ElFewja
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Dancing For Tickles MM, M, MF/F (Almost exclusively feet)
Synopsis: A girl dances barefoot for a crowd of drunk ticklers. You can guess the results. MM, M, MF/F Almost exclusively feet.
It’s just a job, she thought. A good one, even; perhaps two hours effort earned her the same amount that eight could. Still… no, she decided quickly; no backing out. Though it was her first time, she had found it easy to acquire this appointment. It’s not hard work at all, and it’s short, she told herself. What time was it? 10:58. Two minutes. From a few friends that did this frequently, she had been told it’s a great way to earn money fast. Of course she made sure to ascertain every bit of information that she could from them, though the only pieces of information were to not be nervous, to not fake it, and to take very good care of your feet prior to the performance. 10:59. Damn, one minute. Nervousness that had been seeping into every crevice suddenly dug deep, invading her and destroying the meager amounts of confidence she had built up over the course of long hours. I’m not ready for this, she decided, as she turned from the stage and walked straight into the manager.
It was a small stage, and even smaller off-stage area, allowing little room for people to walk, with both her right and left surrounded by black curtains that confined her to only backwards and forwards. There was almost nothing behind the stage save the black curtains; she was extremely embarrassed to not have heard the manager come up behind her because of this.
“Ready, killer?”
“Not really. Actually, I was having second…”
With a hearty laugh, the manager reassured her. “You’ll do just fine. Show time. Get to it.” With that, she turned on her heel, afraid to go out but even more afraid of angering the ogre of a man that blocked her only escape. Before she had even managed to take one step, he stopped her. “Uh uh. The shoes.” That’s right, she remembered, as she stepped out of the small pieces of dainty leather that had been adorning her feet, how could I forget something as simple as that. Now, void of foot wear, revealing her small toes, the nails painted red, her costume was complete. Though her costume consisted mostly of bare flesh, she was allowed a bronzed bra for in lieu of a shirt, leaving her stomach and arms bare. This was coupled with equally bronze trousers flimsily covering her legs down to slightly above her bare ankles. They were airy things, almost transparent, offering no protection from the elements, or eyes, whatsoever.
She stepped gingerly onto the linoleum stage, bare soles slapping lightly against the material the floor was comprised of, impressed by how clean it was as she strode to the center. Her friends had said it would be, but what they had said paled in comparison to the reality of it. As she turned to the audience that she presumed to be drunk by their hooting, she was blinded by the lights illuminating the stage. Instinctively, she almost raised her arm to guard against the extreme light, but realized that would look very unprofessional, and limited the instinct to a simple twitch. The lights, both small ones on the floor and large ones somewhere above her, perhaps on the ceiling, blinded her to the audience she intended to perform for, restricting her vision to the bare stage surrounding her and equally bare flesh that she could see without moving her head noticably. The linoleum, fairly warm against her bare soles, was white, and the curtains were black; so simple that it was cliché. Despite how bright it was around her, she remembered that the rest of the bar was extremely dark; even the stage had been completely dark when she had first entered, only 10 minutes ago.
From where she had just left, she could see that ogre-manager waving his hands frantically, urging her to begin. Yeah, I guess I did just stand here for half a minute to take everything in, she thought to herself. This isn’t actual work, she assured herself, before beginning. Remembering the managers advice to “show some sole,” a term she had never heard before but had learned it meant to show her foot bottoms, she began to dance. Being the most elegant of people hardly mattered here, which was good as she was not elegant in the least, as her purpose was that of enticement over anything else. Enticing a room of drunk, horny men hardly seemed a challenge to her, anyway. Still, she did her best, swaying and spinning upon her toes, always slowing when her back was to the audience so that her bare soles were exposed for that much longer. Most of her maneuvers were performed with her back to the audience; she would kick her leg to the ground swiftly, pressing her toe tops to the linoleum, showing off her soles that looked more wrinkled by doing this. Supposedly, the kicker here was that her toe bottoms also were viewable, which apparently was rare in such shows and elicited great response from the crowds, though truthfully, she was unable to detect if this was effective or not. Another spin, with her left leg extended behind her, toes pointed forward, showing off what the crowd desired. She spun a complete circle, stopping with her sole facing the audience, before performing more intricate patterns with her feet. At one point, while facing the audience, she rested her heel upon the ground, toes flexed back towards the ceiling, for a few seconds after ending another spin, quickly wiggling her toes before continuing her dance. Growing still bolder, as she was unable to see the faces of the people for which she performed and was thus completely aware of the effects of her dance upon them, she closed in to the edge of the stage during her maneuvers, ending by slowly spinning to her right while drawing the top of her foot against the stages end, wiggling her toes as she did so. From the corner of her eyesight, she thought she saw someone grasp at her foot when she did this, but could not rightfully tell if that was it, or if it was a drunk grasping at nothing.
