The-Tickling-Master
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One of my stories that just became public. Want to read more of my stuff? Check out my Patreon, where for 3 USD you can have access to all my public stories the moment they are ready, or for 5USD that + exclusive novella-lenght stories! Click here to check it out: https://www.patreon.com/c/ttmwriting
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Young miss Hannah Abrams was not having the best of days. And it totally wasn’t her fault! Any girl her age would be upset at going to such an important party and finding that skank Lizzie wearing the exact same goddamn dress. Hannah would obviously rather die than be called a copycat, so reluctantly, she left - and was now missing out on the party while all her friends were enjoying themselves. She scrolled bitterly on Instagram, watching the stories of those having fun. Not fair. What was the point of being at university if she couldn’t enjoy the parties? It’s not like she was getting any younger - She was 24 already! Soon the partying days would be over.
She didn’t even understand why Jason invited Lizzie. Lie, she did - folks had been saying Jason and Lizzie were starting to date, but of course Hannah ignored those rumors. Jason must know by now she was interested in him, and naturally she was so much better. She was blond, for starters, long hair flowing like golden rays of sunshine all the way down to the middle of her back. Nothing of that boyish, brunette short shit that Lizzie had. Hannah was also smaller - 5’6, perfect cuddling height, rather than that freakish giant height of her rival. She was slim, where Lizzie was - well, to be fair, Lizzie was also quite slim, but she didn’t have Hannah’s C-cups! She barely had tits!
Maybe Jason was more of an ass guy? Admittedly, on that front, Lizzie got her beat - but that was still, what 4x1? Hannah was obviously a much better pick! Most of the class frothed at the mouth when she passed by! She was so goddamn hot, and she knew it, and she knew Jason knew it, and she was pretty sure Jason knew she hated Lizzie, so why!
Maybe this was her parents fault. They were always traveling, always a new archeological find somewhere that called for their presence. The money was nice, sure, but sometimes she missed feeling they cared. When she talked about the party and they offered to buy a dress, she was quite happy; but obviously they picked the most basic option if it was one goddamn no-sense-of-style Lizzie also picked for herself. No thought put into it. Sigh.
She was half discussing the possibility of changing clothes and going back to the party. People would talk about it, though. Gossip would spread. Did anyone notice she was wearing the same dress as Lizzie, or did she leave fast enough to not have anyone figure out? But they surely would if she returned, right? People would notice she came by, left, and returned with another dress. That would make them think - and someone would connect the dots. Then what? She refused to have folks think she cared so much about Lizzie. There was also the matter of time - it would take another solid 45 minutes on the trip back, and by that time she’d have missed half the party already.
Better to cut her losses here and just… rest, she supposed. There would be classes tomorrow and she’d get to make fun of those who were too hungover or sleep deprived to keep their focus.
She thanked the uber driver and he stopped by her luxurious residence, gave him an adequate tip, and made her way inside, still watching the reels on her phone, still simmering in jealousy and resentment. If she had paid more attention to her surroundings and less on her social drama, maybe she’d have noticed the signs that something was wrong. Maybe the words of her parents about safety and the dangers of having their house be targeted by unscrupulous parties could have echoed in her mind. She could have avoided what happened next.
Instead, the full-volume blasting of party sounds and university students cheering alerted the man that was meddling upstairs. Robber by trade, but the type that actually spends some time researching their targets. The type that would know the house was going to be empty on that night, as the parents were on a trip and the daughter was at a party (It’s fascinating the things you find out about someone simply by following their social media). The type that expected a simple ‘drop in, steal some priceless archeological artifacts, leave’ job.
But he was stumped as he found out the couple, despite being an avid collector of antiquities from their jobs, did not display them anywhere in the mansion. The place was luxurious, sure, but not to the standards they’d expect seeing from the outside. The decorations were expensive, but not to the point of making his operation worth it. He didn’t bring trucks or even a car - just a bike, parked a block away. He couldn’t take a grandfather clock or big vase. He was expecting gems too, but found none. Seems these bastards didn’t have many small goods.
But crucially, he didn’t find any artifacts. But that couldn’t be. He had researched them. He knew they were collectors of some very expensive items. His goal was mainly a bunch of coins from an yet-unknown civilization of which only two sets existed - the one in the British Museum, and the one in this house. From his research, the estimation for resale was of a couple hundred million. But there were others, like the famed Tablet of Grains, a small stone tablet used by a grain seller, which also described how he was over-charging the clients he saw as gullible enough - another few dozen million in value. Any of these or a similar item would make his operation and preparation worth it.
Finally, after a lot of searching many rooms, he found a promising lead - a huge painting with signs of being moved often. Look behind and - lo and behold, a safe! Big one, too. Sturdy. Far too sturdy to break. Dammit. The lightweight nature of his operation meant he couldn’t bring tools to deal with this type of thing. He was expecting to find those items displayed in one of the rooms of this giant mansion, but he had already verified that to not be the case. They could only be behind the safe. It was the only option.
Trying to crack the combination by listening to the sounds of the wheel could be possible, but it would take a while. He had time, but not all night - the parents were gone, but the daughter still lived in the house and--
The sounds hit his ears like a brick, his heart skipping a beat. Someone else was here. The sounds were being projected by something - a phone, for sure. Downstairs, in the entrance hall. The daughter? No, that wasn’t possible!! He had researched it. He knew she was going to a party. He even knew how often she tended to stay on these - around 4 hours. She should still have at least two and a half!
He was about to curse his luck, and hatch an escape plan - before he realized this could very well be the solution to his problems…
The girl was distracted, mumbling to herself and checking the phone as she put her bag on a hanger and started making her way up the staircases. He hid in one of the offices. He knew which one was her bedroom; he waited for her to pass by his door, and slithered out of his hiding spot. He grabbed her before she noticed him. No fancy chemicals - he merely choked her from behind, and Hannah passed out in seconds, panicked and confused.
