Journia
3rd Level Blue Feather
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- Feb 15, 2006
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Yes. This is the first installment of the book I am going to publish. Within, the book, there will be nylon, sock and barefoot tickling. I think stocking and nylon are synonymous right? Oh well, here is the first chapter.
The First and Only
The young beautiful, succubae laughed at the frail, thin young girl who entered the room. “Look at her,” said one, a blonde beauty, “It is the manless whore!” All the women laughed. The girl simply looked at her and walked over to the large throne in the middle of the Harem. The girl wore a pair of tight blue denim jeans, which were too long for her, so she had to roll them over her ankles, a tight gray T-shirt, and large sneakers. They had to be at least sizing 14. She walked over to the man in the throne and sat quietly at its base until he finally noticed her.
“Machiavelly!” He cried in a sarcastically happy manner. “How long have you been right there?”
“About ten minutes.” She said as she slipped her foot back in her untied shoe. She stared up at the tall, pale man with the long black hair. He was stark naked. Which was one reason why Machiavelle, hated to see him. “Uh…dad, can you put some clothes on please?”
In another large room, the man and the girl stood alone together. The man wore a black robe with an embroidered phrase. “Sleep at Astaroth’s”
“What is wrong my daughter?” He asked her.
“My birthmarks. They are coming in.”
“Oh no. It is going to be harder than ever for you to get a man now.”
“Oh I know! I am probably going to die if one of them sucks my toes. I’ll just die laughing!” She put her hands on her chin.
“Let me see them.” He said calmly. The girl proceeded to remove her shirt. On her skin, other wise flawless, were purple spots and designs. At each armpit, were two middle fingertip sized circles.
On her chest, running in an arc from each scapula, were purple rings, like an azure Egyptian necklace. Going down in between her breasts, was an upside down ankh, placed so that the hoop surrounded the navel, and a dark purple spot was right there. The man touched the ankh.
“Yeeheheahahaaaaaaaaaahhh!!!!” She screamed, jerking away from him, slipping on her shoestring and falling to the floor, still giggling from the man’s touch.
“Hmmm…I know what you need. Desensitizing.” He grabbed her arm and took her to another room.
Back in her grey T-shirt, Machiavelle was stuck in a god-forsaken contraption, used by her father to “welcome” maidens as he called them, into the New World of their lives. It had Machiavelle on her knees, her huge sneaker clad feet locked in a pair of manacles, and her arms outspread behind her, like the wings of an angel. The wind entering the room blew her short red hair. The man stood behind her.
“Are you ready daughter?”
“Yes daddy.” She said meekly. As soon as he began, as soon as his finger, pressed, her armpit, Machiavelle, nearly broke the contraption, the way she jerked.
“Shit! Ahahahahaaa!!!!It tickles so bad daddy!” She laughed as the fingers kept pressing the pressure points. The whole table and block would move each time she jerked around.
“Aaaahahaha! Why me daddy?”
“I don’t know my child, I suppose that is my punishment.” He said in a solemn tone. He began to prod at her ribcage. Where more purple designs lay unseen. Her screams of laughter tore through the vaulted halls of the old cathedral in the sky.
Her father made her way down to her slim waistline, where he worked his long bony fingers, about the ankh on her front. And repeatedly, he dug his ten fingers into her navel; each having a span of one minute in her purple dashed umbilical mark.
“No! Not the button!!! Ahahahahahaaa!!!” She thrust forwards, only to fall back, and wiggled her hips. “Nahahahahahaaa!!! Daddy please!! Stop!!” Tears filled her eyes. In his heart, he knew he wanted to stop, but he simply couldn’t. No matter how heart wrenching his daughter’s pleas were. It was imperative, that he continue the procedure until it was finished. Ultimately, lessening her despair.
“It must go on Machiavelle. It must be finished.” He said as he worked about her hips. “Machiavelle, are there anymore birthmarks upon you?”
“Ahaha…Ahhahalll over my legs and feet!!” She managed to squeal. She screamed with horrid delight when his hands began tickling the backs and insides of her thighs. “Shiahahahaa!!! Damnitdamnitdamnit! Whahahahaayyymeheheeheeheee!!” His hands suddenly flew back to her ribs, just under her heaving breasts. She immediately went spastic.
“Machiavelle, how long were these birthmarks here before you told me today?”
“I found them and came straight to youyahahaha!!!” She turned her head, this way and that, rocking the contraption, which held her in place. The time seemed to pass quickly for Machiavelle, as her father tickled the senses out of her. But time slowed down as she felt the pause and felt the right sneaker being removed.
Oh no here it comes! She thought to herself as her steamy socked foot cooled. Then what she feared most had arrived. His firm fingers dug into the soft, sock clad flesh her nerves flew into a rage.
