ElFewja
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- Dec 21, 2007
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This story changed so much so many times… so I can only really say it is what it is. At first it had been something like it is now, but then I tried to make the cats into some sort of alien… so that when the captor left, they transformed into a more human form; it added to the willfully putting someone into suffering bit, but was so weird. At that time I had toyed with the idea of these cat-human-aliens casting some sort of spell upon the captor, so that she went about collecting women, for the cat-human-aliens to harvest laughter from but… well, it started getting weird, so I dropped all of that. Then I went into this trying to do a super short thing, and it didn’t work then, either. I set it down to edit a few months ago, came back and just sighed.. and after the first edit, pretty much doubled the length. Mostly, any massive paragraph describing the tickling wasn’t there before… and I think it is much better with it. I’m not sure that the story itself is any good – I really cannot tell – but it works, in my opinion, though it may not be successful. I didn’t want to go farther than the simple statement they licked to describe the actual tickling, because I was trying to go with a sensory overload to the point that that was really all the protagonist was capable of feeling; they licked. Nothing fancy, nothing superfluous; they just licked.
Am I going to get reamed for starting it as I did, waking from sleep and going straight into tickling to avoid backstory? Probably. However, I think that that is very much how a first person view of such a situation would work; surprise, coming to, and then the sensations. You don’t really have time for a backstory, and might not even remember it properly assuming you had time for it, which is the case here. The narrator doesn’t remember what led to her being trapped here; she just was there, and that might as well have been where she always was. If I had led up to it with the woman stalking her and striking her from behind.. it just wouldn’t work. The story might be fuller, but then I think I’m betraying the narrator here for the sake of the audience because it simply is not true to her.
Geez, this opening bit is too long. Sorry about that. I doubt anyone was interested anyway, but I mean, if you are… well, even if you are it might not have been all that great anyway. Man, I’m terrible today. Here’s one for you: read this, and enjoy it~
Kitten Feeder (Kittens/F Feet)
A sound from close behind her immediately drew her from her bitter slumber; a door slamming, she quickly realized. Had she not been bound at her neck, she would have turned her head at the sound of gingerly steps upon soft soil; had she not been blind folded, her tired eyes might have relinquished to her some sort of information about her captor. Awareness seeped in slowly as birds shrilly sang of their exploits, of the sun and of worms, their ear-grinding melody stealing away from her any chance at hearing her captor; her ankles were sore and still bound behind her within the stockade that held them in that tight box which offered no room for even the slightest of wiggles; her knees rested upon cool soil that managed to chill her through her dress so that she found slumber a hard thing to have begun. As she struggled with her hands, realizing they too were still bound by the same stockade from last night, her awareness had completely returned to her; only when one does not sleep longer than a measly few hours does such an occurrence happen. Her thoughts flew into a flurry of panic as she gave up trying to free her hands, resting them gently onto the shoes and socks that lay defeated there as constant reminder to her, should she forget that those things which used to guard her from such abuse were within her reach. Bound as she was, she was unable to don them in order to protect herself from what awaited her feet. This mad woman – it was a woman, she thought, recalling that sickly sweet voice – that had entered was the one that tricked her; had kidnapped her!
Yesterday was not a vague memory; she recalled clearly everything that had occurred until the point when she had passed out from exhaustion. Every single sound she heard – the mewing and the rattle of a bucket as it parted the ground – informed her that it would be similar today, if not worse; oh god, that it could be worse than that! And yet, it could. “No! God, please, no! No more! Please let me go! Please! Help! Someone help, please!” she begged loudly, pleading in a manner she never before would have considered herself capable of. Just a few days before the event, she had always thought herself to have strong willpower, never imagining a day where she would be broken, forced to plead for even a second of a lack of abuse.