–//–
She woke up with essentially the same feelings, like jolting awake from a bad dream, her sensory system in overload. The panic and confusion were not helped in the slightest when, trying to get up, she realized she had been tied down. Her heart rate skyrocketed, dazed mind unable to comprehend what was going on. Then, adrenaline took over, and it was like being thrown a bucket of ice water; she was awake and her mind was on problem-solving, fight-or-flight mode. Soon she pieced out her ordeal: The room, she recognized, was her mother’s office, where they handled most of their work when they needed to work from home, which was rare. The thing she was tied to was a recliner chair, mostly used for her Dad to take a short nap, as he had a habit to do halfway through a working day. ‘Keeps the brain fresh!’ He’d say. Suddenly, despite her previous, petty anger at them, she really wished they were here.
And the reason she was tied up - most likely some sort of intruder. Probably the man that slowly came into view as her brain went back to full function. He looked at her with satisfied eyes.
“Finally. Was getting afraid I had killed you by accident.” He said. The man was dressed all in black, a balaclava hood obscuring his expression and preventing her from ever identifying him. A classical bandit getup. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, a cold tingle of fear running up her spine.
“D-don’t hurt me, please.” She stuttered out.
“That will depend on you, missy. I came here to grab some valuables and dip, but your parents decided to make it hard.” He says, gesturing to the wall - more specifically, to the safe. Hannah knew of its existence, but had actually never learned of its location - not that she cared, truth be told. “Tell me the code and I can leave, and all of this will just be a big scare for you.”
“B-but… I don’t know the combination!” She pleaded. A half truth, half lie. Her parents had shown her the combination before, and in fact she even had some jewelry of her own in it - a pair of earrings from her grandma, which had been passed down from generation to generation within the family, and was being saved up for the day she got married. While often she got a desire to take them out and wear them while she was still young (and in an environment where expensive jewelry would stand out immensely, like the university world), she still respected her grandma’s and mother’s wish and kept it there.
And that pair was all she could think of as he asked. She couldn’t risk having that thug take them away.
“Is that so?” The bandit asked with a sarcastic tone. It was clear he did not buy it. “Excuse me for being a bit skeptical. Don’t worry though - I have ways of making you talk.”
The lad liked to think himself to not be a bad person. His mother had raised him to not hurt others, especially other ladies. He could put on a mean voice and a scowl, but he wasn't about to beat that girl black and blue. Worst case scenario, he could just leave her tied up and gagged so she wouldn’t be a bother, and try to open the safe in other ways, even if it wasn’t ideal.
But as he was tying her up, an idea came to life, brought forward by images and scenes from cartoons in his childhood. Notably, the vivid image of Don Turtellim brandishing his fiendish feather against miss April O’Neil of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
That could be a great solution, huh?
Well, the time to test it out had arrived. Smirking like a villain, he grabbed the girl’s shoes, an open sandal, and pulled them out. Hannah squirmed in place, confused at what was going on. Maybe the guy was some sort of foot pervert? Those existed; she had seen on TikTok on a video of strangest fetishes. Hmm… no - he discarded her shoes rather than sniffing or acting weird.
Her toes wriggled uncomfortably atop her size 7s. You know what they say about guys with big feet, right? Well, turns out they didn’t say anything even remotely nice about girls with big feet. She had been bullied for them before. Thankfully, she was too confident of herself to develop a complex. In fact, she always did her best to keep them well cared for - you never know when a cute guy might be a fan of feet, right?
At the very least, she kept her nails always painted, polished and manicured. She looked down at the man, and her blue robins eggs nails caught her attention. Damn, it was such a cute tone and she didn’t get to show it off at the party!
But the question remained - the guy said he had means to make her talk, all ominuous, like he was about to torture her. It certainly put a lot of fear in her chest. But then he proceeded to remove her shoes - why? What type of torture involves feet? It made her think of the expression ‘holding your feet to the fire’ . Maybe that had an actual meaning? But he didn’t seem about to st anything on fire. He seemed more ready to touch her fe–
She felt it, and understood, and the fear returned tenfold. Well - admittedly, with a bit of relief too. It was a mixed feeling. Like, sure - it was nice to know he wasn’t going to pull out her toenails, or burn her with cigarettes, or whatever horrid thing his mind could conjure. The more logical, analytical part of her brain felt relief at the idea of being tickled over the alternatives.
But - Why did it have to be tickling?? She was super sensitive! Always had been! She couldn’t stand it! Many a boyfriend before have used that to their advantage - to play pranks, or even to convince her to do certain… acts. And now, as the fingers awkwardly dragged themselves on her soles, she was being given a potent reminder of how quickly it could make her comply - then, and now.
She was ready to confess. Cracked in seconds. Too ticklish, too bothered. The thought of how much her parents would be upset at their collection being ransacked barely crossed her mind - that was their problem, and she always found their collection a bit stupid, anyways. Losing her earrings was a bit more painful - but there was no point. She could try to be strong, but the guy would just tickle her for hours, and it was not going to be worth it. Might as well save herself immediately.
She was ready to give him the code. There was just one problem.
She had seen the code before, back when she placed her earrings in the safe, but that had been years ago. She didn’t bother paying attention! If she ever wanted them out she just had to ask her parents! Why would she remember it?
Why didn’t she remember it? She was cursing herself for it now, as her laughter grew higher and higher in pitch and volume as the man started scratching with more vigor, using the tips of his fingers rather than just awkwardly applying pressure to her soles. The bandit was no master of tickle torture, that was for sure - but for the sensitive, spoiled heiress, it was more than enough.
He was, however, a good learner. He kept his focus on her feet, watching intently how it moved when he stimulated every spot, trying many methods. Experimenting. If he has to do this, why not have some fun, right? It was fun to watch her squirm and hear her laughter, and it was doubly so to try different things and see how they affected her. Soon he settled on a method that seemed efficient enough, by slowly, oh so slowly, raking his nails down her soles, from the top to the very bottom. She’d shiver and whimper at the start before bursting in cackling laughter and half-formed pleas as the hands teased the very center of her soles.
