ElFewja
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I didn’t know what to put in the Tickler slot. It’s not actually a spirit or ghost; it’s more a manifestation of the individual’s powers. This is supposed to be a self tickle. Not actually sure where the idea came from, but oh well; I really enjoyed this one, both writing and then re-reading it. I forget when I wrote it, just that it was sometime in 09. The only real conflict I had was where I went with this as opposed to where I wanted to go; I largely wanted to continue using the voice to taunt the protagonist, and while going through the editing I thought about including this, but it didn’t exactly fit with the style of narration I had chosen. After some more thought, it’s not necessary; had I included it, it would have detracted a fair bit, since this is very much an inward story as opposed to an outward one. I’m just going to stop so that you – yes you – can go ahead and read this, because I really liked it. Enjoy.
The Gem of Desires (Spirit/F Feet)
Though their title as given by the outsiders changed alongside the age – first magicians, then witches, now psychics and excessively lucky persons – the Order never did. Truly there were individuals born with the spark among the others, but without proper training, those who were so lucky had not even the faintest awareness of their gift, and of course, unless born into the order, new entrants were forbidden. As such, the order consisted of so few these days, directly stemming from purging by the others and declining maternity among those who survived; the Order was spread so thin that Gloria – last of the Sylvamoor family – was surprised to find a parcel bearing the Sigil at the doorstep of her tower - where she had remained secluded these past twenty years since her birth - hidden away within the primordial forests of an island un-harassed by both time and civilization, as the outsiders so jokingly called it.
For long hours amidst her studies, Gloria’s thoughts pondered over the strange package, wondering what the wrapping that was impervious to any sort of spell she could imagine could possibly contain. Finally, as the sun’s last ray pawed desperately through the tower’s window, her studies for the day were finished, allowing her time enough to carefully shred the gold lace that held the parcels top tightly against the bottom, revealing an intricate chain of very fine silver fixated to a multi-hued gem whose colors danced between all those of the rainbow and many more that she had never before experienced. Although she, much like her mother before her, had little contact with what remained of the Order, Gloria hesitated at discarding the mysterious gem, and as the ancient clock her grandfather had forged over two hundred years ago ticked away ferociously, the image of the jewels radiance inside of that box grew within her soul and mind, until at last she felt she had to try it on. With earnest gusto, she removed the as yet untouched gem and slipped it’s necklace about her so that it dangled just between her half exposed breasts, clasping the chain behind her neck in a way that lightly pinched her skin.
While gazing away at a somewhat ancient mirror, one she knew to be at least as old as the clock if she recalled properly, a peculiar sensation tingled down her spine, as if she had felt a chill that managed to invade her long black gown - speckled all over with the silver light stolen from a distant star - which trailed seductively over the vermillion carpet of her chambers when she moved. Another chill crept down her partially exposed back some seconds later, drawing, of all things, a particularly deep yawn from her abdomen, clueing her that her body wished to inform her of her need for rest. After deciding that the silver laid against her bare skin added a sort of radiance to her figure, not to mention that the mysterious jewel’s tendency to shift colors amplified her gown’s midnight silk, Gloria glided expertly across her chamber, her black slippers whispering mute words to the carpet and no-one else while she slowly made her way to that lone chair by the window. Lethargy racked her severely with each leaden movement of her legs, until at last she heavily dropped into the oaken chair that rushed forward too readily to catch her. While Gloria looked out her half open window at the trees below, fighting to keep her eyes open and retain consciousness, she slowly became aware of a second presence within the room, though she was unable to locate it with her sleepy blue eyes. From somewhere – she knew not where – a long length of rope snaked its way through the air and towards her. Unable to move or to even will herself to scream out, she lazily watched the rope slither about her body until she was so bound to the chair that she could see not an ounce of flesh nor silk above her still free legs. Suddenly, a voice softer than velvet, smooth and bewitching, began to reverberate loudly against the walls of her mind, echoing as if in an empty ballroom. “Are you prepared?” it seemed to speak with a voice so sickenly sweet that, could honey speak, or even form coherent thoughts, it would be jealous.