The answer she received was the cold liquid driving down her soles rapidly, forming a dense puddle which engulfed her toes at the bottom. Like before, the natural wrinkles that come from feet being pressed down this way betrayed her, holding the liquid tightly against her flesh, though it continued to drip lazily down her arches, careless of the agony that they would bestow upon her; if that were all, if it were only that single coat she could endure, but the cold metal ramp that held her heels down constantly drenched her soles anew so that she had no hope of an end, at least until this batch of liquid was entirely devoured from her feet. It was a device she did not fully understand, as her sight was robbed of her, but it felt that the liquid left the box somehow and came again to the top, re-soaking her feet, as it felt like an infinite amount of the stuff dripped by and yet the pool of it never went higher than to soak the start of her soles; her poor toes however were drowned in the awful stuff, and if it was like yesterday, they would be a prime target as a result.
But she had no time to muse over such things, as the cats began to feast, hungrily lapping what - by their gusto in doing so - must be their only meal, and thus had it begun again as the wild tongues drove her, like a cattle to market, into insane fits of inescapable laughter. From then on, the only thing she knew in this world was the existence of her feet, and how they once again had betrayed her.
Distantly, she heard the farm woman speak – something about enjoying her laughter while she went about tending to the farm – before the door closed. At least, unlike the final meal last night, that woman would not sit within the room, studying her and picking her apart with her words; that had been far worse than the tickling at the time. But now that the tickling began anew, she desperately wished for that distraction from the sensations that flared up like summer fires across her soles.
Immediately those kittens set upon her, knocking one another out of the way by the feel of them at her ankles, their paws and fur bristling against the flesh that highly anticipated their touch, forcing her to gasp; she almost welcomed it when they finally began, as the slow anticipation and imagined feelings, pure and unfiltered, seemed to almost tickle more than the real thing. They licked, starting at the wrinkles that had willingly held the liquid there, betraying her with their actions as the cats hungrily lapped up their sustenance; the stunning sensations leapt from her soles to her spine; she spasmed at the first one, then became entirely rigid as the countless tongues scrapped away at her flesh, her bindings allowing her no action save that of laughter. Although she never cared for her voice, she had always considered herself to have an adorable laugh, or even a sexy one if such a thing existed. It was that of multiple, quickly delivered giggles that lightly caressed the ears – a hehehehehehehe of sorts – which bounced pleasantly off the ground and towards anyone that told a good joke or else touched her lightly much like a well thrown ball; now, as she came to understand that laughing was very likely all she would do for the rest of her life, she despised the sound. But then, it was nothing like the cute giggles she used to give out before; now they were wild things, over grown and untended, weeded with hiccups and gulps for air, and overshadowed by pleads for mercy. Those tongues continued to lick, invading every edifice of area made free to them by her bondage, focusing upon her toes but never leaving her arches, balls or foot centers entirely un-harassed. Briefly she recalled the woman speaking the night before, when she had admitted that the liquid was not just milk, but rather a concoction of sorts, containing cat-nip and other things that would attract the kittens far more so than usual; by the ferocity that they laid siege upon her soles, she did not doubt this in the least, because then, if nothing else, the kittens were not doing this entirely of their own will, but rather were coerced into it. She had to believe that no creature could willingly put another through such perfectly pure suffering, but even then, it seemed that they were trained to tickle her specifically as best they could, casting much more than a shadow of doubt upon her hopes.
She had always enjoyed a little tickling before – it was fun, after all – to the point that she often walked about her town barefoot, or while sitting on a bench at market kicked off her shoes and propped her exposed soles within easy reach, hoping that some handsome lad would walk by and wiggle a finger down her arch as she sat reading, but what assailed her now was far from that simple, fun tickling from before. Unlike those times, she could see; never before had she imagined that losing her eyesight would heighten her sense of touch, but here she sat now, laughing madly simply because she was enveloped in eternal solitude, so that the bottoms of her feet became the entirety of her being, of her world, with nothing existing beyond those small extensions of her body; worse than that though was the bondage, for at least, when a young lad had taken her feet into his lap to strike at them as if he was a blacksmith that had ripped iron from a furnace, needing to act quickly lest the metal turn cool, some form of freedom was allowed to her; she could pull away, or even if he held her ankles in place with a tight grip, she could wiggle her toes and flex her soles to escape, but here, all movement was torn from her; there was absolutely nothing she was capable of doing to lessen or evade the senses. It felt as though her feet were being harvested for laughter by the ten or so cats that leapt about, fighting each other to gain the ability to torture her. Though it was just as unpredictable as any tickling she had endured, this was much more sadistic and torturous. What the cats did was not for the sake of entertainment; it was a matter of survival, of hunger, and whether or not she was tortured in the process had little to do with them.
