Your first day in Tickle Hell (NB/NB)

[tickle_satan_666]

Prologue

Ever since you discovered you had a tickling fetish, all you wanted was to be tickled. Your life was not particularly interesting: you had no friends, were not particularly close with your family, and had very little free time due to your busy work schedule. What little free time you had was spent creating and perusing tickling content: chatting about tickling with strangers on the internet, looking at and drawing tickling art, reading and writing tickling erotica, watching tickling videos. Tickling, tickling, tickling. You were a connisuer of everything tickling-related except actually being tickled. As a result of your hectic, busy lifestyle - and extreme social awkwardness - you only managed to get tickled a handful of times by a very small number of partners.

And sadly, you would not get the chance to find the dream ler you so badly desired.

To celebrate your birthday one year, you took a trip to the bar - with no friends or family, of course. You are a responsible person: you planned on taking the bus to and from the bar. Unfortunately, a bar patron without the same level of courtesy decided to go for a drive after talking the bartender into giving him more than the legal limit of alcohol. He gets in his vehicle and takes off. While standing at the bus stop, you are so shit-faced that you do not even begin to notice the medium-sized SUV coming behind you at breakneck speed.

Sentenced

You wake up groggy, but it doesn't take you long to realize that you are not in your bed and not in the unkempt apartment you went home to every night. As an involuntary reaction to this realization, you jerk your legs and body only to realize that you cannot move and attempt to scream only to realize that something is muffling you. You are in what appears to be a medical bed with wheels, cased neck-to-ankles in some some wrap that looks like a black sleeping sack with straps tying the bag and the person inside of it to the bed at intervals of a few inches. You can't see your feet: they are inside of what appears to be a pair of stocks - not unlike the ones that you filled entire notebooks with. These stocks, however, are made of a strange, pink-red rubbery material, having the same texture the roof of a mouth. In as much disgust as fear, you attempt to jerk your feet out of their fleshy prison to no avail.

The night before was such a blur. All you remember are the drinks, you going absolutely crazy on the dance floor, the bus stop, and then... That's it. Theorizing in utter horror that, in your drunkenness, you have gotten yourself kidnapped or arrested, you fight your bondage with one more round of struggle, flailing, wiggling, and tossing yourself as tightly as your bondage will allow you to in hopes that the bag and stocks will at least loosen up, but they don't. In fact, they seem to be responsing to your squirming by tightening slightly. This movement causes you to discover that you are barefoot with each of your toes tied back by some type of rubbery string and that the thing preventing you from screaming is a muzzle with a ball gag.

You take a break from your struggling to examine your settings - or what you can make of your environment given the amount of smoke surrounding you - hoping to get a clue that can lead to your escape. The bondage seems to notice this, and loosens a notch - although the wrap is still inescapably snug and your soles are still stretched taut. As your eyes adjust to the smoke, what you see causes you to repeatedly open and close your eyes in hopes that this is just a bad dream. You are in what appears to be some type of barren cathedral with walls, arches, and buttresses of black metal. You can tell that you are on some type of stage in the shape of a circle, with the floor surrounding the stage being covered in smoke rising to and in many places beyond the level of the stage and to the ceiling, and you are put into a sense of further uneasiness when you realize you can see movement in the smoke. The architecture of the building is otherworldly and dwarfs out any place you recall being in - although it wouldn't be saying much, as you seldom went anywhere fun.

You're not sure whether the smoke has dissipated to a level that allows your eyes to view the extremities of the building or if your eyes have simply adjusted further, but you become able to see through the smoke and your deduction is confirmed that you are on a stage above a floor. The objects causing the movement in the smoke are revealed, and you recognize these creatures from every video game, book, movie, and comic to feature them: Demons. chatting with each other and staring you down as a hound stares his owner down for a treat. As the smoke clears in the far ends of the building, you can see that there are even more demons perched on the highest surfaces of the building like birds of prey eyeing a mouse. You know now what has happened: You have died and gone to Hell.