Although she tried to think back at it, attempting to voice any of a thousand statements or questions, her focus instead fell down towards her feet, whose slippers decided to flee her with a hither to unknown rapidity.
“You know what for.” The voice responded as Gloria watched her slippers dance merrily away, distracting her from the present situation until her feet, both at once, felt a non-existent finger waltz along the white silken stocking that guarded each foot’s respective arch, forcing her to cackle with laughter as the feeling came on so suddenly, expending energy she no longer thought existed within her.
As though she knew it was coming – as if she were saying it herself – the voice came again. “Oooh, ticklish are we?” the voice cooed, followed by a swift attack which felt as if several fingers paraded upon the bottoms of her toes, striking and scratching so expertly it was as if they knew exactly where, when and how to inflict the most torture upon her. Just as she clenched her toes to her skin inside of those white prisons so that she might form an impenetrable defense for her toe pads, the invisible fingers all at once scratched at the very sensitive space just beneath her clenched toes with what felt like long human finger nails, forcing her to shrilly shriek for help even though there were no others present. Just as suddenly as they had begun, the sensations stopped.
Immediately the voice began again, answering questions that had not yet formed within her mind. “The gem you wear. It amplifies the powers of those who wear it, to the point that their powers form a separate entity. It – the gem that is – is called The Gem of Desires, because the entity that comes into being fulfills the wearer’s desires. You, or rather we, punish ourselves for our sins, but of course you knew this as we live here in solitude. But it isn’t enough – you know it isn’t enough – and yet, until now, you had not the courage to truly punish yourself for what you have done. But I – we – know what you truly cannot stand, and we remember.”
With those words her stockings flew away from her feet without any sort of resistance and leapt out the window, never to be seen again, leaving her sensitive feet quite bare to her invisible captor. Why tell me these things, she wondered to herself, the entity allowing her time to form coherent thoughts now.
“Because it will amplify your torment to know that you willed this torture upon yourself. Now.” As it spoke, thin, wispy orange smoke rose from the floor, wrapping around each of her toes, their crimson paint glittering to the torches’ whims, as a small tingling of dread began to grow within her abdomen while she watched. Though it was just smoke, it felt as strong as iron, and Gloria found that she could not escape its grasp. Soon it had entirely trapped her toes, pulling them up and away from her soles, exposing those areas which she knew to be the most sensitive to touch. More smoke had arisen and begun to wrap about her dress, where her ankles were, holding the fabric tightly to her skin and her ankles tightly in place while she sat, the dread growing further and further as her mobility was robbed of her. Looking into the mirror that stood directly before her, reflecting her in all of her pathetic glory as she gazed at her naked soles, now entirely defenseless and vulnerable to what would come, and perhaps more beautiful as a result, Gloria saw how captive she had become to this mysterious piece of jewelry, as it – or she had – had completely immobilized her and robbed her of her will. Whatever had entrapped her allowed the time to grow long as she sat, the dread of what was to come growing, consuming her fully as she stared at her pretty feet, those tiny, strangely beautiful things that would soon become the very source of all the agony that would course through her, likely overwhelming her.
A memory quickly surfaced from a time long ago, when her mother had stilled lived. Gloria had been sitting patiently at the dinner table, finishing an assignment that was intended to help gain further control over her powers, when their cat decided to rub against her ankle. Of course it tickled lightly, but the reason she remembered it, as the sense of dread took hold of her entire being and her eyes grew wide, was that that particularly time, her kitten had chosen to lick her sole a single time, tickling her maddeningly with that wet, sandpapery tongue. “No.” she said, realizing what was about to happen. “No, not that. Please,” Pleaded Gloria to the empty air as dread intermingled with panic, taking over her senses as she wildly looked about her for some possible means of escape, “Please. Anything but that.”
“You know that I won’t let you go, and still you plead? I’m you, but I’m not you. I’m not you, nor am I your friend; I intend to make you suffer far beyond the point which you believe you should, and still farther past the point your endurance can withstand. But, because I am partially you, I know exactly how, where, and when to strike in order to torture you the absolute most.”