The worst was the constant reminder of her shoes, which she could not take her hands away from. They sat there, always, taunting her with the safety they offered. We’re right here, they seemed to say, and your feet are just a few inches away, so please put us on. Of course, she could not; she was not even given the option to, due to her shackles, but could they understand that sentiment? They made no attempt to assist her; it seemed as though they sat there, watching her suffer for their amusement; her grip on them tightened to the point that she could feel her knuckles turn a bright white. Crushing them would teach them not to mock her, at least.
As whiskers brushed against the sides of her feet, held motionless within that evil box that had been seemingly designed specifically to hold her feet and hers alone - so close was the fit - the rough tongues ran themselves all over the area around her toes and arches, as if they were specifically seeking out the most sensitive regions of her soles that she herself did not know. Rarely did the things scrape her heels clean, which she enjoyed as it tickled far less than having her toes harassed, unable to wiggle the slightest sign of no to the cats due to the pressure of the ramp forcing them against the bottom of the container. At the very least, her most sensitive spots were guarded – the tips of her toes and in-between them, as one relentless chap had been quick to show her by holding her toes straight with one hand, so they could not hide away, using his free one to explore those hidden coves of laughter – but that did not include her pads, or the area beneath her toe stems that needed the protection of clenched toes, and because of the puddle that existed these areas were always the target by at least half of her tormenters. They struck at her feet and she laughed, giggling softly, sweetly, despite the situation; it was all she was capable of doing.
For some time she had begged yesterday for the cats to stop, or otherwise for them to be taken away, occasionally screaming for help, announcing by her laughter that she was being ferociously tickled, but as it had only encouraged the woman to have her tickled more, she learned to desist, though her body urged her to beg for an end all the same; in order to keep herself from giving the woman that pleasure she bit her lip hard, so much so that it trickled warm blood, but even then the occasional tongue found an area that forced her to laugh out loud so that an inevitable flow of laughter was relinquished from her. The sensations were horrible, but worse was the niggling idea in the back of her head that the farm woman had put there; that this was her – or any woman’s – place; that the feet of women were designed to be tickled, thus allowing another individual to harvest the sweet laughter that escaped the tickled persons lips. After having been here so long that she remembered little else – her friends and family, her home and town, all distant memories – she wondered if that truly was her sole purpose, as well as the rest of woman-kind’s, as little else seemed possible while she was tortured. When those thoughts began to conquer her mind, the dam flooded and she released a hurricane of laughter, begging her captor for mercy, not caring for anything save the safety of her soles. When no answer came she continued to laugh loudly, assuring the world of tickling’s effect upon the soles of a woman, insisting the amount of sensations that the human foot could feel and urging other women to safe guard their precious feet behind stout shoes of thick leather by her cries that filled the forest. And still, no matter how much she pleaded, they licked; they licked her, slowly stripping her soles of that god forsaken milk, her innards of her precious laughter and her mind of what little sanity remained.
