The Prisoner’s words, mewled between giggles and enchanted ripples of laughter, only added to the fire of his Bogey desire. The sound of her laughter brought the brunt of his hunger to bare, a raw and insatiable need, one that honed his touch instinctively to find her nerves.
Spooner wriggled his fingers faster and faster, blurring them from her toes to the soles of her feet. He found her soles to be as soft and as delectable as any possible imagining could have been.
“Oh yes, Mr Spooner! My soles, my wonderful sweet soles! Hee hee hee ha ha ha ha ha eeeehee ha ha ha hah ha ha ha ha!”
“Oh yes they are very much the doors to your soul,” said Spooner, “are they not? Do they not carry my fingers to your heart?”
Awash with sweet laughter, the Prisoner nodded.
Spooner let his fingers tickle and tease, stroke and scrape, as if they were possessed of a mind all of their own. He knew without thinking where to stroke, how much pressure was required to properly stimulate the right amount of maddening ticklishness. Twice all ready the rhythm of his many fingers had broken the will of two women but this Miss Mew, she was something else. It would take many hours to get the full tickling out of her.
A shiver of happiness flickered up Spooner’s spine. What a treat that would be for him; to let the hours and days and even weeks slide away, lost in the wonderful ticklish break down her will. Spooner felt a sudden flash of delight at having her at his disposal. It was such a treat, a gift in fact unparallelled to such a creature as him.
Suddenly he stopped, catching himself with his own thought.
“Is there something wrong?” asked the Prisoner, catching her breath.
“You,” he said, “you are…not what you seem.”
The Prisoner leaned forward, the tender and maddening tickling on her feet still giving her giggles and shivers. “How so?” she asked.
“Normally it is we Bogey’s who entice and enrapt the minds of those who feel our touch,” he said, working through his realisation as it came to him. “We know instinctively how and where to tickle, to get the most out of our meal. It is our gift – what makes us so legendary.”
“Oh, my toes can testify to that, sweet Spooner,” she said.
“But I wasn’t captivating you,” he said. “You were captivating me; you were drawing me under a spell. The sweetness of your laughter, so careful to keep it soft and thrilling; the perfect wriggle and creases of your toes, the mind burning glee of having you unfettered and so willing to have your flesh teased. You were doing on purpose. All of these…”
The Prisoner was smiling at him now, a gesture on her face that had more sincere feeling that mere ticklish aftermath. “Go on,” she said.
“They were all done….for me?” said Spooner, not able to grasp it.
The Prisoner kept her feet in his lap and nodded once. “You have a maddeningly sweet tickle, Mr Spooner,” she said. “The look on your face as you tickled me was almost as addictive as your touch itself.”
Spooner grinned.
“Normally,” said the Prisoner, “after being given such a sweet tickling, I would give my blessed tickler a sweet kiss for their skill. But you are a Bogey and above such things as my happiness, are you not?”
Spooner frowned.
“I fear such a tender deed would be wasted on a Bogey with no softness; no tenderness,” said the Prisoner with an intentional disappointed sight. “Am I right to think that, Mr Spooner?”
An indescribable look passed over Spooner’s face; dark and alien but mixed with something raw powerful and irrevocably human.
The Prisoner saw it and her smile widened. “I think I will risk wasting a kiss on you,” she said gently and placed a delicate kiss on Spooner’s very human cheek. “Thank you, Mr Spooner.”
For a single moment Spooner smiled at the gesture, so sweet as to stir deep hidden memory. But then, of a sudden, he recoiled at her touch, feeling something pass through him like a warm breeze under his skin. “You are not Miss Mercy Mew,” he said, a little in horror and a little in wonder.
“No,” said the Prisoner, “I am not.”
“Then who, or what, are you?”
At that very moment the door to the cellar crashed open. Light from the hallway beyond flooded in and cast into stark relief the massive, foreboding silhouette of Kristov, who stood in the doorway.
“An excellent question,” said Kristov, his voice filling the room and stealing away the pleasantness that was growing. “A question I will have answered in the fullest possible manner.”
Spooner hurried away from the Prisoner who let her feet fall to the floor. She sat on the stool, looking up and smiling at the new figure.
