TickleSlaver
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- Dec 21, 2016
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Prologue
In any other kind of story, Amelia would be the hero. Strong and noble, a woman dedicating her life to the Kingdom. Raised in barracks and nursed on only the finest creams. By the time of her womanhood, she was one of the land’s most formidable warriors. A king defender. A giant killer. A dragon slayer.What a shame it is for her to find herself in this story instead.
There was a young man her age, a squire for one of the grizzled knights, with raven black hair and a smile like no other. His laughter could raise the dead, she assumed. His name was Devon, and Amelia came to believe that he was the one true love of her life. It was easy to see that, despite the attention of many noblewomen and heiresses, he thought the same of Amelia.
And then, one day, Devon went missing.
Amelia’s heart ached. It was as if she’d eaten a swarm of bees. She thanked the servant and retreated to the barracks. She ignored the burly men and women scattered around and lay in bed. By the time her head hit the pillow, she was almost at peace.
There had been a mistake. Surely, there had to be one. Devon was many things, but an outdoorsman he was not. He was hiding somewhere to escape his Master. He was snacking in the kitchen and had yet to leave. He was playing a joke. There were so many explanations that the idea of him running away almost brought her to giggles.
A week later, missing posters began going up in local taverns and inns. Whispers spread rumors about the missing squire, and Amelia heard them every time she went outside.
A month passed. Then two months. Then three. And through it all, there was never a sign of Devon. Not even a trace. He was here one day and gone the next.
Like magic.
But Amelia was resolved. He wasn’t just a cute boy or noble squire. He was made to be her love, and she was made to be his. She promised herself every night before bed that the next day, she would do everything in her power to find Devon and bring him home.
This is where our story begins.
This is where things really go wrong.
Chapter 1
Nismos was a small town. Hours away from the castle where Amelia trained, studied, and slept. Far from the bustling markets, noisy city streets, and smell of horse poop. Nismos was a road with a series of decrepit buildings on either side, and a few houses built back in the woods.One of those old buildings was a tavern. The door opened and heavy metal boots stepped inside. Men looked up, then looked back down. The figure walked to the bar and had a seat. Upon pulling back their hood, Amelia’s long blonde curls expanded all around her head. The bartender approached her.
“What are you craving?” the man asked with neutrality.
“Mead,” Amelia said, harsh yet plain.
He poured her a tankard and slammed it on the wooden counter. She drank it fast and wiped her lips. She then pulled out a roll of paper from her bag and smoothed it out on the sticky counter. “Do you recognize this man?”
The bartender examined the missing poster and the boy’s face on it. He was young, about the age of the girl, with dark waves for hair and a dimpled smile. The bartender shook his head.
“Sorry, miss.” He gave her a sad look. “Never seen one like him before.”
Amelia scowled, then placed her copper coins on the counter. She stood and surveyed the room. The only inhabitants were drunks and the lot. Amelia sighed and walked back to the door.
Back out in the gloomy sunshine, she surveyed the street. More inns and taverns. A local blacksmith. And a novelties shop. That last one was closest so she went there first.
Inside was a mess of cluttered tables and desks and chairs piled with papers. There was only one man, and he didn’t look too savory.
“Welcome in,” he said with a wicked smile. He was an older, cruel looking man. His smile didn’t dip until Amelia lowered her hood and showed him the poster.
“I’m looking for this man. Have you seen him?”
The man studied the face for a second too long. “Nope.” He leaned back and shook his head. “Never.”
“You lie.” Amelia’s gaze narrowed.
The man spat on the floor. “And what of it?” he asked, spitefully.
“I am a servant of the king. As far as you are concerned, I am your authority.”
The man studied her face. “Too young for that, aren’t you?”
“And what of it?” she asked with hard blue eyes.
He stroked his beard. “Aye, I’ve seen him. Suppose you know the law of this land?”
“Of what do you speak?” she asked without softening her piercing blue gaze.
A sudden outburst of laughter ended their dialogue. He gazed out the window and she did the same.
The next building over was an inn. Through one window they could see a man and woman. The woman was beating her fists against the much larger man’s chest as he grabbed and threw her onto the bed. Springs creaked as he climbed up onto the bed and on top of her. Faintly, Amelia could hear the voices.
“No!” the woman pleaded without any sort of dignity. “Please, no! I’m sorry, sire. Just please, anything but–”
And suddenly her words were cut off and replaced by the sounds of laughter. It was high pitched, closer to the squeals of pig slaughter than true merriment. Her head thrown back and her eyes closed tightly, the man dug his strong fingers into the girl’s blouse, digging directly into her rib cage. The woman pushed against his chest, but he simply grinned and pinned her wrists down.
“No,” she said, breathless. “No, sire, don’t.”
“Quiet bitch.” He got both wrists in one of his meaty hands and used his other to hover over her body. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
No further words said before his hand came down into the woman’s armpit. His fingers raked through the cloth and on her flesh. Again he did this and again. The woman cried out for mercy, so he dragged his fingers down her armpit and to her side which he pinched and squeezed.