Then he experimented further - what if he stopped midway through, and spent a few seconds just brushing his fingers up and down in the center? Oh, that made her howl higher. The pleas, too, became more desperate.
“NOOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHREEHEHEH!!! NOHOHOHT MY FHEHEHEHEHET PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSHEHEHEHE!!!” She screamed. He smirked, satisfied with the progress.
Hannah felt like dying. She pulled and pulled against her bonds, but nothing worked. She had been too firmly tied. Her mind was starting to unravel past her grasp in ways she had never felt before. She couldn’t think of anything coherent; all her thoughts were about the tickling, how awful it is, or how to escape it, but they were not fully formed thoughts, and her mind quickly discarded them and switched to a new one before she could even fully grasp it. To poor Hannah, it felt as close as she ever had to going insane.
“IHIIHHI DOHOHOHNTT REMEHEHEHEHMMBEHEHEHERR PLLHEHEHEHAHAHAHSSEHEHEH!!”
“So you do know the code.” The bandit said, triumphant. “Don’t worry, I’m sure your memory just needs a little reminder…” He said, looking around. Don Turtelli used feathers - so maybe he should use some tool as well? He did not see any feathers around, but he did see something that caught his attention:
Fancy pens, with very thin, very sharp points.
When the man finally stopped tickling her, Hannah almost cried of relief, thinking she finally had made him understand she could not remember the code. When she saw him re-approaching, gaze fixed on her soles, panic overtook her once more. “Please, I’m telling the truth I don’t remember PLEASE DON’T TICKLE ME ANYMORE I’LL DO ANYTHING!!” She pleaded, getting more and more deranged with each word; every single one of them fell on deaf ears. As if she hadn’t said anything, the man sat down, pulled out the pen, held one foot with one hand, and started writing with the other.
God, it was so much worse. She thought the fingers were bad; she was wrong. The cold touch of the pen was so concentrated, so pointed, that somehow it seemed to activate her nerves so much worse despite covering a much lesser area. She could feel every stroke. It drilled into her brain uninvited, like a bull in a porcelain shop. “NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOO!!!” She screamed. Too much. This was too much.
Naturally, it managed to get worse even further. The man started focusing on each individual toe, drawing little shapes - a smiley here, a cross there. The skin in those areas was much thinner, much more sensitive, and each stroke made her buckle madly on the recliner chair.
“Such cute toes you have. The blue nails are pretty too.” He teased. “And they seem so horribly ticklish… Still can’t recall that code?” He asks.
She couldn’t. Oh how she wished she could. She’d give anything to make this nightmare stop.
The other foot was subjected to the same treatment; once more, she screamed, howling in laughter until her throat was sore. And yet, she knew very well there was no point in having hope a neighbor would save her; the estate took pretty much the entire block, situated right in the middle of it, and the walls were thick. Most of the rooms were soundproof in and of themselves - not by design, merely as a result of the construction. She doubted even a single peep of hers was leaving the house, much less strongly enough to cross the entire length necessary to alert someone.
No, she was alone with this torment. Only she could save herself. And the only way was to remember the code.
The bandit smirked. He knew she was close to cracking. She must be. Girl was clearly losing her mind. Whether she was being honest about not remembering or just stubbornly defiant, sooner or later something would give in. Besides - he couldn’t deny it was fun. He’d continue for that reason alone.
“Oh dear. Such a messy pair of feet you have now, all scribbled up!” She wanted to scream ‘and whose fault is that?’, but she didn’t dare to provoke him. She feared the ticklish retaliation such an action could cause. “Don’t worry though. We can fix that…” He says, taking a leave.
She was thankful for the break, for sure - but also terrified for what he had in mind. She tried to keep her imagination from tormenting her, but it was much easier said than done.
Soon, he returned, with the roughest sponge he could find - a natural kind her father loved to use, a tangled web of natural fiber - as well as a bucket of water and soap. Her heart sank at the sight.
“No, please, I’ll tell you, I swear, just stop!!” She whimpered.
“Very well, then.” He said, although he did not halt his advance. He squatted in front of her, smirking. “Tell me, then.”
She wanted to. So badly. Why couldn’t she remember??? “It… I think it starts with 7…” She said, desperate.
The bandit said no words; he merely dunked the sponge in the water, and started scrubbing. And Hannah started screaming. Each individual stroke of the sponge wasn’t much worse than the pen, but the sheer constancy of it was maddening. It also seemed to get worse with each passing second, as if the scrubbing was shedding away her defenses, sensitizing the skin. Had she paid a bit more attention to the biological sciences course her parents were paying such a premium for, she might be able to figure out that, indeed, th scrubbing would be peeling off a few layers of skin cells, and also causing blood to flow to the region, all of which could certainly make it more sensitive. But alas, she had always been so much more focused on her social media than her studies, and the phenomena remained a mystery for her, although one she was exploring deeply in a practical sense.
Periodically, the sponge could go back into the bucket before being reapplied. And, naturally, no skin was spared; not the soles, not the toes, not the space under and between them, not the heels or the arches. It only took a few minutes for her to be as distressed as before the pause, and things only went downhill from there. The coldness of her wet feet exposed to the air was such a minor inconvenience in comparison to the torturous scrubbing that it almost went unnoticed.
And her mind was working in overdrive, trying to shut down any process it could so it could dedicate itself solely to two tasks: Processing the ticklish stimuli, and searching its confines for the information to make it stop. Slowly, the scene of her placing the earrings in the safe came to her mind, with scary vividness. It’s wonderful the things the mind can do when pushed to its limits. She saw the scene in first person, as it was back then; she saw her mom smiling and going to open the safe. She could almost feel herself leaning in inside her own mind, all attention focused on it, clinging to the vision as a lifeline… and then her eyes drifted away, checking her cellphone. No, you stupid bitch, look up! LOOK AT THE SAFE!
“PLEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHSHSHEHEHEHE!!!”
Her past self looked at the safe. It was brief, but Hannah saw it. 7451. She was saved!
“IHIHIHIH RHEHEHEMHENNBEHEHEHR STOHOHOHOHPP!! IHIHIHIHIHLLL TAHAHAHAHAHALLKKK!!!”
“If I stop and you give me a false code, I’ll make you regret it. Do you understand?”
“YEHEHEHEHESS!” She screamed in panic. Stupid bandit, do you know how hard it is to keep the combination in mind and not forget it while you tickle my soles?
Finally, the scrubs stopped. Amidst tears and gasping, she coughed the numbers as fast as she could. The man rushed to the safe, testing the combination; Hannah could feel her heart pounding on her chest. What if the code was wrong? She couldn’t handle any more tickling…
She almost cried of relief when the safe opened. Her parents would understand, surely. It was just tickling, but it was torture. She had no choice.
The bandit took what he could into his bag. Then, he pondered. All the rush of his operation was centered on getting out before the daughter came back…
He knew the parents would be out all month. The servants, only back in the morning. It was just him and the girl. And she was pretty. So pretty, and oh, so ticklish…
He smirked.
“Excellent.” He said - and, much to Hannah’s despair, approached once more “Your soles are clean again. Let’s discuss the password to your parent’s email next, shall we?”
She did not know that one, at all. This had to be a nightmare.
Over the next while, she learned how deep the appreciation of that man for tools went. It became fun for him; she could see that. Interrogation was now just a pretense - if she somehow coughed up the email, he’d find something new to inquire about.
Hannah was lost in a nightmare she could not escape from. First, he used the pens once more, playing tic-tac-toe on her soles, forcing Hannah to pick where she wanted the next piece to go, promising to stop if she won - as if she could keep track of the board state in her goddamn feet! Each time she lost, he punished her by introducing a hairbrush, the plastic bristles eroding her sanity with each stroke.
Then, came the feather duster. She didn’t expect it to be so bad, but, once again, she neglected the sensitizing effect of that pen on her flesh, how her nerves had been woken up and put on edge, and how that made even the lightest strokes that much more devastating. Each lick of the feathers was an agony, one that carried the anxiety of the next - for she knew there would be a next one, and a next after that, and she also knew she could do nothing to stop it. She rummaged through every corner of her mind in search of the information the captor could want, even if her rational side knew better. But this time, no amount of despair could make the search fruitful; she simply could not conjure that which she did not know.
She started saying other things; whatever came to mind that could possibly please him. The location of other valuables. Her own personal treasures in her room. Her panties and socks - he was a freak, right? She even offered her body; did her best to put a sultry voice in an utterly useless display, for the act was see-through. Still, it was the best she could do under the circumstances - and they wouldn’t have mattered anyways, because it was not what her tormentor was interested in.
He had already found something that gave him far more pleasure than any coerced fuck could.
The next step was flossers. She felt a relief when the tool was revealed; she thought he’d just tease her sole with one of the ends of the string, and she was sure that would be so much easier to handle. Unfortunately, she lacked the creativity her captor had in spades; her fantasies of mercy were dispelled as soon as he placed the flosser between her big toe and the next, pulled both ends down, and started grinding the string against the sensitive flesh; she howled, jumping in place, struggling to understand what was going on and how it could tickle that much.
“PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSHEHEHEHE IHIHIHI DOHOHOHNNTT KNOHOHOHOHOWWW!!” She screamed for the umptenth time, trying to make him understand. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t take a single second more of this ticklish torture. “MAHAHAHAHAKKHEHEEHEHEH IHIHIHHIHITT STOHOHOHOHOHOP!!!”
“Sorry, gal.” The bandit said, amusement dripping in his voice. “I’m having far too much fun.” And there it was. The horrid confession. The undeniable reality that she was going to be forced to face - the man was no longer interested in anything she had to give besides her suffering. It was all over for her.
Then, all of a sudden, something slimy and wet started caressing her soles. She looked down in disgust to find the man licking her feet, teeth grinding against her toes. Oh God. It was horrible. Everything was so sensitized, and the texture against her flesh felt so horrible. Reluctantly, she was forced to admit there was a world in which that coul possibly, maybe, feel nice - with the right guy, in the right context, and perhaps with someone who is more aiming at caressing than tickling her. But right now? It was hell.
But nothing was more hellish than the hairbrushes he had used previously, and that was the tool he ultimately settled on, much to her despair. Life became the left and right motions of those bristles on the canvas of her soles. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed; the very seat of her consciousness was there, left and right, left and right, a dance of plastic on skin, constant. She needed an escape. She was feeling her body starting to shut down. The breathing was erratic. Her whole body seemed to burn, then get cold.The edges of her view started getting blurry - and that’s when she realized an escape was available. She tried to chase the unconsciousness, and that only seemed to push it further away, like a hare evading a lion. She tried to take focus away from it, but to focus on what? The tickling? Nothing else existed, but she was tired of focusing on that. So, so tired. She was so, so, so tired…
The Bandit stopped once he realized the laughter had been silent for a few seconds. Raising his gaze, he tsked at the realization she had passed out. “Darn, didn’t even get to try the rest of her body…” He said. He collected his valuables, and prepared to leave… But then, he looked at the restrained Hannah.
Tickling her had been the most fun thing he had ever done in his life. Hmmm…
His bike could fit two, and he was strong enough to carry her. The street was empty… He could do it.
Luckily for Hannah’s parents, that coice spelled the bandit’s downfall. A neighbor saw it and called the police; after a few days of intense investigation, Hannah was recovered, and the man arrested.
