ElFewja
Verified
- Joined
- Dec 21, 2007
- Messages
- 1,296
- Points
- 0
Wrote this back in… probably March? It wasn’t specifically a request, though Heather and Anna from TT had asked for a Hippie story just before TT’s servers fell over and died. I don’t think this is what they expected/wanted, though.
As for the piece, meh. I just went over and edited this, and am not too happy with it, but I’d have to entirely start over to fix it, which I don’t intend to do. Besides, it can serve as a sample of what I shouldn’t to for myself. It’s very telly and not showy, which is something I’ve noticed more in my tickling work, but here it’s just blatantly obvious. Oh well. Post!
Hippies Are Weird (F/F Feet)
With a yawn, Shelby awoke and attempted to wipe the sleepies from her eyes. It did not immediately click with her that she could not; initially she thought that her arm was asleep, or perhaps resting under a heavy pillow or something. After the second attempt, she opened her eyes and realized that she was not, in fact, at home. All at once, everything came at her; that she was on her stomach, that her legs were bent above her back with her ankles bound against her wrists in a peculiar way, and that wherever she was, was very dark, dusty and musky, probably a basement of some sort. The distinct and putrid smell of sweat and dirt clung to the air above it all like a ghost. There appeared to be no furniture in this small, pitch black room, though truthfully with no source of light, Shelby was not sure of this.
Yes, she remembered now, as she fought valiantly against her bondage, wiggling about on the cold cement floor as she did so, yelling demands at the top of her lungs that she be released. She had been at a parade, she remembered – marching in it, really – to drum up support for the war that was beginning in Iraq. Together with her fellow soldiers, she marched, carrying a sign that read Pulling Out Is Disaster (they had all joked about how true that really was). After they had turned from one street to another, the immediate realization came to them that there no longer was a crowd on the sidewalks. Soon after this, many unwashed people charged at them, far more than the small group of ten women or so that marched alongside of her. Two or three grabbed at her, and then everything had gone black
These memories rushed through her mind all at once, cluttered and nonsensical; shortly thereafter, a wide bar of light blinded her. The bar widened, was blocked for a moment by something, and then shortened until it disappeared. It had been a door opening and closing, she realized, for a shadowy figure had entered, shambling about in the dark, towards a wall. Suddenly, everything became colorful; the person, who seemed to have been ripped straight from the ‘70s as it had every feature stereotyped to a hippie of that age, had plugged in a lava lamp, illuminating the colorful, almost wacky room that seemed like it had been painted by a deranged monkey. Hippy stench assaulted her as this figure approached, the sound of skin slapping against cement echoing in the empty room as it drew closer.
“Let me the fuck go you bitch!” Shelby shouted at her captor, infuriated at the situation and her captor.
“My, my, you’re a feisty one.” It was a woman’s voice; until then she had not been sure of the person’s gender. The figure had approached her and sat down beside her, leaning away as she set the lava lamp a few feet away, far out of either hers or her captors reach. She wore a long dress, which seemed to be her only apparel as she was entirely barefoot. Her golden, loose hair was crowned with a tacky ring of flowers; other than that, she was a thin, willowy thing, likely due to malnutrition. Suddenly, Shelby became aware of her feet, as something caused them to itch; sensations danced upon her soles, forcing her to laugh.
“What thehee fuck! Hahaha! Let me go!” She was barefoot? Turning her head to look towards her feet, she saw the dirty woman flicking a large artist’s paint brush across one of her feet, bristles the length of her second toe separating and striking at many points at once as the thing stroked up and down the center of her foot. The other thing that she noticed was that the cloth that bound her legs and hands together – that locked all four of her limbs tightly together with a large knot in the center of the mess – was her nation’s flag. The very thing that she fought to protect now bound her, leaving her to be helplessly tickled like a little kid; it was absolutely pathetic.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help but start; I was tasked with convincing you women to change sides. I’m just a natural born artist, you know; helpless ladies feet are my canvas, and their laughter is my paint. I do so enjoy this~” she said, humming while continuing to play with Shelby’s unprotected foot bottoms. It tickled so much, she thought; more than it should! She had not been tickled since she was a child, but she never remembered the sensations being this strong; even when she was held down to receive it as punishment from her brothers it was nothing like this.
Her laughter echoed against the walls, creating a sort of musical quality to her suffering. Again the woman began to speak. “You see, man, we’re trying to spread this message. Make love, not war. But we need support, and what better way to convince you to join our side than through non violent tickling?”
“Get awahehey from my feet, you damned dirty hippy!” She screamed back at her, angrily.
“Now now, calm down. We’ll let you go, as soon as you resign from the army. Stop the violence, you know?”