Everything persisted as it had for far too long, though she had not even the faintest idea of how to measure the absurd amount of distance that spanned between beginning and end. As the puddle drained away and the drips from the ramps subsided, she counted the seconds, knowing full well that even long after the milk – it had to be milk, she decided – ran dry, they would continue licking, hoping to discover a faint drop hiding behind a wrinkle in her arches, these unplanned licks always surprising her the most, forcing her to gasp each time. While she counted desperately, she gripped her boots so tightly that she thought her fingers might break; those cursed things that had abandoned her sat, watching her suffer while they cried out in joy, that thick creasing, crumpling sound growing dimmer and dimmer the harder she choked them, until they finally bit back at her with their buckles. Desperately, she wished she could don them one last time, even if only for a few moments; her feet hidden away there, she might make some attempt at an escape, taking blissfully guarded steps upon the light dirt of the forest while the too tight boots lovingly groped at her bare flesh once more; as she imagined the scenario she felt the cool soles of boots breath hotly, expelling some forbidden air as it whisked between all of her toes at once, feathering those sensitive areas that normally were heavily guarded; her illusion shattered, and she was again locked in front of the kittens, her feet proudly displayed for their wet tongues that whipped about as though they were living feathers, searching for the last remnants of laughter her feet could offer them. They invaded between her toes as best they could, their tongues lacing strange paths while their cold noses pressed hard as they tried to get at what little milk remained, careless of their whiskers, which scrapped about her feet so lightly yet erratically, brushing and kissing whatever flesh that they happened to prance about upon. One lone kitten continued to search every crevice and arch of her right foot, sure that she had stowed away one tiny trove of milk somewhere and, desperate to find it, sought to punish her while searching, so that she howled like a hyena whenever his face disappeared and spontaneously reappeared elsewhere. At last, it was over; the cats grew bored of her laughter, and drifted off somewhere unknown to her in that copious darkness, leaving her and her devastated soles alone to rest.
But then the door opened again, the familiar sounds of beginnings greeting her once more. The cats mewed, and the bucket sloshed as it was hefted upwards, the top of it clunking to the ground dully. “No!” She screamed, as the milk temporarily doused the wild fire of sensations that had lit her feet alive, which the tongues quickly relit, “Nohohohoho!” she screamed while laughing, “Pleahehease! No more! Please! Take them away; stop them, please! Anything! Just no more! Get them away from my feet, please!”
“But then how will I enjoy your laughter?” Spoke that woman, before the door slammed shut, leaving the peasant girl alone with her tormenters and laughter once more. Two more meals today, she knew, and then she would rest. Only two more, she thought while laughter fought its way from her lungs, through clenched teeth and gaping lips, announcing to the world how ticklish she was, inviting it to watch the show she performed for it.
At least the licking was not so bad as the foot scrubbing had been the night before, though she would likely receive the same treatment if she managed to remain consciousness until the day’s end.
Am I going to get reamed for starting it as I did, waking from sleep and going straight into tickling to avoid backstory? Probably. However, I think that that is very much how a first person view of such a situation would work; surprise, coming to, and then the sensations. You don’t really have time for a backstory, and might not even remember it properly assuming you had time for it, which is the case here. The narrator doesn’t remember what led to her being trapped here; she just was there, and that might as well have been where she always was. If I had led up to it with the woman stalking her and striking her from behind.. it just wouldn’t work. The story might be fuller, but then I think I’m betraying the narrator here for the sake of the audience because it simply is not true to her.
Geez, this opening bit is too long. Sorry about that. I doubt anyone was interested anyway, but I mean, if you are… well, even if you are it might not have been all that great anyway. Man, I’m terrible today. Here’s one for you: read this, and enjoy it~
Kitten Feeder (Kittens/F Feet)
A sound from close behind her immediately drew her from her bitter slumber; a door slamming, she quickly realized. Had she not been bound at her neck, she would have turned her head at the sound of gingerly steps upon soft soil; had she not been blind folded, her tired eyes might have relinquished to her some sort of information about her captor. Awareness seeped in slowly as birds shrilly sang of their exploits, of the sun and of worms, their ear-grinding melody stealing away from her any chance at hearing her captor; her ankles were sore and still bound behind her within the stockade that held them in that tight box which offered no room for even the slightest of wiggles; her knees rested upon cool soil that managed to chill her through her dress so that she found slumber a hard thing to have begun. As she struggled with her hands, realizing they too were still bound by the same stockade from last night, her awareness had completely returned to her; only when one does not sleep longer than a measly few hours does such an occurrence happen. Her thoughts flew into a flurry of panic as she gave up trying to free her hands, resting them gently onto the shoes and socks that lay defeated there as constant reminder to her, should she forget that those things which used to guard her from such abuse were within her reach. Bound as she was, she was unable to don them in order to protect herself from what awaited her feet. This mad woman – it was a woman, she thought, recalling that sickly sweet voice – that had entered was the one that tricked her; had kidnapped her!