You are completely and utterly driven to hysterics by the scenario you find yourself in. You scream like a wild banshee and fight your bondage with your mightiest struggle yet. Your audience notices and some of them snicker at your predicament. You are able to jerk to your left a single centimeter only for the bag to literally put you back into your place. In your terror you don't even notice the demons turn silent as they direct their attention towards the figure looming over you. Once you notice this figure, you turn still. Judging from the information so far collected from your surroundings, this figure can only be one possible person: Satan.

But this figure is not even remotely how you would have imagined the Devil. They are neither the bald red guy with the horns and pitchfork nor are they the curly-haired man from Paradise Lost - the last book you read for college before you quit in order to focus on creating tickling art. Their face... You've seen it before. It's the face of that really cute moviestar you used to have a crush on. No, wait... They're that OC you drew when you first started creating tickling art! Or are they that figure that tickled you in the dream you had the very first night you discovered you had a tickling fetish? You can't exactly pinpoint how and why you recognize this Devil standing above you, but you know one thing: under less frightening circumstances, this would have been the perfect character to wake up to.

The menace carries a scroll in their hands. They unroll it and read your verdict:

"(Your name)", they begin in a booming, almost poetic voice, "You are the most pathetic tickle ***** I have ever sentenced". They speak of your slutty behaviors to both you and the crowd eagerly waiting on the judge to present the verdict. Your artwork, your stories, your online comments and chat transcripts, every piece of information damning you as a tickle-hungry slut is presented to the audience via images and videos projected onto a cloud of smoke. You are scared and humiliated to be in this situation - but strangely, a feeling of excitement is also building up inside of you. After presenting the evidence, the scroll burns in Satan's hands and they share the verdict.

"For the crime of being a dirty tickle slut, you, (your name), will spend an eternity as my personal tickle toy".

Your mind goes blank before being assaulted by a chaotic mess of images. You have never been tickled for more than a few minutes at a time, your partners always having been merciful enough to release you once you started screaming loud enough. You have never been tickled in bondage, having only been pinned down by your arms, had your calves sat on, or had your ankles put into headlocks. How could you possibly survive an eternity of being tickled in bondage this restrictive and cruel?

"Before the day is over, sweetheart", Satan whispers into your ear, "you will realize you have bitten off way more than you can chew. I am going to break your mind. I know your feeble human thoughts can't process what it means to be an eternal tickle slave. But let me tell you that you are in deep shit right now."

The crowd of demons disperse. Your new owner takes a blindfold that seemed to materialize out of thin air and puts it over your eyes and starts to wheel you - but you can't see where.

Hell

When Satan removes your blindfold, you see that you are in a dark hallway with floors and walls of red stone bricks. Doors of a similar material appear at random intervals at the opposite ends of the hall. Each door has a torch above it, causing the hallway to be unevenly lit. Satan stops at the end of the hallway at a door with a frame of gold around the edges of it, causing it to look especially important. Without saying anything, they open the door and wheel you inside.

The room Satan wheels you into is the size of a large bedroom, but is completely empty save for four pillars reaching towards an especially high ceiling - one that could easily fit two other rooms of the same width with all three levels having a comfortable ceiling height. Satan wheels your bed to the middle of these pillars, your placement seeming almost ritualistic because of how even it is to the rest of the room.

"This is a personal dungeon I have been saving for a particular type of damned. But I'm sure you already know which type that would be", Satan begins. "I think Mulciber might have been a bit of a tickling fetishist himself. When I told him I wanted a dungeon specifically for tickling, he made the ceiling extra high so my victims' laughs would be even more vibrant!"

You're not sure if you like how passionate they are about tickling, but your curiosity is rising just as much as your fear. Their monologue over, your soon-to-be torturer kneels very close to your feet, almost nuzzling them the way a cat marks its belongings.

Your tormentor doesn't have any tools out yet, so your assumption is that they are going to start you off with their fingernails. This brings you slight relief, as their fingernails didn't seem particularly sharp, being only roughly the same length as those of your previous partners. But then it starts: they slowly and lazily drag one fingertip from the top of your left heel to the base of that foot's middle toe. You let loose a shrill squeal and your upperbody instinctively attemps jerk upwards as if you just woke up from a bad dream, your reaction putting a smile on your tickler's face. It is the single sharpest non-painful sensation you have ever felt, and the single most diabolically tickly thing that has ever touched your sensitive soles. And that was just the opening act.