Unfortunately for Hannah, nothing - not the arrest, not her parents, not the years of therapy after - could ever undo what she had to endure those four days.
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Young miss Hannah Abrams was not having the best of days. And it totally wasn’t her fault! Any girl her age would be upset at going to such an important party and finding that skank Lizzie wearing the exact same goddamn dress. Hannah would obviously rather die than be called a copycat, so reluctantly, she left - and was now missing out on the party while all her friends were enjoying themselves. She scrolled bitterly on Instagram, watching the stories of those having fun. Not fair. What was the point of being at university if she couldn’t enjoy the parties? It’s not like she was getting any younger - She was 24 already! Soon the partying days would be over.
She didn’t even understand why Jason invited Lizzie. Lie, she did - folks had been saying Jason and Lizzie were starting to date, but of course Hannah ignored those rumors. Jason must know by now she was interested in him, and naturally she was so much better. She was blond, for starters, long hair flowing like golden rays of sunshine all the way down to the middle of her back. Nothing of that boyish, brunette short shit that Lizzie had. Hannah was also smaller - 5’6, perfect cuddling height, rather than that freakish giant height of her rival. She was slim, where Lizzie was - well, to be fair, Lizzie was also quite slim, but she didn’t have Hannah’s C-cups! She barely had tits!
Maybe Jason was more of an ass guy? Admittedly, on that front, Lizzie got her beat - but that was still, what 4x1? Hannah was obviously a much better pick! Most of the class frothed at the mouth when she passed by! She was so goddamn hot, and she knew it, and she knew Jason knew it, and she was pretty sure Jason knew she hated Lizzie, so why!
Maybe this was her parents fault. They were always traveling, always a new archeological find somewhere that called for their presence. The money was nice, sure, but sometimes she missed feeling they cared. When she talked about the party and they offered to buy a dress, she was quite happy; but obviously they picked the most basic option if it was one goddamn no-sense-of-style Lizzie also picked for herself. No thought put into it. Sigh.
She was half discussing the possibility of changing clothes and going back to the party. People would talk about it, though. Gossip would spread. Did anyone notice she was wearing the same dress as Lizzie, or did she leave fast enough to not have anyone figure out? But they surely would if she returned, right? People would notice she came by, left, and returned with another dress. That would make them think - and someone would connect the dots. Then what? She refused to have folks think she cared so much about Lizzie. There was also the matter of time - it would take another solid 45 minutes on the trip back, and by that time she’d have missed half the party already.
Better to cut her losses here and just… rest, she supposed. There would be classes tomorrow and she’d get to make fun of those who were too hungover or sleep deprived to keep their focus.
She thanked the uber driver and he stopped by her luxurious residence, gave him an adequate tip, and made her way inside, still watching the reels on her phone, still simmering in jealousy and resentment. If she had paid more attention to her surroundings and less on her social drama, maybe she’d have noticed the signs that something was wrong. Maybe the words of her parents about safety and the dangers of having their house be targeted by unscrupulous parties could have echoed in her mind. She could have avoided what happened next.
Instead, the full-volume blasting of party sounds and university students cheering alerted the man that was meddling upstairs. Robber by trade, but the type that actually spends some time researching their targets. The type that would know the house was going to be empty on that night, as the parents were on a trip and the daughter was at a party (It’s fascinating the things you find out about someone simply by following their social media). The type that expected a simple ‘drop in, steal some priceless archeological artifacts, leave’ job.
But he was stumped as he found out the couple, despite being an avid collector of antiquities from their jobs, did not display them anywhere in the mansion. The place was luxurious, sure, but not to the standards they’d expect seeing from the outside. The decorations were expensive, but not to the point of making his operation worth it. He didn’t bring trucks or even a car - just a bike, parked a block away. He couldn’t take a grandfather clock or big vase. He was expecting gems too, but found none. Seems these bastards didn’t have many small goods.
But crucially, he didn’t find any artifacts. But that couldn’t be. He had researched them. He knew they were collectors of some very expensive items. His goal was mainly a bunch of coins from an yet-unknown civilization of which only two sets existed - the one in the British Museum, and the one in this house. From his research, the estimation for resale was of a couple hundred million. But there were others, like the famed Tablet of Grains, a small stone tablet used by a grain seller, which also described how he was over-charging the clients he saw as gullible enough - another few dozen million in value. Any of these or a similar item would make his operation and preparation worth it.
Finally, after a lot of searching many rooms, he found a promising lead - a huge painting with signs of being moved often. Look behind and - lo and behold, a safe! Big one, too. Sturdy. Far too sturdy to break. Dammit. The lightweight nature of his operation meant he couldn’t bring tools to deal with this type of thing. He was expecting to find those items displayed in one of the rooms of this giant mansion, but he had already verified that to not be the case. They could only be behind the safe. It was the only option.
Trying to crack the combination by listening to the sounds of the wheel could be possible, but it would take a while. He had time, but not all night - the parents were gone, but the daughter still lived in the house and--
The sounds hit his ears like a brick, his heart skipping a beat. Someone else was here. The sounds were being projected by something - a phone, for sure. Downstairs, in the entrance hall. The daughter? No, that wasn’t possible!! He had researched it. He knew she was going to a party. He even knew how often she tended to stay on these - around 4 hours. She should still have at least two and a half!
He was about to curse his luck, and hatch an escape plan - before he realized this could very well be the solution to his problems…
The girl was distracted, mumbling to herself and checking the phone as she put her bag on a hanger and started making her way up the staircases. He hid in one of the offices. He knew which one was her bedroom; he waited for her to pass by his door, and slithered out of his hiding spot. He grabbed her before she noticed him. No fancy chemicals - he merely choked her from behind, and Hannah passed out in seconds, panicked and confused.