“Shit! Aaauugh!!!!!Hahahahahahahahahaaaahahahahaahaaaa!!!!” Her toes flexed and her foot curled and straightened spastically. The pink and white socked foot did acrobatics in the manacle. Which was simply a show of torture from Machiavelle’s body. As if her screams were not enough. It seemed as if each stroke of her tender socked foot took forever to end. Only to have another one bring up the rear of the previous one. One by one each toe was tugged, each ball was brushed, her heel were hecked, and her sole was scratched. Then he took her sock off. Revealing, that her whole foot was purple. Her bare foot stank but it did not discourage him. He had to help his daughter. He pulled off her other sneaker and repeated the same motions on her other foot. Her luscious toes were prodded and their forms increased in her sock. All over her socked foot, his two hands scrabbled along, and peal after peal of laughter erupted from the girl’s mouth.
Below in the foyer, three of Machiavelle’s sisters Ceres, Corsice and Fenrire, listened to the labored please and cries of mercy from their terribly afflicted sister.
“Man.” Ceres said. She was the Blonde one who called Machiavelle a whore, earlier, “Dad must really have his hands full with Machiavelle.” She wore a pair of tight blue jeans, a black shirt and black boots.
“Ceres,” said Fenrire, a blue eyed red head with wide hips and skinny legs, “Dad loves tickling Machiavelle! He would tickle her within an inch of her life, more than any of us.” She turned and faced the mirror. She wore blue jeans, a white shirt and white socks. “I remember when he used to tickle the shit out of me. Did I like it? Hell yeah it turned me on always. Was it freakish? Yeah I am a freaky person, any guy or girl who has ever seen me or been with me knows that. Does dad pick favorites? Sure does. And before Machi was born, I was his main tickle toy. Sometimes I wish I was still in his room, being tickled by his long, spider like fingers.”
“Is that why I see you sticking your feet down the Landworms burrow, slathered with honey?” Corsice asked. She was the one in the tight black corset and leather pants and bare feet.
“Uuhhh…how do you know I slather my feet with honey?” She asked nervously. Backing away from her two approaching sisters.
“Oh…we know a lot about you Fenrire. We know that you aren’t as ticklish as Machiavelle, but you can die laughing. Like you almost did when you fell into the tarantula hole on Ceremony Covene. Boy you sure laughed like a hyena when you got stepped on by hundreds of little tickle feet huh?” They began taunting, staring coldly at her and wiggling their fingers in the air. They neared her and she began sceaming.
Machiavelle’s father stopped tickling her quickly and slowed down
Thank god. She thought as he finally stopped. Her peace turned to anxiety as her socks were pulled off and a slimy, sweet smelling liquid was spread on her feet. If she could look back, she would have seen that her feet were covered in thick globs of honey. She would also have seen, the Ratmas. The Ratmas a creatures resembling Goats without heads. Their heads are beneath their necks and what their head is, is a flattened human face, covered in white hair. The one thing that was very strange about them, were their tongues, which were thirty times the length of their bodies, smooth as glass, and contained little worms which embedded themselves in the skin when threatened.
“Now Machiavelle,” said her father, in a labored tone. “This will hurt me infinitely more than it will you.” Machiavelle didn’t know what was coming. but by the tone in her father’s voice, it couldn’t be good. That is when she felt the slick feeling of the tongues on her soles. She tried to hold the laughter in, tried to keep from screaming, but it was only a matter of time, as her pale white face, grew red and her smile grew wider.
In the foyer, Circe and Cosice sat on the steps leading up from the remarkably modern foyer, to the archaic, looking castle area.
“How long do you think they will be up there?” Circe asked.
“Well, they should be coming down now.” Corsice replied. “Judging by how long they have been up there.”
“I hope we don’t have another power outage.”
“What?”
“When you were getting another man to bring down here, Dad tickled Machiavelle, and she laughed so hard, the lights went out all over the kingdom.”
“Oh…I see.”
“I am worried about Machiavelle.” Ceres said with a sorrowful tone.
“Why?”
“Exile.”
“Oh…you mean because she can’t get a man?”
“Precisely. And if she can’t get a man to bring to Hell, she will be exiled, as opposed to executed.”
“Exactly how long does she have?”
“Five months. Before the blood moon becomes white. If she can not Bring a man to the world of the condemned, she can not live with us anymore.” She began to tremble, and a tear rolled down her eye. “I don’t want her to leave! She’s too young to be exiled from her family!”
Corsice patted her back and hugged her. “Don’t worry Ceres, let’s go see a Forsa. She can tell us whether she will get a man or not.”
Ceres’s eyes grew red and her voice grew into a demonic hiss.