Yesterday was not a vague memory; she recalled clearly everything that had occurred until the point when she had passed out from exhaustion. Every single sound she heard – the mewing and the rattle of a bucket as it parted the ground – informed her that it would be similar today, if not worse; oh god, that it could be worse than that! And yet, it could. “No! God, please, no! No more! Please let me go! Please! Help! Someone help, please!” she begged loudly, pleading in a manner she never before would have considered herself capable of. Just a few days before the event, she had always thought herself to have strong willpower, never imagining a day where she would be broken, forced to plead for even a second of a lack of abuse.
The answer she received was the cold liquid driving down her soles rapidly, forming a dense puddle which engulfed her toes at the bottom. Like before, the natural wrinkles that come from feet being pressed down this way betrayed her, holding the liquid tightly against her flesh, though it continued to drip lazily down her arches, careless of the agony that they would bestow upon her; if that were all, if it were only that single coat she could endure, but the cold metal ramp that held her heels down constantly drenched her soles anew so that she had no hope of an end, at least until this batch of liquid was entirely devoured from her feet. It was a device she did not fully understand, as her sight was robbed of her, but it felt that the liquid left the box somehow and came again to the top, re-soaking her feet, as it felt like an infinite amount of the stuff dripped by and yet the pool of it never went higher than to soak the start of her soles; her poor toes however were drowned in the awful stuff, and if it was like yesterday, they would be a prime target as a result.
But she had no time to muse over such things, as the cats began to feast, hungrily lapping what - by their gusto in doing so - must be their only meal, and thus had it begun again as the wild tongues drove her, like a cattle to market, into insane fits of inescapable laughter. From then on, the only thing she knew in this world was the existence of her feet, and how they once again had betrayed her.
Distantly, she heard the farm woman speak – something about enjoying her laughter while she went about tending to the farm – before the door closed. At least, unlike the final meal last night, that woman would not sit within the room, studying her and picking her apart with her words; that had been far worse than the tickling at the time. But now that the tickling began anew, she desperately wished for that distraction from the sensations that flared up like summer fires across her soles.
Immediately those kittens set upon her, knocking one another out of the way by the feel of them at her ankles, their paws and fur bristling against the flesh that highly anticipated their touch, forcing her to gasp; she almost welcomed it when they finally began, as the slow anticipation and imagined feelings, pure and unfiltered, seemed to almost tickle more than the real thing. They licked, starting at the wrinkles that had willingly held the liquid there, betraying her with their actions as the cats hungrily lapped up their sustenance; the stunning sensations leapt from her soles to her spine; she spasmed at the first one, then became entirely rigid as the countless tongues scrapped away at her flesh, her bindings allowing her no action save that of laughter. Although she never cared for her voice, she had always considered herself to have an adorable laugh, or even a sexy one if such a thing existed. It was that of multiple, quickly delivered giggles that lightly caressed the ears – a hehehehehehehe of sorts – which bounced pleasantly off the ground and towards anyone that told a good joke or else touched her lightly much like a well thrown ball; now, as she came to understand that laughing was very likely all she would do for the rest of her life, she despised the sound. But then, it was nothing like the cute giggles she used to give out before; now they were wild things, over grown and untended, weeded with hiccups and gulps for air, and overshadowed by pleads for mercy. Those tongues continued to lick, invading every edifice of area made free to them by her bondage, focusing upon her toes but never leaving her arches, balls or foot centers entirely un-harassed. Briefly she recalled the woman speaking the night before, when she had admitted that the liquid was not just milk, but rather a concoction of sorts, containing cat-nip and other things that would attract the kittens far more so than usual; by the ferocity that they laid siege upon her soles, she did not doubt this in the least, because then, if nothing else, the kittens were not doing this entirely of their own will, but rather were coerced into it. She had to believe that no creature could willingly put another through such perfectly pure suffering, but even then, it seemed that they were trained to tickle her specifically as best they could, casting much more than a shadow of doubt upon her hopes.