“Go to hehehell!”
“That’s the spirit! I know you don’t want me to stop, and I certainly don’t want to.” Though her captors back was to the lamp, Shelby became aware of a slightly sadistic smile forming on her captors face. Fuck, she thought – a small thought compared to the focus on her feet – this bitch is getting off to her power over me.
The only thing she could do was sit there and laugh; flailing her hips in an attempt to move away proved futile, only serving to cause her body to wiggle about madly, which seemed to increase her captor’s fervor. That damned brush really tickled, she thought, gasping and crying out as it began to lightly dash about her pinky toe, finding delicate and sensitive places she did not know existed on the sides of that toe. There was nothing she could do other than wiggle her toes and feet about madly, and laugh.
It was embarrassing, really; she was a grown woman, and one of this nation’s armed soldiers, and a small stupid thing like a brush on her tender soles had her quivering and crying like a little girl. Between laughs she continued to curse at her captor, calling her all sorts of nasty things, until she stopped and set the brush down, fidgeting with something on her wrist. Taking the opportunity to catch a much needed breath, Shelby gasped for air to fill her lungs; crap, how long had that gone on, she wondered. Looking towards the lamp, she noticed that thing had not yet become hot enough for the material inside to float about. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, she realized. Shit, she thought to herself; I’m in real trouble. I really can’t take this; it’s actual torture. After those thoughts came into existence, she realized how surprised she was by how much power someone could have over her simply by touching her feet.
Because she had been so focused on catching her breath and coming to her senses, she did not realize that the woman had bent over her feet until she felt something clasp her big toes together. “There now,” her captor spoke with rapture, “That ought to stop your floppy feet from wiggling so much. What size are they, anyway? Nines? They’re huge! So much skin to tickle! Oh man, have you ever had your toes tied before? It raises sensitivity so much!” Giggling at the last part, her captor picked up her brush once more.
“Please, ok, stop now. This isn’t fuhuhunny!” That damned brush began again! “Shit! Shit stop!” she screamed; that woman wasn’t lying; those fucking sensations almost tripled now that she couldn’t freely wiggle her feet. Up and down her arch the bristles danced, and then to the other arch they flew, drawing forth sacred laughter from deep within her. She was losing her mind, as well as her sense of awareness; all she could think of was that she wanted it to stop because it tickled so damned much.
“You know? I’m glad you haven’t given up yet. All the other women did as soon as I tied their toes, so I didn’t get a chance to play.” Distantly, from behind her the words came, while the brush danced about playfully, flitting circles of laughing love around a ball, then a heel, and then another ball. It zigged back and forth down one sole and then up another, before caressing the edge of one foot and dancing upon the top of the other. The strokes were insanely accurate, as if this woman knew every spot that would elicit a specific giggle or laugh. She truly was an expert – a natural – at tickling people. Shelby realized that her feet were no longer hers, that they belonged to this mad woman, that they had become her canvas, and she her captors piece of art.
In one of those damned baby talk, cooing voices, her captor teased her with, “Aww, what’s the matter? Poor soldier baby ticklish?”
“Yehehes!” She cried back, “Plehehehease, please stop! Please!”
“Aww, what’s the matter? Don’t like it? It’s just a little tickling.” Then the damned brush found her toes again. Across each one it flitted, striking at the crevice beneath the pads; that area was extremely sensitive, she discovered as she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Christ, no! Not therehehere! Not my toes! Please, god, stop! PLEEHEHEASE!”
The bitch didn’t stop, though. In fact, she giggled; she was laughing at her! Tears began to form at her eyes, then tread lightly down her face. “Aww, is the baby crying? Do you want me to stop?”
“Yehehes!”
“Will you resign from the army?”
“Yes, god yes! Anything! Just stop!”
“Tell me how much you like being tickled.”
“What?! Nohohoho!”
“If you don’t say you like it, I won’t stop.”
“Ahhh! It’s great! Its wonderful! Stop, PLEASE!”
The brush stopped. Rising, the woman laughed heartily to herself; Shelby was not aware of anything else her captor might be doing at the moment, she was too concerned with trying to regain her breath and dignity, giggling lightly at the aftermath of the war against war that had raged against her sensitive flesh.
“Hmm.” Her captor began, catching her attention; she was looking at her wrist. “About eight minutes to break you. It really was fun humbling you; you definitely were my greatest masterpiece yet, man.” With that, Shelby felt the flag around her limbs come loose; she did not look, because she was too tired to turn her head. Both her arms and her legs fall limply to the floor. A moment later, and her captor lifted the lamp and exited the room. She was free to leave, apparently, but was too concerned with being tired and thinking of how torturous that was to do anything else. But, fuck, only eight minutes? Really? It felt like hours.