The dance was short, maybe ten minutes passed before she grew slightly tired from it, seeing the manager cueing her to end from back stage. She bowed, hearing loud hooting and clapping as she began to walk off stage to where she had originally been. As she did, she saw her employer quickly pushing a wooden contraption that looked similar to a chair towards her, onto stage. Perplexed by the contraption, she began to ask what it was for as he set it in the middle of the stage, but did not get a chance to as he began to force her into it. Quickly, she ascertained why she was being put in, not remembering any of her friends mentioning that she would be put into a stockade, as her ankles were placed in the holes designed for them before being locked in place. Panic set in; panic that had not time to blossom while the unknown wooden contraption was brought to the stage, or even while she was placed inside of it. At least her hands weren’t bound, and the chair was comfortable, though it leaned backwards at a rather deep angle.
Of course, her feet were to be tickled, but she had suspected that she was to go down to the pub and sit among the customers, which now seemed naïve. They would want here defenseless and immobile. As the patrons rushed to the stage, most of which must have begun their way up as soon as she was being placed in the device since they were in fact already on stage, panic grew deeper. She hated being tickled, and only earlier today realized how ticklish her feet really were during the interview. Licking her lips, she greatly wished for a blindfold, as she watched the men, even some women, line up, looking her feet up and down, planning and analyzing with gleams of evil purpose in their eyes. Just seeing that light reflected in their eyes from somewhere deep within them terrified her; it had tickled so much when she wasn’t bound, tickled by her employer briefly; these people wanted to make her suffer, she could tell. At least, she thought as the first two patrons handed their coins to the manager, each grabbing a foot by the top as she bit her lips in anticipation, she could assume that she did a good job enticing them.
She knew it was coming, had known and had steeled herself for it before coming here, and became even more aware when the men greedily grabbed her toes, stretching her feet taut, yet she still yelped when stubby fingernails greeted her flesh, striking up and down vigorously upon her sensitive soles. Nothing short of having experienced this before could have prepared her for it; it tickled! Her thought processes honed in on how strong the grip of her adversaries was; she couldn’t move her feet. Repeatedly the thought occurred within her head; I can’t move, I can’t move! I can’t struggle or get away! If she were capable of speaking, she might have said as much, but as the situation stood, she was too busy laughing to her assailants will.
As hysteria set in, she caught a glimpse of the men tickling her, as well as the others hungrily looking on and laughing at her predicament, truly understanding the look in their eyes, giving way to their thoughts. Their eyes spoke words to her; that she must be made to laugh and smile, that her feet be tickled. Desperately she wished that she could break free from their grips and struggle a little bit, as to lessen the effect; as it stood, their dances upon her sensitized flesh was too much for her to handle. She began to sweat and pant heavily amidst the tortured laughter forced from the feet she today became aware of; the bottoms of her feet now represented the entire world of awareness to her, as it was all she could think about. Not there, she howled, as the one on her left discovered her pinky toe, wiggling his finger horrifically around it.
They stopped, suddenly, ushered away by one of the paid guards of the small tavern, and she was given but a moments rest before another took their place. It was only one man, and he didn’t use the same method, but she could see the devil reflected in his eyes. As he approached, he looked at her feet longingly and licked his lips, before beginning to trace one finger around her right foot. Though she tossed her head, biting her lip to not laugh from the slow and torturous touch he provided to her, she became aware of his gaze between her sudden thrashes. His eyes never left hers, greatly disturbing her as she softly giggled with each stroke up her arch or across her toes. She no longer laughed heartily, but the method used by this man was maddening. The touches were slow, deliberate; she was no longer held in place, so she could twitch away when he lightly flicked her big toe, but the stocks still held her in place enough that it hardly mattered. That hungry gaze affected her deeply; she soon became unable to look away from him. For a long minute, she stared him eye to eye, gasping and twitching against her bondage. He knows, she thought, he knows it tickles, and he doesn’t care! As this thought occurred to her, the man smiled a sinister smile; the tickling stopped for but a half second, allowing her to lower her guard and catch her breath. She suddenly was forced to laugh once more, though it was preceded by a yelp, and continued to giggle lightly as he repeatedly and slowly scratched at her heels. Repeatedly, she tried to pull her legs free from the bondage, as he skillfully drew his fingers up her heels, playing her feet like a harp, her laughter music to those around her. She soon came to hate the man tormenting her delicate foot bottoms, but when he stopped and left, she wished that he would return.