–//–
She woke up with essentially the same feelings, like jolting awake from a bad dream, her sensory system in overload. The panic and confusion were not helped in the slightest when, trying to get up, she realized she had been tied down. Her heart rate skyrocketed, dazed mind unable to comprehend what was going on. Then, adrenaline took over, and it was like being thrown a bucket of ice water; she was awake and her mind was on problem-solving, fight-or-flight mode. Soon she pieced out her ordeal: The room, she recognized, was her mother’s office, where they handled most of their work when they needed to work from home, which was rare. The thing she was tied to was a recliner chair, mostly used for her Dad to take a short nap, as he had a habit to do halfway through a working day. ‘Keeps the brain fresh!’ He’d say. Suddenly, despite her previous, petty anger at them, she really wished they were here.
And the reason she was tied up - most likely some sort of intruder. Probably the man that slowly came into view as her brain went back to full function. He looked at her with satisfied eyes.
“Finally. Was getting afraid I had killed you by accident.” He said. The man was dressed all in black, a balaclava hood obscuring his expression and preventing her from ever identifying him. A classical bandit getup. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, a cold tingle of fear running up her spine.
“D-don’t hurt me, please.” She stuttered out.
“That will depend on you, missy. I came here to grab some valuables and dip, but your parents decided to make it hard.” He says, gesturing to the wall - more specifically, to the safe. Hannah knew of its existence, but had actually never learned of its location - not that she cared, truth be told. “Tell me the code and I can leave, and all of this will just be a big scare for you.”
“B-but… I don’t know the combination!” She pleaded. A half truth, half lie. Her parents had shown her the combination before, and in fact she even had some jewelry of her own in it - a pair of earrings from her grandma, which had been passed down from generation to generation within the family, and was being saved up for the day she got married. While often she got a desire to take them out and wear them while she was still young (and in an environment where expensive jewelry would stand out immensely, like the university world), she still respected her grandma’s and mother’s wish and kept it there.
And that pair was all she could think of as he asked. She couldn’t risk having that thug take them away.
“Is that so?” The bandit asked with a sarcastic tone. It was clear he did not buy it. “Excuse me for being a bit skeptical. Don’t worry though - I have ways of making you talk.”
The lad liked to think himself to not be a bad person. His mother had raised him to not hurt others, especially other ladies. He could put on a mean voice and a scowl, but he wasn't about to beat that girl black and blue. Worst case scenario, he could just leave her tied up and gagged so she wouldn’t be a bother, and try to open the safe in other ways, even if it wasn’t ideal.
But as he was tying her up, an idea came to life, brought forward by images and scenes from cartoons in his childhood. Notably, the vivid image of Don Turtellim brandishing his fiendish feather against miss April O’Neil of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
That could be a great solution, huh?
Well, the time to test it out had arrived. Smirking like a villain, he grabbed the girl’s shoes, an open sandal, and pulled them out. Hannah squirmed in place, confused at what was going on. Maybe the guy was some sort of foot pervert? Those existed; she had seen on TikTok on a video of strangest fetishes. Hmm… no - he discarded her shoes rather than sniffing or acting weird.
Her toes wriggled uncomfortably atop her size 7s. You know what they say about guys with big feet, right? Well, turns out they didn’t say anything even remotely nice about girls with big feet. She had been bullied for them before. Thankfully, she was too confident of herself to develop a complex. In fact, she always did her best to keep them well cared for - you never know when a cute guy might be a fan of feet, right?
At the very least, she kept her nails always painted, polished and manicured. She looked down at the man, and her blue robins eggs nails caught her attention. Damn, it was such a cute tone and she didn’t get to show it off at the party!
But the question remained - the guy said he had means to make her talk, all ominuous, like he was about to torture her. It certainly put a lot of fear in her chest. But then he proceeded to remove her shoes - why? What type of torture involves feet? It made her think of the expression ‘holding your feet to the fire’ . Maybe that had an actual meaning? But he didn’t seem about to st anything on fire. He seemed more ready to touch her fe–
She felt it, and understood, and the fear returned tenfold. Well - admittedly, with a bit of relief too. It was a mixed feeling. Like, sure - it was nice to know he wasn’t going to pull out her toenails, or burn her with cigarettes, or whatever horrid thing his mind could conjure. The more logical, analytical part of her brain felt relief at the idea of being tickled over the alternatives.
But - Why did it have to be tickling?? She was super sensitive! Always had been! She couldn’t stand it! Many a boyfriend before have used that to their advantage - to play pranks, or even to convince her to do certain… acts. And now, as the fingers awkwardly dragged themselves on her soles, she was being given a potent reminder of how quickly it could make her comply - then, and now.
She was ready to confess. Cracked in seconds. Too ticklish, too bothered. The thought of how much her parents would be upset at their collection being ransacked barely crossed her mind - that was their problem, and she always found their collection a bit stupid, anyways. Losing her earrings was a bit more painful - but there was no point. She could try to be strong, but the guy would just tickle her for hours, and it was not going to be worth it. Might as well save herself immediately.
She was ready to give him the code. There was just one problem.
She had seen the code before, back when she placed her earrings in the safe, but that had been years ago. She didn’t bother paying attention! If she ever wanted them out she just had to ask her parents! Why would she remember it?
Why didn’t she remember it? She was cursing herself for it now, as her laughter grew higher and higher in pitch and volume as the man started scratching with more vigor, using the tips of his fingers rather than just awkwardly applying pressure to her soles. The bandit was no master of tickle torture, that was for sure - but for the sensitive, spoiled heiress, it was more than enough.
He was, however, a good learner. He kept his focus on her feet, watching intently how it moved when he stimulated every spot, trying many methods. Experimenting. If he has to do this, why not have some fun, right? It was fun to watch her squirm and hear her laughter, and it was doubly so to try different things and see how they affected her. Soon he settled on a method that seemed efficient enough, by slowly, oh so slowly, raking his nails down her soles, from the top to the very bottom. She’d shiver and whimper at the start before bursting in cackling laughter and half-formed pleas as the hands teased the very center of her soles.