"Just a little bit of tickling magic", Satan explains to you, seeming to have having anticipated your reaction. "It's all about deception - something I'm very good at, in case you haven't heard".

They start to wiggle their fingertips against your arches, their nails just barely gracing the skin of your feet, but as rapidly as they are doing it, it is completely unbearable. You squirm violently, not having learned a thing yet from your earlier struggle, and some muffled giggles erupt from your gagged mouth.

"Oh, but I'm barely touching you", your tormentor says. "I thought it would take far more than this to make you break down".

You have been waiting to hear those words for so long. You partners never teased you over how ticklish you are or how fucked you were to be their victim. They never made you feel helpless.Maybe this will end up being really fun after - "HGHHGHHGHHGHHGHHGHHGHHGHHGHHGH!" Your thoughts are interrupted as the teasing accelerates into hard scribbling. They assault your feet with their fingernails in completely random patterns, pressures, and areas: they violently scrape their fingers up and down the arch of your right foot while digging into the toes of your left foot just before lightly teasing those same toes while scratching at the ball beneath them. They flutter their nails against your heels before violently and erratically spidering up and down the arches, balls, and toes above them. Your torturer also makes sure to tease the tops of your toes - an area you didn't even know you were ticklish on until today.

You are going absolutely mad. The tickling is longer, harder, and more mind-blowingly chaotic than any tickling you have ever received. Your bondage is putting up a fight to keep you still, and at one point you manage to scrunch your toes roughly a quarter of the way to your soles - but the stocks make sure to counteract it by stretching your soles even more taut and making the sensation even less diminished than it would have been had your toes not been so determined to curl. They tickle you in this manner for what feels like a whole hour while you are screaming and kicking - or at least it feels like you are, but all your tormentor sees and hears is your sack slightly trembling and squealing that sounds like the honking of a goose.

Once they let up, you stare at the ceiling completely still with your mouth agape, utterly frozen in fear. You know that this is just the beginning. The patterns of your bondage continue as they have and slightly let up when you become still - except for your toe-bondage, which has learned its lesson and keeps your toes completely locked back.

Satan walks towards a small faux-wooden stool in the bottom-left corner of the room relative to the door. Placed on top of the stool is a diabolical-looking chest made out of a strange blood-red stone, covered in strange runes and symbols that you feel like you saw on the cover art of a heavy metal album at some point. Your tormentor picks up the chest and places it just below your feet, kneels down, and opens the chest without need of a key, leading you to believe that they are the only person capable of opening it. From the container Satan pulls out and dons a pair of what appears to be rubber gloves. What were they going to subject you to that even they would need protection from? They reach into the box again and take out two feathers: soft, white, and seeming to glow with the same luminosity as an old lightbulb.

"Angels have a unique defense mechanism", Satan begins as they fluff the feather with their protected hands. "The fibers on angel feathers are extremely irritable to the skin of non-angels. I'll give you a second to guess what it does to ticklish skin!"

You desperately try to look through and over the stocks to see where Satan is going to strike first, but you cannot tell until you feel the feather being dragged across both of the balls of your feet. Despite the sheer softness and lightness of the feathers, the sensations caused by their stroking are just as, if not more tickly than the scribbling and scratching of your tickler's fingers. In addition, it itches like hell! It makes ant venom feel like ointment! Satan is just as erratic with the feathers as they are with their fingers. They go from sawing the feathers between your toes to simply pressing them against your soles and allowing your feet to twitch into them before licking them up and down bottoms of your feet. They trace the outside of your feet before, out of absolutely nowhere, turning the feathers upside down and jabbing the pointed ends of them into your feet, causing you to gasp mightily and scream and laugh even louder.