“Mr Kristov!” said Spooner, fearfully kneeling before the giant Bogey. “I apologise for my indiscretion! I…lost control; my hunger got the better of me sir! Her words, so sweet, so clever – she undid me! I beg forgiveness!”
“Come now, swewet Spooner,” said the Prisoner. “There is nothing to forgive here. All that has been done is that I have been tickled to a wonderful level of madness; an act which I assume you, Mr Kristov, will soon be looking to emulate.”
Kristov ignored Spooner. “I will do more than emulate his deeds,” he said. “I will break you with touches so devilish and tender that you will be singing to answer all I could ever wish to know.”
The Prisoner smiled.
“And if that fails,” said Kristov with a cruel menace. “You will see the darker edges of my hunger and will tell me all to stay my temper.”
Spooner shivered.
“So,” said Kristov, “let us start off with the obvious question. You are clearly not Miss Mercy Mew, thus I have been brought here under false pretense, it seems."
Kristov's companion, Mr Fitch, cowered.
"Still," said Kristov, "you may provide some sport. Tell me. Who are you?”
The Prisoner smiled. “My name is Gedan,” she said.
"I do not know that name," said Kristov.
"In time you will," said Gedan. "And I hope it will be one you remember with a smile and flutter of happiness."
"Pah!" said Kristov. "My skill speaks for itself and I need no be worried about happines.
"Gentle Spooner said that," said Gedan. “In him it made me sad, in you...well, we will see. And it will take more than your hard words and threats to make me sing for you, Mr Kristov. You will find Mr Spooner’s approach far more beneficial in opening me up. His manners and skills are much sweeter to my heart that yours.”
“Time will tell,” said Kristov, "who has the better approach."
Gedan put her feet back in the open stocks and waited. “Come then,” she said. “I offer you my entire body on which you can demonstrate your touch. Let me see if you are equal to your promises.”
Kristov grinned. “Mr Fitch,” he said. “Bring the others in here; by the LittleBigHead itself, we will have all there is to know about this Gedan before the end!”
Welcome to the second part of my ongoing tribute to the great and the wonderful LBH! 🙂
This part sees the mysterious captive get a most Bogey-esque welcome and some teases that I hope will delight the reader.
The First Part can be found here:
http://www.tickletheater.com/showthread.php?t=66393
This tale takes place within the pre-established geography of the Low Roads, therefore all references of such locations are Copyrighted to LBH as its creator. All names and places and locations are also copyrighted to LBH unless stated other wise.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The prisoner sat in the chair with her arms tied at her sides and her wrists roped together in her lap. Her bare feet were stretched out before her and rested in a sturdy pair of stocks. A blind fold hid her eyes and kept her in darkness, but the twitch of her ears and nose gave her all the information she needed about her surroundings. Her tail rose to swish mindfully behind her.
The prisoner could smell the wooden floor boards; a strong earthy scent mixed with the chemical touch of polish. She could smell the colder damp of the stone walls along with the mould that gathered on them. She could hear birds and insects and other things beyond the stone walls; they were coming from above her – she was underground.
“Damn it,” she sighed, “captured again.”
The prisoner let out a little sigh. This wasn’t the first time she had been captured or tied up. It also wouldn’t be the last time either – the Prisoner’s current life path often led her to all sorts of mischief, which often led to her being manacled or tied or even, as in this case, put firmly in stocks. Being captured was something of a regular occurrence for her of late; annoyingly, she realised, she was getting all the getting better at falling victim to it.
Still, this time was different than many of the previous instances she’d been captured. It was different for one very singular and important reason; this time the Prisoner had no recollection of who brought her here.
“Hello?” she called.
No answer.
“Anyone out there?” she called.
Again there was no answer.
The prisoner tested the bonds holding her. They were solid enough, but not so solid as to rob her of hope of escape if it became necessary. If it were not for the stocks, strong and well made, she could quite easily stand and wriggle free of the ropes in a heart beat. If she were truly worried, the Prisoner was pretty sure that she was strong enough to break free. Yet she pushed such ideas from her mind, for such bold tactics were not her only means of escape if it became necessary.
She had the option of escaping this entire realm altogether, temporarily at least, through the use of an innate power. Yet slipping away into another realm was a risky option without knowing exactly where she was; doing so carelessly could lead to even more trouble. There was also the risk to anyone unfortunate enough to witness it. No, better to wait and see rather rush to such a hasty discourse.