Then he experimented further - what if he stopped midway through, and spent a few seconds just brushing his fingers up and down in the center? Oh, that made her howl higher. The pleas, too, became more desperate.
“NOOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHREEHEHEH!!! NOHOHOHT MY FHEHEHEHEHET PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSHEHEHEHE!!!” She screamed. He smirked, satisfied with the progress.
Hannah felt like dying. She pulled and pulled against her bonds, but nothing worked. She had been too firmly tied. Her mind was starting to unravel past her grasp in ways she had never felt before. She couldn’t think of anything coherent; all her thoughts were about the tickling, how awful it is, or how to escape it, but they were not fully formed thoughts, and her mind quickly discarded them and switched to a new one before she could even fully grasp it. To poor Hannah, it felt as close as she ever had to going insane.
“IHIIHHI DOHOHOHNTT REMEHEHEHEHMMBEHEHEHERR PLLHEHEHEHAHAHAHSSEHEHEH!!”
“So you do know the code.” The bandit said, triumphant. “Don’t worry, I’m sure your memory just needs a little reminder…” He said, looking around. Don Turtelli used feathers - so maybe he should use some tool as well? He did not see any feathers around, but he did see something that caught his attention:
Fancy pens, with very thin, very sharp points.
When the man finally stopped tickling her, Hannah almost cried of relief, thinking she finally had made him understand she could not remember the code. When she saw him re-approaching, gaze fixed on her soles, panic overtook her once more. “Please, I’m telling the truth I don’t remember PLEASE DON’T TICKLE ME ANYMORE I’LL DO ANYTHING!!” She pleaded, getting more and more deranged with each word; every single one of them fell on deaf ears. As if she hadn’t said anything, the man sat down, pulled out the pen, held one foot with one hand, and started writing with the other.
God, it was so much worse. She thought the fingers were bad; she was wrong. The cold touch of the pen was so concentrated, so pointed, that somehow it seemed to activate her nerves so much worse despite covering a much lesser area. She could feel every stroke. It drilled into her brain uninvited, like a bull in a porcelain shop. “NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOO!!!” She screamed. Too much. This was too much.
Naturally, it managed to get worse even further. The man started focusing on each individual toe, drawing little shapes - a smiley here, a cross there. The skin in those areas was much thinner, much more sensitive, and each stroke made her buckle madly on the recliner chair.
“Such cute toes you have. The blue nails are pretty too.” He teased. “And they seem so horribly ticklish… Still can’t recall that code?” He asks.
She couldn’t. Oh how she wished she could. She’d give anything to make this nightmare stop.
The other foot was subjected to the same treatment; once more, she screamed, howling in laughter until her throat was sore. And yet, she knew very well there was no point in having hope a neighbor would save her; the estate took pretty much the entire block, situated right in the middle of it, and the walls were thick. Most of the rooms were soundproof in and of themselves - not by design, merely as a result of the construction. She doubted even a single peep of hers was leaving the house, much less strongly enough to cross the entire length necessary to alert someone.
No, she was alone with this torment. Only she could save herself. And the only way was to remember the code.
The bandit smirked. He knew she was close to cracking. She must be. Girl was clearly losing her mind. Whether she was being honest about not remembering or just stubbornly defiant, sooner or later something would give in. Besides - he couldn’t deny it was fun. He’d continue for that reason alone.
“Oh dear. Such a messy pair of feet you have now, all scribbled up!” She wanted to scream ‘and whose fault is that?’, but she didn’t dare to provoke him. She feared the ticklish retaliation such an action could cause. “Don’t worry though. We can fix that…” He says, taking a leave.
She was thankful for the break, for sure - but also terrified for what he had in mind. She tried to keep her imagination from tormenting her, but it was much easier said than done.
Soon, he returned, with the roughest sponge he could find - a natural kind her father loved to use, a tangled web of natural fiber - as well as a bucket of water and soap. Her heart sank at the sight.
“No, please, I’ll tell you, I swear, just stop!!” She whimpered.
“Very well, then.” He said, although he did not halt his advance. He squatted in front of her, smirking. “Tell me, then.”
She wanted to. So badly. Why couldn’t she remember??? “It… I think it starts with 7…” She said, desperate.
The bandit said no words; he merely dunked the sponge in the water, and started scrubbing. And Hannah started screaming. Each individual stroke of the sponge wasn’t much worse than the pen, but the sheer constancy of it was maddening. It also seemed to get worse with each passing second, as if the scrubbing was shedding away her defenses, sensitizing the skin. Had she paid a bit more attention to the biological sciences course her parents were paying such a premium for, she might be able to figure out that, indeed, th scrubbing would be peeling off a few layers of skin cells, and also causing blood to flow to the region, all of which could certainly make it more sensitive. But alas, she had always been so much more focused on her social media than her studies, and the phenomena remained a mystery for her, although one she was exploring deeply in a practical sense.
Periodically, the sponge could go back into the bucket before being reapplied. And, naturally, no skin was spared; not the soles, not the toes, not the space under and between them, not the heels or the arches. It only took a few minutes for her to be as distressed as before the pause, and things only went downhill from there. The coldness of her wet feet exposed to the air was such a minor inconvenience in comparison to the torturous scrubbing that it almost went unnoticed.
And her mind was working in overdrive, trying to shut down any process it could so it could dedicate itself solely to two tasks: Processing the ticklish stimuli, and searching its confines for the information to make it stop. Slowly, the scene of her placing the earrings in the safe came to her mind, with scary vividness. It’s wonderful the things the mind can do when pushed to its limits. She saw the scene in first person, as it was back then; she saw her mom smiling and going to open the safe. She could almost feel herself leaning in inside her own mind, all attention focused on it, clinging to the vision as a lifeline… and then her eyes drifted away, checking her cellphone. No, you stupid bitch, look up! LOOK AT THE SAFE!
“PLEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHSHSHEHEHEHE!!!”
Her past self looked at the safe. It was brief, but Hannah saw it. 7451. She was saved!
“IHIHIHIH RHEHEHEMHENNBEHEHEHR STOHOHOHOHPP!! IHIHIHIHIHLLL TAHAHAHAHAHALLKKK!!!”
“If I stop and you give me a false code, I’ll make you regret it. Do you understand?”
“YEHEHEHEHESS!” She screamed in panic. Stupid bandit, do you know how hard it is to keep the combination in mind and not forget it while you tickle my soles?
Finally, the scrubs stopped. Amidst tears and gasping, she coughed the numbers as fast as she could. The man rushed to the safe, testing the combination; Hannah could feel her heart pounding on her chest. What if the code was wrong? She couldn’t handle any more tickling…
She almost cried of relief when the safe opened. Her parents would understand, surely. It was just tickling, but it was torture. She had no choice.
The bandit took what he could into his bag. Then, he pondered. All the rush of his operation was centered on getting out before the daughter came back…
He knew the parents would be out all month. The servants, only back in the morning. It was just him and the girl. And she was pretty. So pretty, and oh, so ticklish…
He smirked.
“Excellent.” He said - and, much to Hannah’s despair, approached once more “Your soles are clean again. Let’s discuss the password to your parent’s email next, shall we?”
She did not know that one, at all. This had to be a nightmare.
Over the next while, she learned how deep the appreciation of that man for tools went. It became fun for him; she could see that. Interrogation was now just a pretense - if she somehow coughed up the email, he’d find something new to inquire about.
Hannah was lost in a nightmare she could not escape from. First, he used the pens once more, playing tic-tac-toe on her soles, forcing Hannah to pick where she wanted the next piece to go, promising to stop if she won - as if she could keep track of the board state in her goddamn feet! Each time she lost, he punished her by introducing a hairbrush, the plastic bristles eroding her sanity with each stroke.
Then, came the feather duster. She didn’t expect it to be so bad, but, once again, she neglected the sensitizing effect of that pen on her flesh, how her nerves had been woken up and put on edge, and how that made even the lightest strokes that much more devastating. Each lick of the feathers was an agony, one that carried the anxiety of the next - for she knew there would be a next one, and a next after that, and she also knew she could do nothing to stop it. She rummaged through every corner of her mind in search of the information the captor could want, even if her rational side knew better. But this time, no amount of despair could make the search fruitful; she simply could not conjure that which she did not know.
She started saying other things; whatever came to mind that could possibly please him. The location of other valuables. Her own personal treasures in her room. Her panties and socks - he was a freak, right? She even offered her body; did her best to put a sultry voice in an utterly useless display, for the act was see-through. Still, it was the best she could do under the circumstances - and they wouldn’t have mattered anyways, because it was not what her tormentor was interested in.
He had already found something that gave him far more pleasure than any coerced fuck could.
The next step was flossers. She felt a relief when the tool was revealed; she thought he’d just tease her sole with one of the ends of the string, and she was sure that would be so much easier to handle. Unfortunately, she lacked the creativity her captor had in spades; her fantasies of mercy were dispelled as soon as he placed the flosser between her big toe and the next, pulled both ends down, and started grinding the string against the sensitive flesh; she howled, jumping in place, struggling to understand what was going on and how it could tickle that much.
“PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSHEHEHEHE IHIHIHI DOHOHOHNNTT KNOHOHOHOHOWWW!!” She screamed for the umptenth time, trying to make him understand. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t take a single second more of this ticklish torture. “MAHAHAHAHAKKHEHEEHEHEH IHIHIHHIHITT STOHOHOHOHOHOP!!!”
“Sorry, gal.” The bandit said, amusement dripping in his voice. “I’m having far too much fun.” And there it was. The horrid confession. The undeniable reality that she was going to be forced to face - the man was no longer interested in anything she had to give besides her suffering. It was all over for her.
Then, all of a sudden, something slimy and wet started caressing her soles. She looked down in disgust to find the man licking her feet, teeth grinding against her toes. Oh God. It was horrible. Everything was so sensitized, and the texture against her flesh felt so horrible. Reluctantly, she was forced to admit there was a world in which that coul possibly, maybe, feel nice - with the right guy, in the right context, and perhaps with someone who is more aiming at caressing than tickling her. But right now? It was hell.
But nothing was more hellish than the hairbrushes he had used previously, and that was the tool he ultimately settled on, much to her despair. Life became the left and right motions of those bristles on the canvas of her soles. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed; the very seat of her consciousness was there, left and right, left and right, a dance of plastic on skin, constant. She needed an escape. She was feeling her body starting to shut down. The breathing was erratic. Her whole body seemed to burn, then get cold.The edges of her view started getting blurry - and that’s when she realized an escape was available. She tried to chase the unconsciousness, and that only seemed to push it further away, like a hare evading a lion. She tried to take focus away from it, but to focus on what? The tickling? Nothing else existed, but she was tired of focusing on that. So, so tired. She was so, so, so tired…
The Bandit stopped once he realized the laughter had been silent for a few seconds. Raising his gaze, he tsked at the realization she had passed out. “Darn, didn’t even get to try the rest of her body…” He said. He collected his valuables, and prepared to leave… But then, he looked at the restrained Hannah.
Tickling her had been the most fun thing he had ever done in his life. Hmmm…
His bike could fit two, and he was strong enough to carry her. The street was empty… He could do it.
Luckily for Hannah’s parents, that coice spelled the bandit’s downfall. A neighbor saw it and called the police; after a few days of intense investigation, Hannah was recovered, and the man arrested.
Unfortunately for Hannah, nothing - not the arrest, not her parents, not the years of therapy after - could ever undo what she had to endure those four days.