The way they scribble the pointed ends of the feather all over your soles with no def. Every now and then they'll use the soft end of one feather to tease its target while using the pointed end of the other feather to scratch and poke whatever spots are not being taken care of by the soft barbs of its counterpart. You are mind-shatteringly overstimulated: you focus on the itching to distract yourself from the tickling only to focus on the tickling to limit the maddening irritation caused by the feathers. You attempt to suppress your giggles, hoping to at the very least avoid giving them the satisfaction of getting a reaction from you, but as unaccustomed to extended, brutal tickle-torture as you are, you are wholly unable to do so.

After spending even longer with the feather than they did with their fingers, Satan gives you another break and puts aside both the feathers and the gloves. Your breathing is heavy; you never thought that the feeling of absolutely nothing touching your feet would be so satisfying.

"You know, I'm just now realizing I haven't even heard what your voice sounds like", Satan says. They go up to your face and remove the ball gag before setting it aside. "How are you feeling, darling?", they ask you, resting their head on their hands and resting their elbows right in front of your mummified thighs.

As a result of the humiliating suffering you have endured this far, an agitated "Fuck you", is all you have to say in response.

"Well, that's too bad", they say, their voice mocking pity. They go back in front of your soles and kneel once more.

"Normally I save this until the very end", Satan says, their breath becoming unusually hot against your feet. "But your feet are just too irresistible".

You knew what was coming as soon your feet were described in that manner, but you are still taken by surprise when they start to nibble the ball of your right foot. Just like the fingers and feathers used previously, your tickler's tongue and teeth tickle way more than they should. For every tooth that sinks into your soles, it feels like a swarm of mad foot-fetishists fighting to assault them with nibbles. Their tongue is equally obnoxious, feeling just like a dish sponge and being used like one attempting to get the last stubborn streaks of grease off of a pan. Their mouth is also sweat-inducingly hot, intensifying the tickling sensation adding another dimension of mind-fucking discomfort. Their movements turn quick and chaotic, like a vulture picking at roadkill. With no gag to suppress them, your squeals, giggles, and screams reverberate all over the dungeon just as its designer intended. When your tormentor's tongue is stuck in between the big toe of your left foot and its neighbor toe, your lungs push out a strange, piercing combination of a gasp and a shriek. The helpless twitching of your feet combined with the erratic nature of your torturer's tongue and mouth movements make the lickle session seem like some sort of abstract dance and is just as intimate. You desperately whine "No"s and "Please"s in hope that your tickler will find it in their heart to withdraw their mouth from your feet, but your hopes are not realized.

Perhaps it is another product of that "tickle magic" the unholy prosecutor boasted about, but another feeling is starting to grow inside of you in addition to the abject ticklish agony shooting through your nerves. Is it joy? Satisfaction perhaps? You don't know and can only describe it as a rush of positivity. But just as soon as it starts, the clamping of the fiend's teeth on a particularly sensitive spot just above your right arch extinguishes it like a firework during a rainstorm, leaving you drenched in ticklish suffering.

Once your soles are completely soaked in saliva, your tickler gives you another break. They reach into the chest once more and take out what appears to be baby oil in a plastic bottle. You can only imagine what trick is prepared for you this time. Maybe it'll make your feet one-thousand times more ticklish. Maybe it'll make your feet feel like they're being electrocuted. Maybe it's actually the favorite nectar of some hellish creature that will soon lick it off of your feet. They take the oil and gently and deliberately drip a few drops onto the balls of your feet. You then hear an electronic buzzing noise followed by another. You have seen enough tickling content to know exactly what tool that buzzing noise belongs to.

The bristles of the electric toothbrushes are used to spread the oil all over your feet. The precision and care at which your tickler uses them is reminiscent of a surgeon or a tattoo artist, but with how volatile your reaction to their usage is and how much Satan's demeanor resembles that of an artist at work, the latter seems more fitting. Each of their hands seem to have a mind of their own and trace in patterns that are completely sporadic. The toothbrushes explore your toes, making sure to meticulously trace up and down and in between each once before wildly jumping all over your soles like flies exploring a piece of food. They leave the toothbrushes in one spot for a few minutes just to see how you react - your reaction being harsh cackling with your left eye twitching. Both toothbrushes then scrub in little circles all over both of your soles, just as your dentist told you to do with your teeth when you were alive.