Besides, this was new and she was curious to see who or what had managed to get the better of her.
“Come forth,” she called into the dark. “Forgo your shyness.”
The Prisoner knew by her shackled state what tender torment was awaiting her. The thought of it gave her a pleasant buzz. A purr rose in her throat.
“I warrant you have restrained me thus for a reason?” she called. “Surely it is your intent to tease and tickle my helpless little feet? Am I wrong? Why else would I be resting thus? Oh yes, I feel a thorough and exquisitely helpless foot tickling is in my future, if you are bold enough in your desire to take it.”
Silence was her only response.
“Come forth and let me feel your tickles,” she called. “Let me laugh for you and gain a measure of those who would treasure my soles thus!”
The prisoner giggled and wriggled her toes.
“Keep me waiting not,” she purred. “Do you not see how my toes ache for the kiss of your feathers? See how my soles crease and flex, plainly eager for the stroking of torturous nails and the brush of welcome fingers? Or maybe it is your tongues that they crave?” The prisoner shivered pleasantly. “Please, sweet captors,” she purred, “keep me waiting no more. Prrrrr…come tickle me!”
The darkness held its silence.
“Do you think me an easy prey?” she called, a little frustrated.
The prisoner heard wooden creaking from beyond the wall in front of her; someone was trying to creep down the stairs.
“You will find me a tough nut to crack, I assure,” she said, wriggling provocatively. “You have many hours of tickling ahead of you, if it is your aim to break me. Many have tried to undo me with such ticklish delights that the soul can barely imagine – and only a handful can claim to have won me over with it.” Again, the prisoner sighed sweetly. “Oh such wonders you have waiting for you, my invisible friends, if you are up to the task of getting me out of my restrained shell!”
A sound came again to her ears; whoever was on the stairs had stumbled.
“Come,” she said, “apply your ticklish ways to the most eager parts of my helpless flesh and see me buck in your bonds!”
The prisoner waited for a response that never came. She made a slightly frustrated sound, surprised that any tickle lover worth their salt could resist her words. Did she have it wrong? Was the figure on the stairs not what she thought?
Then she heard a door creak open.
“At last,” she said with relish and a purr. “My wait is over.”
“Now, Miss, you best be keeping those amorous words in your head, if you being so kind,” said a voice.
“Hello,” she said, “I was hoping my teases would stir some attention.”
“That they have, Miss,” said the voice. “And beside me there are five others upstairs who have heard you.”
The Prisoner grinned – this one was not alone, yet no one else had come.
“Perhaps you should come here and silence me,” she said, “I can be naughty with my words when I choose, though not as naughty as you wish me to be, am I right?”
The voice cleared its throat. “Quite so, Miss,” it said.
The prisoner tilted her head at the sound of the voice. “Curious,” she said, “you have a young man’s voice – that much is clear from its tone, but it is both more and less than it sounds. Such a curious contradiction of notions; of man and something that is not man – like there is something else speaking your voice.”
“You are shrewd, Miss,” said the voice. “Those ears, so cutely visible through your fine hair are keen beyond my first imagining.”
“Oh you have no idea,” said the prisoner. “Pray tell, stranger, what manner of being are thee?”
There was a moment of silence. “For now all I am is your keeper, Miss,” said the voice.
“Surely you are more than that,” she said. “No mere man could have rendered me thus, so expertly bound and helpless, not without my permission at any rate. If you know who I am then you will know I am no easy catch.”
Again the voice cleared it self. “I know of you,” it said. “And I know rightly you are a fearsome catch for any of us.”
“Then tell me who are you?”
“You are right, Miss,” the voice said. “I am much more than a simple man. I am now, proud and eager, a fully fledged member of the Bogey brotherhood.” The voice paused, to give the words gravity. “You will be wise to learn that name and fear what it comes to mean, lest you have it in your heart to love those wonderful touches that render us Bogeys so enrapt.”
The Prisoner smiled. The name Bogey was well known to her, as were their practices. She felt a shiver of expectant delight pass down her spine. Yet the voice of this Bogey did not carry in his heart the pride he spoke of. It stirred an interest in the prisoner – something niggled at the back of her thoughts.