“They can’t help her! They can’t help us to understand any of this!” She turned and began to storm away, then she turned to face her siste,r who was surprised at her actions. Ceres was usually a soft, gentle succubus, with great manners. “Our sister is cursed….it was like that before she was born!” The lightsi n the castle blew out, as well as all over the local area, and Machiavelle’s melodic laughter rolled down the steps, a haunting melody, to hear in the darkness.
“Machiavelly!” He cried in a sarcastically happy manner. “How long have you been right there?”
“About ten minutes.” She said as she slipped her foot back in her untied shoe. She stared up at the tall, pale man with the long black hair. He was stark naked. Which was one reason why Machiavelle, hated to see him. “Uh…dad, can you put some clothes on please?”
In another large room, the man and the girl stood alone together. The man wore a black robe with an embroidered phrase. “Sleep at Astaroth’s”
“What is wrong my daughter?” He asked her.
“My birthmarks. They are coming in.”
“Oh no. It is going to be harder than ever for you to get a man now.”
“Oh I know! I am probably going to die if one of them sucks my toes. I’ll just die laughing!” She put her hands on her chin.
“Let me see them.” He said calmly. The girl proceeded to remove her shirt. On her skin, other wise flawless, were purple spots and designs. At each armpit, were two middle fingertip sized circles.
On her chest, running in an arc from each scapula, were purple rings, like an azure Egyptian necklace. Going down in between her breasts, was an upside down ankh, placed so that the hoop surrounded the navel, and a dark purple spot was right there. The man touched the ankh.
“Yeeheheahahaaaaaaaaaahhh!!!!” She screamed, jerking away from him, slipping on her shoestring and falling to the floor, still giggling from the man’s touch.
“Hmmm…I know what you need. Desensitizing.” He grabbed her arm and took her to another room.
Back in her grey T-shirt, Machiavelle was stuck in a god-forsaken contraption, used by her father to “welcome” maidens as he called them, into the New World of their lives. It had Machiavelle on her knees, her huge sneaker clad feet locked in a pair of manacles, and her arms outspread behind her, like the wings of an angel. The wind entering the room blew her short red hair. The man stood behind her.
“Are you ready daughter?”
“Yes daddy.” She said meekly. As soon as he began, as soon as his finger, pressed, her armpit, Machiavelle, nearly broke the contraption, the way she jerked.
“Shit! Ahahahahaaa!!!!It tickles so bad daddy!” She laughed as the fingers kept pressing the pressure points. The whole table and block would move each time she jerked around.
“Aaaahahaha! Why me daddy?”
“I don’t know my child, I suppose that is my punishment.” He said in a solemn tone. He began to prod at her ribcage. Where more purple designs lay unseen. Her screams of laughter tore through the vaulted halls of the old cathedral in the sky.
Her father made her way down to her slim waistline, where he worked his long bony fingers, about the ankh on her front. And repeatedly, he dug his ten fingers into her navel; each having a span of one minute in her purple dashed umbilical mark.
“No! Not the button!!! Ahahahahahaaa!!!” She thrust forwards, only to fall back, and wiggled her hips. “Nahahahahahaaa!!! Daddy please!! Stop!!” Tears filled her eyes. In his heart, he knew he wanted to stop, but he simply couldn’t. No matter how heart wrenching his daughter’s pleas were. It was imperative, that he continue the procedure until it was finished. Ultimately, lessening her despair.
“It must go on Machiavelle. It must be finished.” He said as he worked about her hips. “Machiavelle, are there anymore birthmarks upon you?”
“Ahaha…Ahhahalll over my legs and feet!!” She managed to squeal. She screamed with horrid delight when his hands began tickling the backs and insides of her thighs. “Shiahahahaa!!! Damnitdamnitdamnit! Whahahahaayyymeheheeheeheee!!” His hands suddenly flew back to her ribs, just under her heaving breasts. She immediately went spastic.
“Machiavelle, how long were these birthmarks here before you told me today?”
“I found them and came straight to youyahahaha!!!” She turned her head, this way and that, rocking the contraption, which held her in place. The time seemed to pass quickly for Machiavelle, as her father tickled the senses out of her. But time slowed down as she felt the pause and felt the right sneaker being removed.
Oh no here it comes! She thought to herself as her steamy socked foot cooled. Then what she feared most had arrived. His firm fingers dug into the soft, sock clad flesh her nerves flew into a rage.