You still can't tell whether the oil they used is some magical concoction or just regular baby oil nor can you tell whether or not the toothbrushes are some kind of eldritch torture device, but with how mad the combination of the two is driving you they may as well be products of satanic witchcraft. A hearty scream fills the room before breaking down into lunatic cackling. The relentless teasing makes you want to jump out of your skin but the bag and stocks still show no mercy. You hit the back of your head against the head of the bed in an attempt to distract yourself with some other sensation, but as you do so the piece of the mattress beneath your head softens, ensuring that no other meaningful sensation other than the hellish teasing of the toothbrush bristles is felt.

After yet another eternity, your tickler puts one toothbrush away while continuing to use the other one to tickle your left foot. With their free hand, they immediately grab a comb out of the chest and start diagonally across the ball and arch of your right foot. As the comb makes contact with your foot, you hear the crackle of electricity and feel it as well. The comb is zapping your feet! Just when you thought you could not scream any louder, you do. You scream so loud that it seems to cause the creature cocooning you to react, and it does so by pressing itself slightly tighter around your chest as if to limit the amount of air escaping from your lungs.

Satan speaks again but does not attempt to do so over your deafening screams. "I usually use this comb to groom my hellhounds. The electricity doesn't hurt them, it helps keep their hair straight". They open their mouth as if to speak further but then refrain, as they know you aren't paying attention.

The difference in sensation between the teasing of the toothbrush and the vicious stinging and ravaging of the comb is completely overwhelming. They scrub in between your left toes with the toothbrush while doing the same with your right toes and the comb. They tease a particularly ticklish spot just under your right big toe before sawing it with the comb. The assault your right foot with both tools at once, zapping and sawing the comb in a whirlwind of randomness while intricately polishing your foot with the toothbrush before doing the same with the left foot, making sure over and over again that no part of your feet goes un-tickled by both the comb and the toothbrush.

Tears streak down your face as a result of the treatment. However, the small flash of joy that began to well up inside of you during the assault by your tickler's mouth and tongue has returned, and this time is not as easily extinguished, instead igniting into complete ecstasy. Despite how cruelly you are being treated, to be unburdened by control and choice is more electric than the cruel strokes of the comb.

These feelings also add another angle to your overstimulation. Your mind is being pulled apart by the several different polar opposite sensations claiming it for themselves at once: the kisses of the toothbrush and the biting of the comb, the tickling and the zapping, the joy and the anguish. The tears gently dripping down your cheeks are just as much tears of joy as they are of suffering. Your eyes nearly go into your skull as you scream at the ceiling once more in uncontrollable hysteria.

After every inch of your feet has been tickled by both tools several times over at every force and in every direction imaginable - a process that, at least as far as you can measure, has taken hours to complete - Satan lets up. Even though you currently aren't being tickled, you can't stop giggling. Perhaps these are giggles of happiness, or perhaps it is simply the process of being turned into a broken, crazy ticklee taking place. Your mind is so broken that it cannot tell what it is feeling. Your mouth decides to speak on your mind's behalf: "Please... Oh please... No more...", you utter, your voice hoarse from hours of screaming.

"You really mean to tell me you aren't enjoying this?", Satan teases. "I've seen your art. Your stories. Your comments on tickling videos. You wanted this so badly. And you enjoy it. You belong here, you filthy tickle slut".

The dopamine in your brain is increasing to the max. You've always wanted to be teased over your fetish. You are completely and utterly humiliated and you love it. You are so lost in this whirlwind of emotion that you fail to notice the extra round of oil being dripped onto your feet, but what you do notice is Satan's teasing fingers spreading it all over your helpless foot-bottoms. They run their thumbs across and in between your toes, causing you to squeal.