“Does my sweet Bogey captor have a name?” she asked.
“Spooner,” said the voice.
“Hello, Spooner,” said the Prisoner. “And what are the names of your fellows? I assume they will be joining us soon enough. It would be rude for me not to know them as well.”
Spooner scoffed. “Hello to you, Miss, lest my manners fail me,” he said. “As for the others, they will remain anonymous for the time being but you will meet them all in due course. Better if it is only Spooner who keeps you company, till things are resolved.”
The prisoner smiled. “Better to keep them away from me, eh?” she said, purring. “Oh, Spooner, I sense you have great hunger for me, don’t you?”
The Prisoner heard Spooner gulp. “You would not be wrong there, Miss,” he said. “Point of fact, there be no Bogey in all the Low Roads who would not lose their soul a second time to have your sweet senses at their disposal.”
The Prisoner made a purring sound. Low Roads – that was a name she’d heard legends of well enough. At least now she knew where she was.
“Mm,” purred the prisoner. “Tabor’s finest and silkiest of secrets; Bogeys. I can think of no better company for my ticklish senses”
“My kin are well known for our vice, Miss,” said the voice. “No secret are we.”
The Prisoner wriggled coyly in her bonds. “So, all Bogeys dream of having me helpless do they?” she asked.
“Indeed they do, Miss,” said Spooner.
“Helpless…like you have me, right now?” she said with a tease in her voice. “You have me helpless, don’t you sweet Spooner, hmm?”
“I reckon as much,” said Spooner, “though it was one heck of a fight.”
“Oh dear,” said the Prisoner, “I hope I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“We Bogeys are tough,” said Spooner thinly, “though you made a fight of it.”
“And none as tough as you, eh?” said the Prisoner.
Spooner paused. “Me?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said the Prisoner, “you. Have you not done what all those other Bogeys, helpless themselves with envy once word of your deeds get out, could not do?”
The door closed and the prisoner heard booted feet approach.
“That I have Miss,” he said, closer now. There was a need in his voice that she knew well.
“Yes, you have rendered this sweet morsel quite helpless,” she said. “Few others have caught me like you have, Spooner.”
The Prisoner heard a chair being scraped across a wood floor felt someone sit.
“Was not I who caught you, Miss,” said Spooner.
The Prisoner frowned. “Really?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Found you here we did. Would have missed you entirely were it not for your sweet scent.”
The Prisoner smiled. “It is quite a strong scent, is it not?”
“Found and bound you we did,” said Spooner, “and you will be keen to know that each of us were eager to have taste of you, if you understand me.”
“Oh I do,” she said. “I understand with sweet clarity, Spooner. I wonder how one such as you has not been allowed to enjoy me, as fine a bounty as I am.”
“Hard fists and stern words,” Spooner said with no shortage of unhappiness, “and in that order; fists and words keep us loyal to our vow Miss. You are not to be touched till the one who leads us returns,” said Spooner.
“Poor Spooner,” cooed the Prisoner. “This must be such an awful test of your willpower; to have me and in such a helpless state and not be allowed to ply your wicked Bogey talents.”
“You know not half of it Miss,” said Spooner. “You do not know the call of the Bogey, how it haunts your every thought and second. It fills each moment and wraps about each though. Being here now, alone with you, is almost intolerable for me.”
The Prisoner twitched provocatively, teasing and inviting to him.
“And will you waste this chance?” she asked, a coy tease in purred words. “My soft, helpless feet are all trapped before you. Will you not spare them even a flick from a feather or the rub of a brush? Ooh, I bet you are such a masterful tickler, are you not Spooner?”
The Prisoner heard Spooner’s breathing quicken. “You mock me, Miss,” he said, “and that be very foolish.”
“Oh no, sweet and masterful Spooner,” she said. “Not mock, never mock you!”
“Then why say such things?” he asked. “Why give call to my heart like a Siren to a ship?”
The Prisoner smiled. “Because I know of the need you speak of,” she said. “It is in me as much as it is in you.”
“How is that so?” said Spooner. “Are you a Voluptuary?”
The Prisoner smiled. “Something very similar,” she said. “Come on, sweet Spooner, let my feet feel your skill – see how they are all set before you?”