“Shit! Aaauugh!!!!!Hahahahahahahahahaaaahahahahaahaaaa!!!!” Her toes flexed and her foot curled and straightened spastically. The pink and white socked foot did acrobatics in the manacle. Which was simply a show of torture from Machiavelle’s body. As if her screams were not enough. It seemed as if each stroke of her tender socked foot took forever to end. Only to have another one bring up the rear of the previous one. One by one each toe was tugged, each ball was brushed, her heel were hecked, and her sole was scratched. Then he took her sock off. Revealing, that her whole foot was purple. Her bare foot stank but it did not discourage him. He had to help his daughter. He pulled off her other sneaker and repeated the same motions on her other foot. Her luscious toes were prodded and their forms increased in her sock. All over her socked foot, his two hands scrabbled along, and peal after peal of laughter erupted from the girl’s mouth.
Below in the foyer, three of Machiavelle’s sisters Ceres, Corsice and Fenrire, listened to the labored please and cries of mercy from their terribly afflicted sister.
“Man.” Ceres said. She was the Blonde one who called Machiavelle a whore, earlier, “Dad must really have his hands full with Machiavelle.” She wore a pair of tight blue jeans, a black shirt and black boots.
“Ceres,” said Fenrire, a blue eyed red head with wide hips and skinny legs, “Dad loves tickling Machiavelle! He would tickle her within an inch of her life, more than any of us.” She turned and faced the mirror. She wore blue jeans, a white shirt and white socks. “I remember when he used to tickle the shit out of me. Did I like it? Hell yeah it turned me on always. Was it freakish? Yeah I am a freaky person, any guy or girl who has ever seen me or been with me knows that. Does dad pick favorites? Sure does. And before Machi was born, I was his main tickle toy. Sometimes I wish I was still in his room, being tickled by his long, spider like fingers.”
“Is that why I see you sticking your feet down the Landworms burrow, slathered with honey?” Corsice asked. She was the one in the tight black corset and leather pants and bare feet.
“Uuhhh…how do you know I slather my feet with honey?” She asked nervously. Backing away from her two approaching sisters.
“Oh…we know a lot about you Fenrire. We know that you aren’t as ticklish as Machiavelle, but you can die laughing. Like you almost did when you fell into the tarantula hole on Ceremony Covene. Boy you sure laughed like a hyena when you got stepped on by hundreds of little tickle feet huh?” They began taunting, staring coldly at her and wiggling their fingers in the air. They neared her and she began sceaming.
Machiavelle’s father stopped tickling her quickly and slowed down
Thank god. She thought as he finally stopped. Her peace turned to anxiety as her socks were pulled off and a slimy, sweet smelling liquid was spread on her feet. If she could look back, she would have seen that her feet were covered in thick globs of honey. She would also have seen, the Ratmas. The Ratmas a creatures resembling Goats without heads. Their heads are beneath their necks and what their head is, is a flattened human face, covered in white hair. The one thing that was very strange about them, were their tongues, which were thirty times the length of their bodies, smooth as glass, and contained little worms which embedded themselves in the skin when threatened.
“Now Machiavelle,” said her father, in a labored tone. “This will hurt me infinitely more than it will you.” Machiavelle didn’t know what was coming. but by the tone in her father’s voice, it couldn’t be good. That is when she felt the slick feeling of the tongues on her soles. She tried to hold the laughter in, tried to keep from screaming, but it was only a matter of time, as her pale white face, grew red and her smile grew wider.
In the foyer, Circe and Cosice sat on the steps leading up from the remarkably modern foyer, to the archaic, looking castle area.
“How long do you think they will be up there?” Circe asked.
“Well, they should be coming down now.” Corsice replied. “Judging by how long they have been up there.”
“I hope we don’t have another power outage.”
“What?”
“When you were getting another man to bring down here, Dad tickled Machiavelle, and she laughed so hard, the lights went out all over the kingdom.”
“Oh…I see.”
“I am worried about Machiavelle.” Ceres said with a sorrowful tone.
“Why?”
“Exile.”
“Oh…you mean because she can’t get a man?”
“Precisely. And if she can’t get a man to bring to Hell, she will be exiled, as opposed to executed.”
“Exactly how long does she have?”
“Five months. Before the blood moon becomes white. If she can not Bring a man to the world of the condemned, she can not live with us anymore.” She began to tremble, and a tear rolled down her eye. “I don’t want her to leave! She’s too young to be exiled from her family!”
Corsice patted her back and hugged her. “Don’t worry Ceres, let’s go see a Forsa. She can tell us whether she will get a man or not.”
Ceres’s eyes grew red and her voice grew into a demonic hiss.
“They can’t help her! They can’t help us to understand any of this!” She turned and began to storm away, then she turned to face her siste,r who was surprised at her actions. Ceres was usually a soft, gentle succubus, with great manners. “Our sister is cursed….it was like that before she was born!” The lightsi n the castle blew out, as well as all over the local area, and Machiavelle’s melodic laughter rolled down the steps, a haunting melody, to hear in the darkness.