As for the piece, meh. I just went over and edited this, and am not too happy with it, but I’d have to entirely start over to fix it, which I don’t intend to do. Besides, it can serve as a sample of what I shouldn’t to for myself. It’s very telly and not showy, which is something I’ve noticed more in my tickling work, but here it’s just blatantly obvious. Oh well. Post!
Hippies Are Weird (F/F Feet)
With a yawn, Shelby awoke and attempted to wipe the sleepies from her eyes. It did not immediately click with her that she could not; initially she thought that her arm was asleep, or perhaps resting under a heavy pillow or something. After the second attempt, she opened her eyes and realized that she was not, in fact, at home. All at once, everything came at her; that she was on her stomach, that her legs were bent above her back with her ankles bound against her wrists in a peculiar way, and that wherever she was, was very dark, dusty and musky, probably a basement of some sort. The distinct and putrid smell of sweat and dirt clung to the air above it all like a ghost. There appeared to be no furniture in this small, pitch black room, though truthfully with no source of light, Shelby was not sure of this.
Yes, she remembered now, as she fought valiantly against her bondage, wiggling about on the cold cement floor as she did so, yelling demands at the top of her lungs that she be released. She had been at a parade, she remembered – marching in it, really – to drum up support for the war that was beginning in Iraq. Together with her fellow soldiers, she marched, carrying a sign that read Pulling Out Is Disaster (they had all joked about how true that really was). After they had turned from one street to another, the immediate realization came to them that there no longer was a crowd on the sidewalks. Soon after this, many unwashed people charged at them, far more than the small group of ten women or so that marched alongside of her. Two or three grabbed at her, and then everything had gone black
These memories rushed through her mind all at once, cluttered and nonsensical; shortly thereafter, a wide bar of light blinded her. The bar widened, was blocked for a moment by something, and then shortened until it disappeared. It had been a door opening and closing, she realized, for a shadowy figure had entered, shambling about in the dark, towards a wall. Suddenly, everything became colorful; the person, who seemed to have been ripped straight from the ‘70s as it had every feature stereotyped to a hippie of that age, had plugged in a lava lamp, illuminating the colorful, almost wacky room that seemed like it had been painted by a deranged monkey. Hippy stench assaulted her as this figure approached, the sound of skin slapping against cement echoing in the empty room as it drew closer.
“Let me the fuck go you bitch!” Shelby shouted at her captor, infuriated at the situation and her captor.
“My, my, you’re a feisty one.” It was a woman’s voice; until then she had not been sure of the person’s gender. The figure had approached her and sat down beside her, leaning away as she set the lava lamp a few feet away, far out of either hers or her captors reach. She wore a long dress, which seemed to be her only apparel as she was entirely barefoot. Her golden, loose hair was crowned with a tacky ring of flowers; other than that, she was a thin, willowy thing, likely due to malnutrition. Suddenly, Shelby became aware of her feet, as something caused them to itch; sensations danced upon her soles, forcing her to laugh.
“What thehee fuck! Hahaha! Let me go!” She was barefoot? Turning her head to look towards her feet, she saw the dirty woman flicking a large artist’s paint brush across one of her feet, bristles the length of her second toe separating and striking at many points at once as the thing stroked up and down the center of her foot. The other thing that she noticed was that the cloth that bound her legs and hands together – that locked all four of her limbs tightly together with a large knot in the center of the mess – was her nation’s flag. The very thing that she fought to protect now bound her, leaving her to be helplessly tickled like a little kid; it was absolutely pathetic.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help but start; I was tasked with convincing you women to change sides. I’m just a natural born artist, you know; helpless ladies feet are my canvas, and their laughter is my paint. I do so enjoy this~” she said, humming while continuing to play with Shelby’s unprotected foot bottoms. It tickled so much, she thought; more than it should! She had not been tickled since she was a child, but she never remembered the sensations being this strong; even when she was held down to receive it as punishment from her brothers it was nothing like this.
Her laughter echoed against the walls, creating a sort of musical quality to her suffering. Again the woman began to speak. “You see, man, we’re trying to spread this message. Make love, not war. But we need support, and what better way to convince you to join our side than through non violent tickling?”
“Get awahehey from my feet, you damned dirty hippy!” She screamed back at her, angrily.
“Now now, calm down. We’ll let you go, as soon as you resign from the army. Stop the violence, you know?”
“Go to hehehell!”