It happened that he was replaced by two more men whose desire it was to hear her scream with laughter; to hear her laugh harder than she ever thought she possibly could. In attempts to draw forth this sacred laughter, they, like the first couple, each took one foot in hand, and harshly struck their fingers up and down. While she laughed and bucked, she saw her employer run off somewhere, leaving her alone in her bondage to these horny men and women alike. Distantly, as her laughs filled her ears, she heard someone say to grab her arms. Almost as soon as this was said, someone had done it, pulling them back behind her head. All at once, the world that was her feet shrunk to the sudden awareness of her upper body. Hands, at least 20 she figured, danced across all parts of her flesh. No matter how much she bucked or screamed, she could not escape or get them to stop, falling instead into a pool of incomprehensible gibberish and laughter, knowing not else what to do. The manager came back quickly, yelling at the clients and pushing many of them away, though not the ones attacking her feet. Apparently, she realized, the guard was the one who had held her arms; shows how much he could be trusted. Not that she had much opportunity to think such thoughts; though it was only her feet that were tickled now, they were still by far her most sensitive region. She no longer screamed as much, but she still laughed consistently, unable to escape their torture.
The current foot ticklers cleared away and she was given a moment to breath as the manager neared her feet, presumably to keep the customers away. She was too tired to understand, but he had addressed the crowd about something or other; unfortunately she was not too tired to be aware of something gently dripping down her soles. This awareness brought her back to reality, as she realized the crowd was cheering. As she wondered what on earth had happened, she felt the slick liquid substance being rubbed thoroughly across her feet, even in-between her toes. “She’s all oiled up, gents! Have at her!” the manager shouted, taking coins from a female and male customer that nearly ran to her feet.
For a few moments, she wondered what had happened to her feet and why the crowd would be shouting, before suddenly becoming aware as to why. The male grabbed both of her now slippery feet, which she briefly considered with fear before the woman’s long nails touched her flesh. With such ease, they slid across her feet extremely fast, scratching at seemingly every inch simultaneously, causing her to scream. Unlike before, though, she was unable to do much else. She laughed, but each laugh was preceded by a loud aiiieee. This was too much, she thought, as she fought with all of her might to wiggle her slippery feet from the man’s grip as well as pull her legs free from the devil device that held her still. She gripped the sides of the chair and hopped up and down, all the while shrieking with laughter as she tried as hard as she possibly could to escape. The woman’s nails slid between her toes, and even though she closed her toes together to hold the fingers still, the slippery substance that had been applied to her feet and toes allowed the diabolic nails to escape. The oil had made her feet slippery indeed, almost removing traction, making her that much more ticklish and vulnerable. After a few moments her hands no longer gripped the side of the chair, though she still bucked as hard as ever against her bondage. With her now free hands she struck at the chair as hard as she could, the natural reflexes of her arms attempting to give her another point of her body to focus upon, ultimately proving ineffective. Before long she pressed her hands to her face covering it in an attempt to stifle her screams and laughs. At that point she began to beg loudly to be let go, for the torturers to stop tickling her, please. Anywhere but her feet; they were too ticklish. These pleads were greeted with more thorough tickling, causing waves of laughter to escape from deep inside of her as she repeatedly begged for them to stop, please stop.
After an eternity, those two left; and thank god, she thought, not an instant too soon. Another pair of men approached, to which she begged not to tickle her feet; that she would do anything so long as they did not touch her soles. Please, no more, please, not my feet, please, she begged. The one laughed; laughed! As many times as she could, as fast as she could, she pleaded no, no more, no, no, no no, to no avail. Whatever method they used she could not tell; all she knew was that it tickled horribly. She lost her sense of reality and time, unable to distinguish people from the blinding lights, or one person from another, seeing nothing, only laughing like was supposed to; like she needed to.
