Mine is maybe kind of personally specific to me and pretty psychological in nature.
I'm really riveted by the idea of systematic tickling, e.g. a tickling institution which is used for criminal punishment or, even better, a tickling institution designed by tickle-perverts for their own satisfaction and for the eventual satisfaction of the captives once they've been institutionalized. (Usually, my fantasies lean toward conflicting despair and reluctant enjoyment of torment, an ideal very well captured by
SableSword. Not in this case, however. This is the refreshing contrast to the norm.)
First of all, I like to imagine an underground empire of tickling sadists who engage in all varieties of tickling research and entertainment, mostly because it means the fantasy never really can run dry; that has level infinity potential. In this particular fantasy, I find myself captive of this massive institution, unsure of who has taken me, how, or why, but the obvious tailoring to my sexual interests leads me to believe that I've done something to appeal to the tastes of someone like me, potentially here on Tickle Theater or somewhere similar. My distress levels are relatively low: I'm okay with the tickling, and I don't mind feet (it's a multifetish institution, actually). As I'm horny as fuck while imagining this, the sadness of being removed from society and loved ones doesn't set in. Whoever took me might have even been trying to do me a favor.
I am assigned, without being given any information, to a room that contains a familiar face: a girl with whom I am (in reality) involved, who is obviously in great distress. (For those of you who like clear detail, it is an entirely metallic, rather poorly lit room, sinister ambiance and all that.) She is stripped to only a bra and panties and restrained in a reclined seat with her arms stretched above her head, a few straps keeping her from putting up an immense struggle, and her feet entirely contained in a metal box that rather look like enclosed stocks. I am locked into a seat rather like that of a roller coaster, very close to the floor, off near the corner. At this point, I'm not just thinking with my penis, and I legitimately want to help her in any way I can. (I also have the awful feeling that she is here because of me; what else am I to think?) I find out that the box containing her feet is a mixture between stocks and a miniature sauna, keeping her feet continuously sweated up so that the smell can be enjoyed from time to time by whomever they send in. (In reality, this girl was voted 'smelliest feet' in a set of superlative awards, and the choice was not arbitrary. It's
amazing.) She expresses that it's supremely uncomfortable and, much more importantly, she receives regular ticklings several times a day, awful, merciless ticklings that she can't stand. She is pained as she says this and fearful for the next.
I try to calculate the connection between me, her, and this place. The most sensible explanation for my being here is my distinction as a fetishist, something one of these people caught onto and either wanted to see to it that I had a good time or wanted me to toy with. Why Daisy (this is not her name, but I think that she should have one for this story) is here with me is less clear, but it's ridiculous to think that it doesn't have to do with me or that she and I were placed in this room together by chance. Her interest to them as a plaything is rather basic, and I can understand why she would be chosen at random, but this was clearly not at random. I eventually surmise that, while she has been chosen, just as any other, to be played with, she was more specifically chosen to inflict psychological torment on me and vice versa.
It is unclear exactly what is going to happen to
me in this room. I don't seem to be in any kind of restraint apparatus suitable for exposing me to tickling. I am contained by a restraint over my chest and cuffed at the wrists and ankles, but they are not exposing sensitive areas; my arms are at my side, and my legs are resting normally. I am unaware that it is a moving apparatus that can place me in a number of positions and in a number of places in the room. However, I will not be tickled this time around. I am slid along the floor and set on my knees before the foot sauna, which folds open and pulls apart to release her feet into the cool air finally, which is insanely relieving for her (and I am glad for this). I am slid further forward so that her feet are pressed into my face and there is no real way I can evade them. No one's playing innocent, though; I don't
want to avoid them, and she knows this. As I'm abruptly thrust into a fetishistic wonderland, she spreads her toes to allow the cool air to move between them, releasing yet more aroma. They are already intoxicatingly pungent, and this makes them to die for. Wishing to do something for her, I kiss on her feet in what I think are the most pleasurable places, though nearly everywhere is pleasurable in such a sensitive state. This doesn't last longer than perhaps 10 or 15 minutes, and then we are returned to our previous states, her feet being reconditioned for me.
About 6 women enter through the door, determined-looking, and fear grips Daisy. Imaginably, she has tried begging with no success, so she whimpers as they gather around her. Daisy does
not like tickling, and they have discovered all her sweet spots. They use long nails and soft fingers to tease her: her thighs, her knees, and most especially her abdomen and underarms. When the spider's legs come wiggling up her stomach, she does not giggle; she laughs with compulsive energy, yells, and jerks, perhaps even more miserably with her underarms. The women say nothing, just smile the entire time and occasionally give small chuckles or scoffs. She is in hell, and I am watching idly. It is, of course, arousing as fuck but deeply, deeply painful. I wish that they would refocus their efforts on me, mostly for her sake, but I fear that speaking up will spell trouble for her. (In alternate scenarios, the women bargain with me and her, allowing me the opportunity to take the burden.)
The foot sauna opens, and her dread of the unpleasant becomes a fear of absolute danger. Her feet are not just 'ticklish;' they are
vulnerable. Still being tickled elsewhere, she begins to quietly babble some terrified pleas. "Please, no, no, no, not my feet, no ... !" She is cut off by scratching nails, warm, teasing lips, and the continued onslaught elsewhere on her figure. This is typically the climax of the fantasy, but, were it to continue, they would end finally just after pushing her to crying and leave wordlessly.
---
She emerges in these quite often, in fact. In others, she (for some reason, the determining factor in my freedom) surrenders me to tickling savages because she is too afraid to face the tickling herself; other times, because she has a sudden sadistic impulse to see me squirm. Sometimes, she tickles me herself, and, being champion of the Smelliest Feet, there are LOTS of footslave fantasies.