“Tickling,” Amelia said, discomforted. She was in the silent minority, though she hoped it was actually a majority, who didn’t enjoy the act. She knew it to be used in mating rituals. It was used by bandits who caught those walking the woods alone. By torturers down in dungeons such as the castle where she ate, bathed, and slept. By most everyone in the land.
“Aye,” the man said. “I’m a collector of tickling scrolls, images, and magical items.” The man smiled at her, but it wasn’t joyful. “Yes, I’ve seen the man you seek. Question is, do you want to see him?”
“Yes, of course. What kind of foolish question is that?” she asked.
“Only asking to spare your young mind and soul.” He stood up and walked back into a room behind the counter and Amelia followed him. In the back room, he picked up a book from out of a chest, though calling it a book was generous as it was only a few pages long, bound in leather thicker than the contents between them.
“Take a look for yourself,” he said while handing the book to her.
Amelia looked inside. And almost instantly she felt sickly.
The book had no words but only pictures which were magically transcribed to move. Moving pictures. The first image was of a foot. But it was so much more than that.
Not much could be seen but the foot was lying on a wooden slab of sorts, so the owner was most likely on a wooden table. A thick metal cuff bolted to the wood was holding the poor foot down, keeping it trapped in place. Each and every one of the toes, from the biggest to the pinky toe, was ensnared in little leather ropes. Each rope was tied to little loops on the top of the metal cuff, ensuring that his toes could not move, and that his foot was taut and vulnerable. The foot twitched, but only in the most frantic and minimal of ways. Movement was a dream, not a reality.
The picture was so dark, and yet, on the foot she could see the flicker of a torch. This is because the foot was so caked in oils and scents and gods know what else. The flesh looked silky smooth yet looked red and raw. The kind of abuse that only shows itself after hours of torture.
And Amelia could hear the sounds. It was hardly human but much closer to a wet gurgling noise. And then she heard a voice. It was so faint she could hardly make it out. If it was high, deep, playful, or sincere she could not know. All she heard were the words.
“Are you alright, my dear?”
Amelia almost thought she could hear sobbing.
“Good,” the voice said. “You look so much more right this way.”
A hand entered the moving image. It was pale like milk or a ghost. The hand itself looked strong with veins, and yet the fingers were long and moved like the limbs of a spider. On almost every finger was a golden ring much gaudier than anything Amelia had ever dreamed of, most sparkling with diamonds or other gemstones. And the nails, the nails that then made Amelia’s eyes go huge, were chipped black.
The nail of the index finger poked the very top of the foot, and something like a gasp was heard.
“You know what time it is, my dear. Kitchi kitchi koo.”
The finger slid down the poor, immobile sole. It slowly glided across the ball of the foot, and the foot shivered but could not move, forced to withstand the cruel finger. If the owner of the hand knew of the foot’s suffering, they either did not see or did not care, as the nail left a line of dryness in the ocean of oil on the foot.
It slid down the arch and the leather cords vibrated. It reached the heel before turning around and even more slowly working its way back up the foot. There were more wet gurgles and what sounded like broken sobs, but the foot was trapped and the tickler did not stop. The finger moved up and down and up and down for so long that even Amelia’s feet, stuck in her hot leather boots, felt sympathy for the foot.
And then it stopped. The finger pulled back. The hand slapped down on the wooden board, the rings clacking against it, and the person laughed.
“You are so very ticklish. Did you know that?” The hand grabbed the foot and massaged it. The owner of the foot groaned and whimpered. “Did you ever dream that this would be your new life? I bet not, huh? This must be so scary for you.”
Amelia started to flip the page.
And then the hand used all of its nails to scribble over the ball and arch and heel and the owner of the foot let out the most pitiful squeal of panic and pain that Amelia had ever heard. The fingers cruelly spidered all across the foot, pausing only to let the one suffering think it was over, before starting all over again. The flesh grew even redder, and the noises Amelia heard sounded less human. The tickler was in no hurry. They lustfully scribbled their nails across the foot before stopping, placing their nails at the top of the foot, and slowly raking down the poor sole from top to bottom. Raking the ball and arch and heel, and then doing it again in such a way that there was no way the one being tickled was enjoying this even a little.
“Oh yes,” the tickler said. Amelia could hear the voice better now. A woman with a husky voice. She sounded like she was in the bedroom, like she might moan any second. “Yes, that’s right. Scream for me, pet. Or your little toes are getting it next.”
Amelia flipped the page. She couldn’t bear to watch anymore. And immediately she regretted such a decision.
The next page was of a long, stiff cock. The look of it made Amelia salivate. It was so pretty and looked so strong. She wanted to touch it, then flinched when something actually did touch it. The same hand, now revealing the wrist with the two thick golden bangles on the muscular wrist, reached for the cock. Slowly, the fingers curled around it, then lightly drummed against the skin. And then it got a tight hold and slid up and down. Up and down. Up and down. More grumbles and excited gasps and hot moans. The hand vanished and then returned with oil leaking off the fingertips and leaking down the palm. Again it began to pleasure the man, working up and down. The bangles clinked together, and the mighty rings shined brightly in the torchlight.