After countless clients and several eternities, it must have ended. It must have ended, she concluded, because the sensations stopped and she no longer laughed, though she no longer had awareness of where she was or why she was wherever she was. Some time passed before she came to comprehend that everyone save her employer had left. Probably, she figured, the bar had closed and everyone had gone home. It took great effort to, but she managed to lift her hands and wipe the tears from her eyes, causing her to wonder. Tears? I was crying? Laughter… she heard laughter… not hers, she realized. Can other people laugh? Turning to the sound, she realized it was the employer. Of course, he was the only person there; who else would be laughing, if it wasn’t her, though she currently could not understand anyone else laughing.
“You did great.” She nodded, unable to speak due to how tired she was. Tickling is tiring, she thought. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed that the stockade was open again, but as much as she wished to withdraw her ankles from the horrid things, she lacked the energy to do so. “Can you come back tomorrow?” Unable to respond, she attempted to speak by looks alone. It appeared, she thought, that he was not very bright, as his response was, “Great! See you then!” He got up, but then seemed to remember something. “Ah, here’s your pay, by the way.” From his pocket, he withdrew a satchel of coins that seemed far too light for what she had endured. While walking across the mess that the floor now was, covered with miscellaneous objects and pools of what must be alcohol, he stopped to quickly scratch at her delicate feet. Even though she did not think she had the energy to, she yelped and quickly withdrew her feet from the damned contraption, setting them on the floor, her right falling into a pool of alcohol. A smile lit her employers face as he walked off, she too tired to rise. The lights went off suddenly, as she just now realized he had been gone for several long minutes.
“Just leave whenever you’re ready. Close the doors behind you. They’ll lock automatically. Oh, don’t forget your shoes.”
Yeah, she thought. I’ll never forget them, and won’t take them off in public again, she thought. Somewhere distant, she briefly enjoyed the idea that her feet had had such an effect upon so many people, but she quickly beat it away, not wanting to think that now or ever again.
Synopsis: A girl dances barefoot for a crowd of drunk ticklers. You can guess the results. MM, M, MF/F Almost exclusively feet.
It’s just a job, she thought. A good one, even; perhaps two hours effort earned her the same amount that eight could. Still… no, she decided quickly; no backing out. Though it was her first time, she had found it easy to acquire this appointment. It’s not hard work at all, and it’s short, she told herself. What time was it? 10:58. Two minutes. From a few friends that did this frequently, she had been told it’s a great way to earn money fast. Of course she made sure to ascertain every bit of information that she could from them, though the only pieces of information were to not be nervous, to not fake it, and to take very good care of your feet prior to the performance. 10:59. Damn, one minute. Nervousness that had been seeping into every crevice suddenly dug deep, invading her and destroying the meager amounts of confidence she had built up over the course of long hours. I’m not ready for this, she decided, as she turned from the stage and walked straight into the manager.
It was a small stage, and even smaller off-stage area, allowing little room for people to walk, with both her right and left surrounded by black curtains that confined her to only backwards and forwards. There was almost nothing behind the stage save the black curtains; she was extremely embarrassed to not have heard the manager come up behind her because of this.
“Ready, killer?”
“Not really. Actually, I was having second…”
With a hearty laugh, the manager reassured her. “You’ll do just fine. Show time. Get to it.” With that, she turned on her heel, afraid to go out but even more afraid of angering the ogre of a man that blocked her only escape. Before she had even managed to take one step, he stopped her. “Uh uh. The shoes.” That’s right, she remembered, as she stepped out of the small pieces of dainty leather that had been adorning her feet, how could I forget something as simple as that. Now, void of foot wear, revealing her small toes, the nails painted red, her costume was complete. Though her costume consisted mostly of bare flesh, she was allowed a bronzed bra for in lieu of a shirt, leaving her stomach and arms bare. This was coupled with equally bronze trousers flimsily covering her legs down to slightly above her bare ankles. They were airy things, almost transparent, offering no protection from the elements, or eyes, whatsoever.