Your tormentor takes the ballgag-muzzle combo that they set aside earlier and gags you with it. You mount no resistance as they do so. It doesn't need to be said that whatever is in store for you next is nightmare fuel for someone with feet as ticklish as yours. You know what's coming: it has been the fate of many a ticklee across the various tickling videos, artwork, and literature you've come across. Satan accesses the chest one more time and pulls out two hairbrushes and shows them to you, hoping to get a reaction - and a reaction they get as your eyes widen in terror. Instead of being made out of plastic, however, the brushes are made out of a grim, dark granite, almost resembling gravestones. The material of the bristles is completely otherworldly: they appear soft and fluffy but are also hard and rubbery. The bristles appear still at first glance, but when you focus your eyes upon them they appear to wriggle like worms. These hairbrushes aren't from Earth or Hell, they look like creatures from the depths of R'lyeh. Your joy and excitement once again are swallowed by terror as Satan draws the brushes behind the stocks and out of your view.

All it takes for you to shriek is for your tormentor to merely pat the brushes against your soles in three quick motions. Each bristle - no, each molecule of whatever unholy substance the bristles are composed of - feels like their own brush, and for each split-second the bristles spent in contact with your soles, they latch onto the skin and voraciously wriggle against it like worms attempting to burrow. In addition, the bristles assault your feet with a sensation that feels like a mix between itching, shocking, and heat. Once your scream is let out, you go completely silent for a few seconds in a useless attempt to process the sensation you just felt. You won't be able to handle this. There's no way. You attempt to beg your torturer with as much vigor as you can, but all that passes through your gag is something to the extent of "PLM PLM PLM NM MMRE M CMNT TMKE MT MMMMMMMMMPPPPPHHHHH!"

"No more?", they respond, their voice feigning surprise. They briefly put the brushes aside and reach into the chest once more. To your surprise, they pull out a torn red notebook, identical to the ones you lost just last week. Your eyes widen in fear, as you know exactly what kind of secrets that notebook reveals. They turn about halfway through the notebook and briefly examine the contents of a page before snickering smugly. They then show you the page: it's an extremely detailed drawing of you being mummified, gagged, and put into a pair of stocks with your feet being tickled by hairbrushes. You only vaguely remember drawing it, and by the linework you can tell that you were either very tired or intoxicated while drawing it. "Looks to me like I'm giving you exactly what you wanted", they say.

You go silent again. You know you can't reason with them. They will tickle you as roughly as they want for as long as they want. You are scared, but another feeling starts to ignite in your soul: acceptance. They're right. This is what you wanted. You are finally the ticklee you always dreamed of being. You catch your tickler staring into your eyes as if they were waiting on this to happen. With nothing else for either of you to say, they pick up the brushes and begin to scrub the perfect bare feet in front of them.

You realize at this point that there is no rock bottom. It can always tickle worse and your mind can always be broken down further. Your screams can always become more vicious, and they do. Your will may be composed of pure iron, but even iron has its boiling point. The gag, bag, stocks, and toeties are working overtime to keep you silenced and still, but in the end not even the indomitable human spirit is a match for their cruelty. The chaotic act each bristle performs makes each tickling sensation even more intense and concentrated, and your flesh being scrubbed in patterns just as brutally unpredictable as your previous tribulations does not help. The trickling of tears down your face turns into flooding as you sob and cry. Desperately needing to distract yourself from the wicked sensations shooting into your brain, with your hands still stuck to your thighs you attempt to pinch your thighs with both hands only for your bag to notice and crease itself between your hands and thighs, finally removing what little mobility you had below your neck.

Up and down. Side to side. Loops and circles. Across your toes. The sound that explodes from your gagged mouth translates roughly to "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!" as every inch of your feet is groped by the vicious brushes, whose bristles which seem just as infatuated with your feet as the holder of the brushes. And that damned stinging sensation! What could possibly be an accurate comparison, except that you put your feet into a nest of mutant fire ants armed with tasers? If you weren't already dead, these mind-shattering sensations currently overwhelming you would give you a heart attack! And with this clearly being the most effective treatment so far, your tickler spends a significantly greater time with the brushes than they did with any of the previous torture devices - at least, it feels like they do, but in the end, mere seconds of this treatment may as well be a few hours. But once even your tickler tires from your treatment, they put the brushes away and give you one more breather.