She had always enjoyed a little tickling before – it was fun, after all – to the point that she often walked about her town barefoot, or while sitting on a bench at market kicked off her shoes and propped her exposed soles within easy reach, hoping that some handsome lad would walk by and wiggle a finger down her arch as she sat reading, but what assailed her now was far from that simple, fun tickling from before. Unlike those times, she could see; never before had she imagined that losing her eyesight would heighten her sense of touch, but here she sat now, laughing madly simply because she was enveloped in eternal solitude, so that the bottoms of her feet became the entirety of her being, of her world, with nothing existing beyond those small extensions of her body; worse than that though was the bondage, for at least, when a young lad had taken her feet into his lap to strike at them as if he was a blacksmith that had ripped iron from a furnace, needing to act quickly lest the metal turn cool, some form of freedom was allowed to her; she could pull away, or even if he held her ankles in place with a tight grip, she could wiggle her toes and flex her soles to escape, but here, all movement was torn from her; there was absolutely nothing she was capable of doing to lessen or evade the senses. It felt as though her feet were being harvested for laughter by the ten or so cats that leapt about, fighting each other to gain the ability to torture her. Though it was just as unpredictable as any tickling she had endured, this was much more sadistic and torturous. What the cats did was not for the sake of entertainment; it was a matter of survival, of hunger, and whether or not she was tortured in the process had little to do with them.
The worst was the constant reminder of her shoes, which she could not take her hands away from. They sat there, always, taunting her with the safety they offered. We’re right here, they seemed to say, and your feet are just a few inches away, so please put us on. Of course, she could not; she was not even given the option to, due to her shackles, but could they understand that sentiment? They made no attempt to assist her; it seemed as though they sat there, watching her suffer for their amusement; her grip on them tightened to the point that she could feel her knuckles turn a bright white. Crushing them would teach them not to mock her, at least.
As whiskers brushed against the sides of her feet, held motionless within that evil box that had been seemingly designed specifically to hold her feet and hers alone - so close was the fit - the rough tongues ran themselves all over the area around her toes and arches, as if they were specifically seeking out the most sensitive regions of her soles that she herself did not know. Rarely did the things scrape her heels clean, which she enjoyed as it tickled far less than having her toes harassed, unable to wiggle the slightest sign of no to the cats due to the pressure of the ramp forcing them against the bottom of the container. At the very least, her most sensitive spots were guarded – the tips of her toes and in-between them, as one relentless chap had been quick to show her by holding her toes straight with one hand, so they could not hide away, using his free one to explore those hidden coves of laughter – but that did not include her pads, or the area beneath her toe stems that needed the protection of clenched toes, and because of the puddle that existed these areas were always the target by at least half of her tormenters. They struck at her feet and she laughed, giggling softly, sweetly, despite the situation; it was all she was capable of doing.