The hand kept going and going and stopped. Right as it looked as if the man would finish, the hand left once more. The hips of the man bucked, as if chasing his release.
But then he laid flat back down on the table and tried turning this way and that. Because the hand was back with a long, stiff looking goose feather.
“Do you know what comes next?” the woman asked.
The return of the gurgling noises.
The woman laughed and began to glide the feather against the cock. It tried to fall over so she used her other hand, revealing another heavy golden bangle and more golden rings, to hold it up and keep it steady. She dragged the soft feather against the tense flesh. She started at his balls, slowly worked up his shivering shaft, and then dragged it over the leaky head. Maddening screams echoed out of the book. The unbearable, ticklish itch caused his body to attempt rolling onto its side. But then she placed a firm hand on his stomach to hold him down and continued without bother, without caring about him or his misery, without pity or mercy or humanity.
Once again, Amelia could look no longer and flipped the page. What she saw next almost made her cry out in fury or fall over in terror.
On the page was Devon. His handsome, youthful face on full display. He was looking directly at Amelia from however long ago this had been. And yet, she couldn’t stand to see him. His neck was trapped by a wooden stock, preventing him from moving his head. Pulled over his head was a leather strap, and at the end was a pair of rubber hooks that were hooked into his nose, pulling his nostrils up to give him a piggish appearance. Even more grotesque was his mouth, similar straps around the side of his head and the hooks pulling on four corners of his mouth to hold it wide open, locked in an eternal scream. His gorgeous eyes were bloodshot and open wider than humanly possible.
Her heart broke as she heard the sounds again, pained wet gurgles, coming from him. Him looking away made her briefly wonder if somehow he could see her right back. But no, he was looking off to the side where Amelia could hear soft footsteps. Devon looked as if he was going to burst into tears as pale, strong, ringed hands with black nails stroked his cheeks.
“Shhhhhhh,” the woman said in response to his choked whimpers, “there there. My poor pet. We haven’t even started today and already you look so perfect. So happy to see me. Oh, my sweet boy, don’t you love me? Haven’t you loved feeling my hands? My feathers? Have you not enjoyed me lowering myself for you, literally? Letting you slip inside of me for your sweet release?”
Amelia didn’t realize how tight her grip on the book was. She was close to tearing it in half.
Devon sobbed again.
“Oh, you poor thing,” The woman laughed. Not a slow, soft chuckle, but a deep and wicked cackle.
The woman removed her hands. Then the right hand returned with another feather held between her fingers. This one was much longer, much stiffer. Her pinky was extended in a classy manner, akin to a noblewoman holding a glass of wine. It made her heavy gold pinky ring look exceedingly vain and cruel.
“Oh, you’re not going to enjoy this next part, I promise you that, pet.”
The woman placed the bottom of the feather below his nose, and with agonizing slowness, she dragged the feather across his pulled back nostrils. He retched and flinched as if he might sneeze. But he didn’t. She repeated the motion, gliding the feather right under his immobile nose. Devon shut his eyes and tried to shake his head, but it was useless. His face grew red, and his laughter turned sour. A few more times of this, and the woman pulled back...only to slowly lower the feather into his pried open mouth.
“Say ahhhhhh.”
Devon made strong noises of resistance, but they were preludes to further torture. The feather reached and softly tickled the back of his throat. Devon choked and gagged. Wet drool streamed from the corners of his mouth and pooled on the wooden stock around his neck.
The woman pulled back, letting the feather drag against his gums, his tongue, and his lips. She quickly dusted his lips with the feathers, making sure not to miss a single inch, and then dipped back into his mouth, where her feather and his tongue battled for dominance. The feather won nine times out of ten, poking and prodding and molesting his poor tongue.
Only once did the tongue push the feather back, and she punished him by dabbing the feather at the roof of his mouth. He unleashed an animalistic screech at the feeling and lifted his tongue, as if giving her permission to torture it again. Caring not, she continued to drag the barbs of the feather against the sensitive roof of his mouth, and she laughed. And she laughed and laughed and laughed.
“You look perfect, my sweet pet,” the woman said as she continued to torture his mouth. “This...is where you are meant to be. You exist. To suffer.”
Amelia slammed the book shut and threw it into a pile of garbage across the room. She turned to the shopkeeper. “What in the hell was that?”
“Hell,” the man said, simply. “Best I can describe it. I see many images and videos of tickle torture. But none...none like that. That is too much for my old bones. Too cruel and heartless. Listen, you’re better off forgetting about that boy. Otherwise, you might end up sharing his fate.”
The man hadn’t even finished speaking when Amelia was back outside. Damn the man. Damn that accursed, evil, vile, and wicked woman. She had to find Devon. Find her suffering love.
No matter the cost.