Heaven

You continue to weep. Your mind was in shreds before the brushes were used on you, but now it has been pulverized to dust. Despair, arousal, hate, love, terror, excitement, denial, and acceptance all fight each other to pick up the pieces of your shattered psyche. The Devil kneels before the left-side of your head. You do not look at them nor do you acknowledge their presence. You have nothing to say. No begging, no negotiating, no “fuck you”s, just soft whimpers. Your tormentor has nothing to say either, instead opting to remove the gag once more and to wipe the tears from your face with their bare hands. Perhaps it's another product of your tickle-induced breakdown or perhaps some strange tartaric powers have come into play, but the gentle touch of Satan’s fingers across your face feels completely divine, and you lean into them in order to better clean your tear-marred face.

“You have an eternity of this to look forward to, my dear”, your tormentor whispers into your ear, giving you goosebumps as you are reminded of your fate. “Let’s give you a little break”.

From the chest they pull out what looks like a white potion in a glass bottle, but as they pull off the cork and pour the liquid into their hands, it appears to be some sort of lotion. They rub it into their hands before rubbing it onto your feet.

As your feet have quite literally been put through Hell for the past several hours, the massage is the most divine sensation you have ever felt. They start at the very bottom of your heels and work their way up through your arches, then the balls of your feet, then your toes. The inability to curl your toes gives your punisher-turned-masseuse the ability to access all of the knots buried deep inside your feet – the same knots that were giving the feet of your living body trouble just a day ago. Not a single millimeter of your feet goes unrubbed, every part being deserving of their attention. Each of your toes are pulled, cracked, and given mini-massages. They rub your ankles and the spaces surrounding them. A knot in your left heel that you didn't even realize was there - and that you're not sure whether was there when you were alive or formed as a result of your torment - melts away. And the strange lotion they smothered all over the skin of your feet feels like a million tiny hands massaging your feet at once, complementing your masseuse's prowess of that of a million hands. However, the massage is not completely peaceful: your masseuse makes sure to dig their nails into your skin at the lightest ticklish pressure possible and makes sure to tease your feet with subtle nail-drags while moving between different areas of your feet. Giggles, moans, squeals, and strange shrill mixes of the three flood out of your mouth. Your face looks just as overwhelmed as the mind inside of it feels. Your lips curl back and forth between smiles and moans.

"What is that?", you mumble, your voice sounding like a mindless hypnotee.

"It's a magical massage lotion", Satan explains to you while working out a particularly troublesome spot in the metatarsal of your right foot, "that makes the feet of its victim extra ticklish".

You are in so much pleasure that the second part of their statement may as well have not reached your ears.

"This cream is made with the Forbidden Fruit of the Tree of Life, pomegranates from the Asphodel Meadows, and water from the receding lakes of Tartarus. It is as aphrodisiacal and irresistible as it can be".

You barely register what they are saying. You are so overwhelmed by pleasure that you are incapable of responding to any other external stimuli. Satan notices and shares one final fact.

"It is also edible", they say before inviting their mouth onto your feet.

Satan does not take their hands from your soles, instead using their tongue and lips as additional massage-tickle tools. The sucking and licking motions their mouth makes is just as intensive as the pressing of their fingers and tickle just as much. Your tormentor licked your feet earlier, but this time is different. This time they are enjoying your feet. They claim your feet for themself the way a lion claims their prey. These are their feet now. Your feet are as soft as cotton and have a few pink spots as a result of their treatment over the past several hours - nothing painful or permanent, just a petty consequence of being reduced to mere playthings to be ravaged for their new owner's amusement. This coloring makes your feet look like some kind of dessert, but what your fanatic tastes is something more delicious than anything any chef of any divinity could have produced. They suck your toes, shower your soles in kisses, and slowly press their tongue up and down your soles heel to toe. Being on the receiving end is equally blissful. You are orgasming through your feet, an orgasm that makes ones you experienced in your mortal coil out to be mere tingles.