For some time she had begged yesterday for the cats to stop, or otherwise for them to be taken away, occasionally screaming for help, announcing by her laughter that she was being ferociously tickled, but as it had only encouraged the woman to have her tickled more, she learned to desist, though her body urged her to beg for an end all the same; in order to keep herself from giving the woman that pleasure she bit her lip hard, so much so that it trickled warm blood, but even then the occasional tongue found an area that forced her to laugh out loud so that an inevitable flow of laughter was relinquished from her. The sensations were horrible, but worse was the niggling idea in the back of her head that the farm woman had put there; that this was her – or any woman’s – place; that the feet of women were designed to be tickled, thus allowing another individual to harvest the sweet laughter that escaped the tickled persons lips. After having been here so long that she remembered little else – her friends and family, her home and town, all distant memories – she wondered if that truly was her sole purpose, as well as the rest of woman-kind’s, as little else seemed possible while she was tortured. When those thoughts began to conquer her mind, the dam flooded and she released a hurricane of laughter, begging her captor for mercy, not caring for anything save the safety of her soles. When no answer came she continued to laugh loudly, assuring the world of tickling’s effect upon the soles of a woman, insisting the amount of sensations that the human foot could feel and urging other women to safe guard their precious feet behind stout shoes of thick leather by her cries that filled the forest. And still, no matter how much she pleaded, they licked; they licked her, slowly stripping her soles of that god forsaken milk, her innards of her precious laughter and her mind of what little sanity remained.
Everything persisted as it had for far too long, though she had not even the faintest idea of how to measure the absurd amount of distance that spanned between beginning and end. As the puddle drained away and the drips from the ramps subsided, she counted the seconds, knowing full well that even long after the milk – it had to be milk, she decided – ran dry, they would continue licking, hoping to discover a faint drop hiding behind a wrinkle in her arches, these unplanned licks always surprising her the most, forcing her to gasp each time. While she counted desperately, she gripped her boots so tightly that she thought her fingers might break; those cursed things that had abandoned her sat, watching her suffer while they cried out in joy, that thick creasing, crumpling sound growing dimmer and dimmer the harder she choked them, until they finally bit back at her with their buckles. Desperately, she wished she could don them one last time, even if only for a few moments; her feet hidden away there, she might make some attempt at an escape, taking blissfully guarded steps upon the light dirt of the forest while the too tight boots lovingly groped at her bare flesh once more; as she imagined the scenario she felt the cool soles of boots breath hotly, expelling some forbidden air as it whisked between all of her toes at once, feathering those sensitive areas that normally were heavily guarded; her illusion shattered, and she was again locked in front of the kittens, her feet proudly displayed for their wet tongues that whipped about as though they were living feathers, searching for the last remnants of laughter her feet could offer them. They invaded between her toes as best they could, their tongues lacing strange paths while their cold noses pressed hard as they tried to get at what little milk remained, careless of their whiskers, which scrapped about her feet so lightly yet erratically, brushing and kissing whatever flesh that they happened to prance about upon. One lone kitten continued to search every crevice and arch of her right foot, sure that she had stowed away one tiny trove of milk somewhere and, desperate to find it, sought to punish her while searching, so that she howled like a hyena whenever his face disappeared and spontaneously reappeared elsewhere. At last, it was over; the cats grew bored of her laughter, and drifted off somewhere unknown to her in that copious darkness, leaving her and her devastated soles alone to rest.
But then the door opened again, the familiar sounds of beginnings greeting her once more. The cats mewed, and the bucket sloshed as it was hefted upwards, the top of it clunking to the ground dully. “No!” She screamed, as the milk temporarily doused the wild fire of sensations that had lit her feet alive, which the tongues quickly relit, “Nohohohoho!” she screamed while laughing, “Pleahehease! No more! Please! Take them away; stop them, please! Anything! Just no more! Get them away from my feet, please!”
“But then how will I enjoy your laughter?” Spoke that woman, before the door slammed shut, leaving the peasant girl alone with her tormenters and laughter once more. Two more meals today, she knew, and then she would rest. Only two more, she thought while laughter fought its way from her lungs, through clenched teeth and gaping lips, announcing to the world how ticklish she was, inviting it to watch the show she performed for it.
At least the licking was not so bad as the foot scrubbing had been the night before, though she would likely receive the same treatment if she managed to remain consciousness until the day’s end.