Spooner coughed to clear his throat.
The Prisoner let out a sweet sound – a groan of anticipation. “Ooh,” she said, “I can almost feel it now; my feet propped like hard won trophies in your lap and me sitting all willing and receptive to the wonderful intoxication of your skill. Mm. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, sweet Spooner?”
Spooner gulped. “Y-you would sit willing for me while I gave your sweet flesh my gift?”
The Prisoner nodded. “You have my word,” she said. “And what is sweeter than a willing captive, mm? How about a captive who not only understands the depths of your hunger, skilled Spooner, but a captive who shares it in equal lust?”
Spooner gulped again.
“One who revels in it?” teased the Prisoner. “Imagine me, sweet and gentle Spooner, laughing lovely cries of torment under your dancing limbs, is that not worth a hard first and stern word?”
“If this be a trick, you will suffer torments unimaginable on your most delicate of flesh, Miss,” Spooner said.
“No trick,” she said. “And if my words do prove to be trickery, what chance would I have at getting the best of you sweet Spooner?”
Spooner hesitated for a moment. “You have strength enough to best me if it is in your mind, Miss,” he said. “You have all ready shown that much, but…your words excite me more than the fear of any punishment that awaits me.”
“I promise I will not lay a single finger on you,” said the Prisoner, “unless you beg me to, of course.”
The Prisoner heard the wooden latches of her locks and the top of the stock lift clear. She sat still, a helpless grin of excitement on her face as Spooner freed her arms. She felt cool hands, gentle but with far too many fingers to be human, lift her feet clear and place them on a pair of knees. The Prisoner giggled and wiggled her toes teasingly, holding the seat of the stool with her hands.
“Long have I waited for this,” said Spooner.
“My feet are all yours,” said the Prisoner. “Though, would you permit me to watch you while you work your magic?”
“A reasonable request,” said Spooner.
The blind fold was pulled quickly from the Prisoner’s eyes and for a moment the world around her was blur of dim shadow. Quickly enough the world settled and she for the first time her captor and her surroundings. She was indeed in a stone cellar, braced with wooden beams. There were barrels Stone stairs rose up the wall directly in front of her to a closed wooden door; there was no other way out.
It was Spooner that caught her attention, however. Her captor, for the most part, had the body of a young man, barely out of his twenties. His bare torso and wool wrapped legs looked human, but his arms were little more than lengths of silver and iron braced with all manner of tools and
implements. She saw that his hands, gloved and multi-fingered, hovered spider like above her feet. Spooner’s face was that of a once pretty young lad with metal tools for ears and a nose.
The Prisoner felt a sudden pang of pity for him. “Sweet Spooner,” she said and flashed him a smile. “It is good to know my torment will be delivered by a cute—“
Spooner stiffened and cut her off. “There is nothing cute about me, Miss,” he said with an edged voice.
“Of course,” said the Prisoner after a moment’s pause; that word ‘cute’ had caused him such distress that for a moment his voice was unrecognisable. It bothered her. “Forgive me Spooner, I meant no offence by my words – only as a compliment to the one who will soon give me such sweet boons.”
“No harm done Miss,” said Spooner. “You were not to know. Just know that I am no soft dullard labourer now.”
The Prisoner’s smile softened. “Indeed,” she said. ”Though I doubt you were ever a dullard or soft. I’m sure you’ve heard such compliments as ‘cute’ before on many occasions, am I right Spooner?”
A flicker of emotion wrinkled Spooner’s brow – a reaction to a bitter sweet memory. “Once, but that was a life time ago” he said. “Or so it feels to me.”
“You are new to this Bogey life then?” she asked.
“New enough,” said Spooner.
“And it was not a choice?”
“I had no choice to be anything else,” said Spooner, “but at the time of asking I wanted nothing more than this life.”
“So you are happy?” she asked.
Spooner shot her a dark look. “Different,” he said. “I am beyond happiness, Miss Mew. I have had immortality thrust on me through the most infernal of touches; a feel so alien and irresistible it transforms even the space where my soul used to be. I am eternal hunger personified, stripped of my flimsy soul by a walking God and given a form that will best suite the fulfilment of my need.” Spooner looked away from her. “Nothing soft or tender remains of this bogey.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. For a moment the two figures remained still, one lost in the contemplation of some dark feeling and the other lost in her observation of the former.