“That’s the spirit! I know you don’t want me to stop, and I certainly don’t want to.” Though her captors back was to the lamp, Shelby became aware of a slightly sadistic smile forming on her captors face. Fuck, she thought – a small thought compared to the focus on her feet – this bitch is getting off to her power over me.
The only thing she could do was sit there and laugh; flailing her hips in an attempt to move away proved futile, only serving to cause her body to wiggle about madly, which seemed to increase her captor’s fervor. That damned brush really tickled, she thought, gasping and crying out as it began to lightly dash about her pinky toe, finding delicate and sensitive places she did not know existed on the sides of that toe. There was nothing she could do other than wiggle her toes and feet about madly, and laugh.
It was embarrassing, really; she was a grown woman, and one of this nation’s armed soldiers, and a small stupid thing like a brush on her tender soles had her quivering and crying like a little girl. Between laughs she continued to curse at her captor, calling her all sorts of nasty things, until she stopped and set the brush down, fidgeting with something on her wrist. Taking the opportunity to catch a much needed breath, Shelby gasped for air to fill her lungs; crap, how long had that gone on, she wondered. Looking towards the lamp, she noticed that thing had not yet become hot enough for the material inside to float about. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, she realized. Shit, she thought to herself; I’m in real trouble. I really can’t take this; it’s actual torture. After those thoughts came into existence, she realized how surprised she was by how much power someone could have over her simply by touching her feet.
Because she had been so focused on catching her breath and coming to her senses, she did not realize that the woman had bent over her feet until she felt something clasp her big toes together. “There now,” her captor spoke with rapture, “That ought to stop your floppy feet from wiggling so much. What size are they, anyway? Nines? They’re huge! So much skin to tickle! Oh man, have you ever had your toes tied before? It raises sensitivity so much!” Giggling at the last part, her captor picked up her brush once more.
“Please, ok, stop now. This isn’t fuhuhunny!” That damned brush began again! “Shit! Shit stop!” she screamed; that woman wasn’t lying; those fucking sensations almost tripled now that she couldn’t freely wiggle her feet. Up and down her arch the bristles danced, and then to the other arch they flew, drawing forth sacred laughter from deep within her. She was losing her mind, as well as her sense of awareness; all she could think of was that she wanted it to stop because it tickled so damned much.
“You know? I’m glad you haven’t given up yet. All the other women did as soon as I tied their toes, so I didn’t get a chance to play.” Distantly, from behind her the words came, while the brush danced about playfully, flitting circles of laughing love around a ball, then a heel, and then another ball. It zigged back and forth down one sole and then up another, before caressing the edge of one foot and dancing upon the top of the other. The strokes were insanely accurate, as if this woman knew every spot that would elicit a specific giggle or laugh. She truly was an expert – a natural – at tickling people. Shelby realized that her feet were no longer hers, that they belonged to this mad woman, that they had become her canvas, and she her captors piece of art.
In one of those damned baby talk, cooing voices, her captor teased her with, “Aww, what’s the matter? Poor soldier baby ticklish?”
“Yehehes!” She cried back, “Plehehehease, please stop! Please!”
“Aww, what’s the matter? Don’t like it? It’s just a little tickling.” Then the damned brush found her toes again. Across each one it flitted, striking at the crevice beneath the pads; that area was extremely sensitive, she discovered as she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Christ, no! Not therehehere! Not my toes! Please, god, stop! PLEEHEHEASE!”
The bitch didn’t stop, though. In fact, she giggled; she was laughing at her! Tears began to form at her eyes, then tread lightly down her face. “Aww, is the baby crying? Do you want me to stop?”
“Yehehes!”
“Will you resign from the army?”
“Yes, god yes! Anything! Just stop!”
“Tell me how much you like being tickled.”
“What?! Nohohoho!”
“If you don’t say you like it, I won’t stop.”
“Ahhh! It’s great! Its wonderful! Stop, PLEASE!”
The brush stopped. Rising, the woman laughed heartily to herself; Shelby was not aware of anything else her captor might be doing at the moment, she was too concerned with trying to regain her breath and dignity, giggling lightly at the aftermath of the war against war that had raged against her sensitive flesh.
“Hmm.” Her captor began, catching her attention; she was looking at her wrist. “About eight minutes to break you. It really was fun humbling you; you definitely were my greatest masterpiece yet, man.” With that, Shelby felt the flag around her limbs come loose; she did not look, because she was too tired to turn her head. Both her arms and her legs fall limply to the floor. A moment later, and her captor lifted the lamp and exited the room. She was free to leave, apparently, but was too concerned with being tired and thinking of how torturous that was to do anything else. But, fuck, only eight minutes? Really? It felt like hours.