She stepped gingerly onto the linoleum stage, bare soles slapping lightly against the material the floor was comprised of, impressed by how clean it was as she strode to the center. Her friends had said it would be, but what they had said paled in comparison to the reality of it. As she turned to the audience that she presumed to be drunk by their hooting, she was blinded by the lights illuminating the stage. Instinctively, she almost raised her arm to guard against the extreme light, but realized that would look very unprofessional, and limited the instinct to a simple twitch. The lights, both small ones on the floor and large ones somewhere above her, perhaps on the ceiling, blinded her to the audience she intended to perform for, restricting her vision to the bare stage surrounding her and equally bare flesh that she could see without moving her head noticably. The linoleum, fairly warm against her bare soles, was white, and the curtains were black; so simple that it was cliché. Despite how bright it was around her, she remembered that the rest of the bar was extremely dark; even the stage had been completely dark when she had first entered, only 10 minutes ago.
From where she had just left, she could see that ogre-manager waving his hands frantically, urging her to begin. Yeah, I guess I did just stand here for half a minute to take everything in, she thought to herself. This isn’t actual work, she assured herself, before beginning. Remembering the managers advice to “show some sole,” a term she had never heard before but had learned it meant to show her foot bottoms, she began to dance. Being the most elegant of people hardly mattered here, which was good as she was not elegant in the least, as her purpose was that of enticement over anything else. Enticing a room of drunk, horny men hardly seemed a challenge to her, anyway. Still, she did her best, swaying and spinning upon her toes, always slowing when her back was to the audience so that her bare soles were exposed for that much longer. Most of her maneuvers were performed with her back to the audience; she would kick her leg to the ground swiftly, pressing her toe tops to the linoleum, showing off her soles that looked more wrinkled by doing this. Supposedly, the kicker here was that her toe bottoms also were viewable, which apparently was rare in such shows and elicited great response from the crowds, though truthfully, she was unable to detect if this was effective or not. Another spin, with her left leg extended behind her, toes pointed forward, showing off what the crowd desired. She spun a complete circle, stopping with her sole facing the audience, before performing more intricate patterns with her feet. At one point, while facing the audience, she rested her heel upon the ground, toes flexed back towards the ceiling, for a few seconds after ending another spin, quickly wiggling her toes before continuing her dance. Growing still bolder, as she was unable to see the faces of the people for which she performed and was thus completely aware of the effects of her dance upon them, she closed in to the edge of the stage during her maneuvers, ending by slowly spinning to her right while drawing the top of her foot against the stages end, wiggling her toes as she did so. From the corner of her eyesight, she thought she saw someone grasp at her foot when she did this, but could not rightfully tell if that was it, or if it was a drunk grasping at nothing.
The dance was short, maybe ten minutes passed before she grew slightly tired from it, seeing the manager cueing her to end from back stage. She bowed, hearing loud hooting and clapping as she began to walk off stage to where she had originally been. As she did, she saw her employer quickly pushing a wooden contraption that looked similar to a chair towards her, onto stage. Perplexed by the contraption, she began to ask what it was for as he set it in the middle of the stage, but did not get a chance to as he began to force her into it. Quickly, she ascertained why she was being put in, not remembering any of her friends mentioning that she would be put into a stockade, as her ankles were placed in the holes designed for them before being locked in place. Panic set in; panic that had not time to blossom while the unknown wooden contraption was brought to the stage, or even while she was placed inside of it. At least her hands weren’t bound, and the chair was comfortable, though it leaned backwards at a rather deep angle.
Of course, her feet were to be tickled, but she had suspected that she was to go down to the pub and sit among the customers, which now seemed naïve. They would want here defenseless and immobile. As the patrons rushed to the stage, most of which must have begun their way up as soon as she was being placed in the device since they were in fact already on stage, panic grew deeper. She hated being tickled, and only earlier today realized how ticklish her feet really were during the interview. Licking her lips, she greatly wished for a blindfold, as she watched the men, even some women, line up, looking her feet up and down, planning and analyzing with gleams of evil purpose in their eyes. Just seeing that light reflected in their eyes from somewhere deep within them terrified her; it had tickled so much when she wasn’t bound, tickled by her employer briefly; these people wanted to make her suffer, she could tell. At least, she thought as the first two patrons handed their coins to the manager, each grabbing a foot by the top as she bit her lips in anticipation, she could assume that she did a good job enticing them.