“I think I understand,” said the Prisoner softly, partly to him but mainly to her own thoughts. Smiling, she leaned forward carefully and reaching up with one of her hands, she turned Spooner’s head so that he could look at her. “I hope, though, you still have it in you tickle me Mr Spooner.”
Spooner smiled. “Oh I do Miss Mew,” he said.
“Good,” she said, “my skin is crawling for your touch.”
Spooner let his hands drop with the delicacy of snow flakes on the tops of her feet. They were perfectly shaped and immaculately kept, the perfect gift for any Bogey with ticklish delights on his mind. The multitude of Spooner’s fingers slid down the softness of the Prisoner’s feet, all the way to her ankles where his fingers pressed a little deeper.
“Mm,” cooed the Prisoner. “I can feel ha ha ha ha the first butterfly kisses of helpless ticklishness in my belly Mr Spooner. Eee hee hee hee…your touch, masterful for one so young, summons giggles to my mouth with a stunning ease. Careful, hee hee hee ha ha ha ha now!”
Spooner grinned, relishing her every little giggle and noise. “Oh no,” he said. “Careful is the wrong word, Miss. This is but the prelude to what awaits you – of what I am capable of.”
Spooner’s fingers rose to wriggle with a devilish skill over her toes and under them, digging and wriggling all at their own speed.
“Hee hee hee!” purred the Prisoner, keeping her feet in his lap despite the wonderful fire that his fingers wrought. “My, how quick you have found my toes, Mr Spooner! Ah ha ha ha ha aaee heee heeeooo ha ha! See how they dance at your touch!”
Spooner did see and the sight of such wonderful movements thrilled him. It was like a hypnotic dance to him, so see such sweet ticklish treats wriggle like they did. To behold such a treat was boon for any Bogey.
“You are a very rare treat,” said Spooner. “One I will not soon forget! Every bit of you moves perfectly to my touch, as if they had rehearsed it.”
“I am no stranger to the ticklish treats, Mr Spooner,” said the Prisoner, laughing softly and helplessly. “Oh, do please tickle me more! Please!”
The Prisoner’s words, mewled between giggles and enchanted ripples of laughter, only added to the fire of his Bogey desire. The sound of her laughter brought the brunt of his hunger to bare, a raw and insatiable need, one that honed his touch instinctively to find her nerves.
Spooner wriggled his fingers faster and faster, blurring them from her toes to the soles of her feet. He found her soles to be as soft and as delectable as any possible imagining could have been.
“Oh yes, Mr Spooner! My soles, my wonderful sweet soles! Hee hee hee ha ha ha ha ha eeeehee ha ha ha hah ha ha ha ha!”
“Oh yes they are very much the doors to your soul,” said Spooner, “are they not? Do they not carry my fingers to your heart?”
Awash with sweet laughter, the Prisoner nodded.
Spooner let his fingers tickle and tease, stroke and scrape, as if they were possessed of a mind all of their own. He knew without thinking where to stroke, how much pressure was required to properly stimulate the right amount of maddening ticklishness. Twice all ready the rhythm of his many fingers had broken the will of two women but this Miss Mew, she was something else. It would take many hours to get the full tickling out of her.
A shiver of happiness flickered up Spooner’s spine. What a treat that would be for him; to let the hours and days and even weeks slide away, lost in the wonderful ticklish break down her will. Spooner felt a sudden flash of delight at having her at his disposal. It was such a treat, a gift in fact unparallelled to such a creature as him.
Suddenly he stopped, catching himself with his own thought.
“Is there something wrong?” asked the Prisoner, catching her breath.
“You,” he said, “you are…not what you seem.”
The Prisoner leaned forward, the tender and maddening tickling on her feet still giving her giggles and shivers. “How so?” she asked.
“Normally it is we Bogey’s who entice and enrapt the minds of those who feel our touch,” he said, working through his realisation as it came to him. “We know instinctively how and where to tickle, to get the most out of our meal. It is our gift – what makes us so legendary.”
“Oh, my toes can testify to that, sweet Spooner,” she said.