The sound of your laughter-adorned moaning is more heavenly than any muse. Satan is lost at your feet: to be able to use and pamper your feet as much as they want is paradise, and to be Satan's property - at the moment, at least - is paradise to you. Forget Heaven, the two of you have made a Heaven of Hell. The massage-worship session puts you on the verge of being comatose. After what must have been hours of spoiling - and an entire day of ticklish torment - Satan lets up, and, exhausted, you pass into a peaceful slumber...

... A slumber that was not meant to be. After merely a few seconds of being closed, your eyes pop open as the pink flesh-rubber of the stocks begin to vibrate and bulge at various intervals, creating a rubbery sucking sound while it does so. From those bulges emerge six tentacles shaped like the tongues of lizards. In addition, six strange claws shaped like the tusks of walruses emerge a couple of inches out from both of your feet. As soon as you gasp, everything extruding from the stocks attacks your feet once, as if they were waiting on your expression of terror as the signal.

The claws poke and scratch your soles at obnoxiously random intervals, not unlike every single tickle tool that has been used on you thus far. One claw pokes your toes while another teases your arches while another violently scratches your heel. The tentacles, being equally random in their movements, assault your soles and toes with their wet, scratchy flesh. The liquid on the tongues is of the same texture and viscosity as soapy water, making your feet feel like they are being tickle-cleaned with bath brushes.

"I suggest you get used to these tentacles", Satan explains. "They are your new pedicurists".

You can feel your feet getting softer as the tentacles slather themselves all over your feet.

"Your feet are already utterly decadent, my dear", Satan tells you, "But once those tentacles are done with your feet, I might not be able to stop myself from eating them entirely!"

In addition to the relentless tickling on your feet, you start to feel something harshly tickle your belly and inner thighs. You look down at sack to see that small, finger-width compressions are going into those parts of your body. The sack is tickling you, too! Satan looks at their victim, smiling at their work in satisfaction before turning around and head for the door, their disposition like a tired worker clocking out for the day. Just before they reach for the handle, you briefly succeed at fighting through your laughter and shout in a tired, squeaky voice, "Please don't leave me like this!" before breaking apart into more exhausted laughter. Satan looks at you, sighs, and then walks back towards you.

As if reading Satan's mind, the bag, claws, and tentacles stop tickling. Satan kneels beside your head and gives you a big kiss on the lips. It is as much a kiss of possession as it is of affection. You instinctively try to grab their head to bring it to yours but the sack is not merciful enough to allow you to do so. Fortunately, Satan accomplishes exactly what you wanted and presses their face even harder against yours. After about three minutes of passionate kissing, Satan draws their head away from yours, looking into your eyes as the stocks and body sack pick up right where they left off, tickling your belly, thighs, and feet. This time, however, you are ready for it and accept it. Your tormentor sees the acceptance in your eyes and, satisfied, turns around and exits the room, leaving your only company the strange creatures you have submitted to. A split-second after Satan shuts the door, the torches lighting the room go out by themselves all at once, as if they were controlled like lightbulbs. With nothing to distract you from the tentacles and claws groping and scrubbing your feet and the bag relentlessly jabbing at your belly and thighs, and clearly nobody coming to free you from your fate, you do the only thing you can do and laugh yourself to tears in the dark.

Epilogue

Your feet and belly have been tickle-ravaged by the very bondage confining them for a few hours now, and in a failing attempt to distract yourself, you attempt to rationalize your situation to yourself.

You were completely and utterly dissatisfied with your previous life: All you wanted was to disappear and become a ticklee forever. And you’ve gotten exactly what you asked for and more. The tickling is brutal - but an eternity of laughter and rushing endorphins after such a dull lifetime is blissful. Your body is reduced to a piece of twitching skin to be groped and teased at the whim of your tormentor - but that ceased to matter during your your first pampering session, and will not matter during your next. You are condemned to an eternity of ticklish suffering, but have also been granted an eternity of orgasmic pampering. Perhaps the true punishment is simply to be overwhelmed and overstimulated until the end of time. But perhaps even that is what you want.

Is it worth it? Is this, in reality, Paradise? Or were you in way over your head with your desires and are living your worst nightmare? Only time will tell, and you will be spending plenty of it like this, tied up in the dungeons of Pandemonium as Satan's tickle toy.