She knew it was coming, had known and had steeled herself for it before coming here, and became even more aware when the men greedily grabbed her toes, stretching her feet taut, yet she still yelped when stubby fingernails greeted her flesh, striking up and down vigorously upon her sensitive soles. Nothing short of having experienced this before could have prepared her for it; it tickled! Her thought processes honed in on how strong the grip of her adversaries was; she couldn’t move her feet. Repeatedly the thought occurred within her head; I can’t move, I can’t move! I can’t struggle or get away! If she were capable of speaking, she might have said as much, but as the situation stood, she was too busy laughing to her assailants will.
As hysteria set in, she caught a glimpse of the men tickling her, as well as the others hungrily looking on and laughing at her predicament, truly understanding the look in their eyes, giving way to their thoughts. Their eyes spoke words to her; that she must be made to laugh and smile, that her feet be tickled. Desperately she wished that she could break free from their grips and struggle a little bit, as to lessen the effect; as it stood, their dances upon her sensitized flesh was too much for her to handle. She began to sweat and pant heavily amidst the tortured laughter forced from the feet she today became aware of; the bottoms of her feet now represented the entire world of awareness to her, as it was all she could think about. Not there, she howled, as the one on her left discovered her pinky toe, wiggling his finger horrifically around it.
They stopped, suddenly, ushered away by one of the paid guards of the small tavern, and she was given but a moments rest before another took their place. It was only one man, and he didn’t use the same method, but she could see the devil reflected in his eyes. As he approached, he looked at her feet longingly and licked his lips, before beginning to trace one finger around her right foot. Though she tossed her head, biting her lip to not laugh from the slow and torturous touch he provided to her, she became aware of his gaze between her sudden thrashes. His eyes never left hers, greatly disturbing her as she softly giggled with each stroke up her arch or across her toes. She no longer laughed heartily, but the method used by this man was maddening. The touches were slow, deliberate; she was no longer held in place, so she could twitch away when he lightly flicked her big toe, but the stocks still held her in place enough that it hardly mattered. That hungry gaze affected her deeply; she soon became unable to look away from him. For a long minute, she stared him eye to eye, gasping and twitching against her bondage. He knows, she thought, he knows it tickles, and he doesn’t care! As this thought occurred to her, the man smiled a sinister smile; the tickling stopped for but a half second, allowing her to lower her guard and catch her breath. She suddenly was forced to laugh once more, though it was preceded by a yelp, and continued to giggle lightly as he repeatedly and slowly scratched at her heels. Repeatedly, she tried to pull her legs free from the bondage, as he skillfully drew his fingers up her heels, playing her feet like a harp, her laughter music to those around her. She soon came to hate the man tormenting her delicate foot bottoms, but when he stopped and left, she wished that he would return.
It happened that he was replaced by two more men whose desire it was to hear her scream with laughter; to hear her laugh harder than she ever thought she possibly could. In attempts to draw forth this sacred laughter, they, like the first couple, each took one foot in hand, and harshly struck their fingers up and down. While she laughed and bucked, she saw her employer run off somewhere, leaving her alone in her bondage to these horny men and women alike. Distantly, as her laughs filled her ears, she heard someone say to grab her arms. Almost as soon as this was said, someone had done it, pulling them back behind her head. All at once, the world that was her feet shrunk to the sudden awareness of her upper body. Hands, at least 20 she figured, danced across all parts of her flesh. No matter how much she bucked or screamed, she could not escape or get them to stop, falling instead into a pool of incomprehensible gibberish and laughter, knowing not else what to do. The manager came back quickly, yelling at the clients and pushing many of them away, though not the ones attacking her feet. Apparently, she realized, the guard was the one who had held her arms; shows how much he could be trusted. Not that she had much opportunity to think such thoughts; though it was only her feet that were tickled now, they were still by far her most sensitive region. She no longer screamed as much, but she still laughed consistently, unable to escape their torture.
The current foot ticklers cleared away and she was given a moment to breath as the manager neared her feet, presumably to keep the customers away. She was too tired to understand, but he had addressed the crowd about something or other; unfortunately she was not too tired to be aware of something gently dripping down her soles. This awareness brought her back to reality, as she realized the crowd was cheering. As she wondered what on earth had happened, she felt the slick liquid substance being rubbed thoroughly across her feet, even in-between her toes. “She’s all oiled up, gents! Have at her!” the manager shouted, taking coins from a female and male customer that nearly ran to her feet.