“But I wasn’t captivating you,” he said. “You were captivating me; you were drawing me under a spell. The sweetness of your laughter, so careful to keep it soft and thrilling; the perfect wriggle and creases of your toes, the mind burning glee of having you unfettered and so willing to have your flesh teased. You were doing on purpose. All of these…”
The Prisoner was smiling at him now, a gesture on her face that had more sincere feeling that mere ticklish aftermath. “Go on,” she said.
“They were all done….for me?” said Spooner, not able to grasp it.
The Prisoner kept her feet in his lap and nodded once. “You have a maddeningly sweet tickle, Mr Spooner,” she said. “The look on your face as you tickled me was almost as addictive as your touch itself.”
Spooner grinned.
“Normally,” said the Prisoner, “after being given such a sweet tickling, I would give my blessed tickler a sweet kiss for their skill. But you are a Bogey and above such things as my happiness, are you not?”
Spooner frowned.
“I fear such a tender deed would be wasted on a Bogey with no softness; no tenderness,” said the Prisoner with an intentional disappointed sight. “Am I right to think that, Mr Spooner?”
An indescribable look passed over Spooner’s face; dark and alien but mixed with something raw powerful and irrevocably human.
The Prisoner saw it and her smile widened. “I think I will risk wasting a kiss on you,” she said gently and placed a delicate kiss on Spooner’s very human cheek. “Thank you, Mr Spooner.”
For a single moment Spooner smiled at the gesture, so sweet as to stir deep hidden memory. But then, of a sudden, he recoiled at her touch, feeling something pass through him like a warm breeze under his skin. “You are not Miss Mercy Mew,” he said, a little in horror and a little in wonder.
“No,” said the Prisoner, “I am not.”
“Then who, or what, are you?”
At that very moment the door to the cellar crashed open. Light from the hallway beyond flooded in and cast into stark relief the massive, foreboding silhouette of Kristov, who stood in the doorway.
“An excellent question,” said Kristov, his voice filling the room and stealing away the pleasantness that was growing. “A question I will have answered in the fullest possible manner.”
Spooner hurried away from the Prisoner who let her feet fall to the floor. She sat on the stool, looking up and smiling at the new figure.
“Mr Kristov!” said Spooner, fearfully kneeling before the giant Bogey. “I apologise for my indiscretion! I…lost control; my hunger got the better of me sir! Her words, so sweet, so clever – she undid me! I beg forgiveness!”
“Come now, swewet Spooner,” said the Prisoner. “There is nothing to forgive here. All that has been done is that I have been tickled to a wonderful level of madness; an act which I assume you, Mr Kristov, will soon be looking to emulate.”
Kristov ignored Spooner. “I will do more than emulate his deeds,” he said. “I will break you with touches so devilish and tender that you will be singing to answer all I could ever wish to know.”
The Prisoner smiled.
“And if that fails,” said Kristov with a cruel menace. “You will see the darker edges of my hunger and will tell me all to stay my temper.”
Spooner shivered.
“So,” said Kristov, “let us start off with the obvious question. You are clearly not Miss Mercy Mew, thus I have been brought here under false pretense, it seems."
Kristov's companion, Mr Fitch, cowered.
"Still," said Kristov, "you may provide some sport. Tell me. Who are you?”
The Prisoner smiled. “My name is Gedan,” she said.
"I do not know that name," said Kristov.
"In time you will," said Gedan. "And I hope it will be one you remember with a smile and flutter of happiness."
"Pah!" said Kristov. "My skill speaks for itself and I need no be worried about happines.
"Gentle Spooner said that," said Gedan. “In him it made me sad, in you...well, we will see. And it will take more than your hard words and threats to make me sing for you, Mr Kristov. You will find Mr Spooner’s approach far more beneficial in opening me up. His manners and skills are much sweeter to my heart that yours.”
“Time will tell,” said Kristov, "who has the better approach."
Gedan put her feet back in the open stocks and waited. “Come then,” she said. “I offer you my entire body on which you can demonstrate your touch. Let me see if you are equal to your promises.”
Kristov grinned. “Mr Fitch,” he said. “Bring the others in here; by the LittleBigHead itself, we will have all there is to know about this Gedan before the end!”