For a few moments, she wondered what had happened to her feet and why the crowd would be shouting, before suddenly becoming aware as to why. The male grabbed both of her now slippery feet, which she briefly considered with fear before the woman’s long nails touched her flesh. With such ease, they slid across her feet extremely fast, scratching at seemingly every inch simultaneously, causing her to scream. Unlike before, though, she was unable to do much else. She laughed, but each laugh was preceded by a loud aiiieee. This was too much, she thought, as she fought with all of her might to wiggle her slippery feet from the man’s grip as well as pull her legs free from the devil device that held her still. She gripped the sides of the chair and hopped up and down, all the while shrieking with laughter as she tried as hard as she possibly could to escape. The woman’s nails slid between her toes, and even though she closed her toes together to hold the fingers still, the slippery substance that had been applied to her feet and toes allowed the diabolic nails to escape. The oil had made her feet slippery indeed, almost removing traction, making her that much more ticklish and vulnerable. After a few moments her hands no longer gripped the side of the chair, though she still bucked as hard as ever against her bondage. With her now free hands she struck at the chair as hard as she could, the natural reflexes of her arms attempting to give her another point of her body to focus upon, ultimately proving ineffective. Before long she pressed her hands to her face covering it in an attempt to stifle her screams and laughs. At that point she began to beg loudly to be let go, for the torturers to stop tickling her, please. Anywhere but her feet; they were too ticklish. These pleads were greeted with more thorough tickling, causing waves of laughter to escape from deep inside of her as she repeatedly begged for them to stop, please stop.
After an eternity, those two left; and thank god, she thought, not an instant too soon. Another pair of men approached, to which she begged not to tickle her feet; that she would do anything so long as they did not touch her soles. Please, no more, please, not my feet, please, she begged. The one laughed; laughed! As many times as she could, as fast as she could, she pleaded no, no more, no, no, no no, to no avail. Whatever method they used she could not tell; all she knew was that it tickled horribly. She lost her sense of reality and time, unable to distinguish people from the blinding lights, or one person from another, seeing nothing, only laughing like was supposed to; like she needed to.
After countless clients and several eternities, it must have ended. It must have ended, she concluded, because the sensations stopped and she no longer laughed, though she no longer had awareness of where she was or why she was wherever she was. Some time passed before she came to comprehend that everyone save her employer had left. Probably, she figured, the bar had closed and everyone had gone home. It took great effort to, but she managed to lift her hands and wipe the tears from her eyes, causing her to wonder. Tears? I was crying? Laughter… she heard laughter… not hers, she realized. Can other people laugh? Turning to the sound, she realized it was the employer. Of course, he was the only person there; who else would be laughing, if it wasn’t her, though she currently could not understand anyone else laughing.
“You did great.” She nodded, unable to speak due to how tired she was. Tickling is tiring, she thought. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed that the stockade was open again, but as much as she wished to withdraw her ankles from the horrid things, she lacked the energy to do so. “Can you come back tomorrow?” Unable to respond, she attempted to speak by looks alone. It appeared, she thought, that he was not very bright, as his response was, “Great! See you then!” He got up, but then seemed to remember something. “Ah, here’s your pay, by the way.” From his pocket, he withdrew a satchel of coins that seemed far too light for what she had endured. While walking across the mess that the floor now was, covered with miscellaneous objects and pools of what must be alcohol, he stopped to quickly scratch at her delicate feet. Even though she did not think she had the energy to, she yelped and quickly withdrew her feet from the damned contraption, setting them on the floor, her right falling into a pool of alcohol. A smile lit her employers face as he walked off, she too tired to rise. The lights went off suddenly, as she just now realized he had been gone for several long minutes.
“Just leave whenever you’re ready. Close the doors behind you. They’ll lock automatically. Oh, don’t forget your shoes.”
Yeah, she thought. I’ll never forget them, and won’t take them off in public again, she thought. Somewhere distant, she briefly enjoyed the idea that her feet had had such an effect upon so many people, but she quickly beat it away, not wanting to think that now or ever again.