The moments dragged silently onward, during each of which Gloria grew tenser than she had been the second before; soon, waiting for the torture had become torturous in and of itself, as each thunk of her grandfather’s grandfather clock echoed hollowly, announcing still another horrible second of anticipation, another horrible second that meant tickling would come, while her mind flew about wildly within her skull as it attempted to fathom the feelings that would soon assail her. It – or she as it were – would truly push her beyond the limits of what she could receive, she knew, but she longed for it to begin so that it might pass all the sooner. Several minutes had passed, now, and she began to sweat lightly, wondering just where her limits lay, wondering how far she would have to go to reach the end, which likely consisted of her insanity. Suddenly, the wispy tendril’s touch grew more apparent, seemingly tightening and restricting her movements more so than they had before, forcing her to jump spasmodically as if startled from behind. Her feet felt more susceptible to touch than they ever had before, and as she shut her eyes to the world in anticipation while drawing a deep breath, she could feel ever subtle change in the air about them: every breeze, every tiny flick of the orange smoke against her flesh so tendered by the terrible anticipation, and every miniscule molecule of sweat that slovenly dripped it’s horrible itching path down the edges of either sole as she waited. For too long she held her breath, expecting the oncoming attack with every available thought, until at last – perhaps thirty seconds after the sudden constriction – Gloria could no longer retain what air she held and, upon releasing it, gasped and groped for fresh oxygen with which to fill her lungs. Instantly, as if one of those pesky humans had fired one of their awful guns, she knew with all of her being that it was then she would be tortured; every fiber of her body felt as if it were lit alive with a blazing bonfire of awareness as each nerve ending within her tense feet stood on end, ready to receive the punishment that she willed upon them as she inwardly begged for just another minute, or even a mere moment of continued tranquility, so that she might stave off her punishment but knew it to be of no avail.
There was no hesitation in the attack; no subtle beginnings nor any warnings, and she knew that that was how it must occur. That memory of sensation stirred uncontrollably, like a wild thing, flicking up the arch like it had years ago, a dull thing at first as if it were but a reminder of the peace she had had but seconds ago, then all at once, the entirety of her soles flared into existence within her mind, as if hundreds – no, thousands – of mischievous cats had discovered her poor feet, their bottoms coated with an infinite amount of milk. As if starved for decades, those grisly, rough tongues lashed away, each with its own distinct and individual rhythm, offering Gloria not even a hundredth of a second of peace from the sensations that plagued her. They were everywhere; not even a centimeter of her sensitive flesh was spared, and she quickly fell to madness, largely unaware of her own banshee shrieks and screams of laughter that swept out of her window and through the forest below, startling the creatures that lived there. Even her toes, hidden away within that transparent and unnatural fog, felt the cruel caresses; in fact, it seemed to Gloria that that area received more attention than any other, as if she had foolishly coated her feet in catnip for centuries or had somehow used a more potent chemical upon her toes so as to attract the cats to them; it felt as though, if there were a thousand tongues, then at least a hundred, if not two or three, focused entirely upon her toes or that extremely vulnerable area just beneath them that, if her toes were free, would desperately attempt to guard. But she knew that area to be her most sensitive, and found it no surprise that three or more of the tongue like sensations covered any given spot there, forcing her toes to repeatedly quiver against that jailer smoke that held them so tightly in place for their torture. Their complete haplessness – that absolute inability to struggle or even to wiggle whatsoever, all movement as a form of protection stripped of her – amplified the feeling a hundredfold or more, but the knowledge that she willed this upon herself, that she forced this incredible amount of sensations onto her feet, truly made the tickling absolutely unbearable, and yet the only thing she allowed herself to do was laugh; the laughter tore at her throat, threatening to destroy it in order to be expelled easier.
For long minutes she shrieked and gasped for air, but never once did she beg for it to end; never once did she beg to be released of her suffering, and although she desired it to be over she beat down those feelings until they were no more. All the same, the voice knew, taunting her for her own ticklishness, but she was lost within herself, only aware that it did in fact speak as she was unable to focus upon its words. At times she would writhe about against her rope cage, shrieking madly as she tossed her head to and fro, obscuring her face with that jet black hair that would have otherwise shielded her neck. Other moments would be spent staring at the clock, watching, counting the horrible seconds as the pendulum loudly confirmed them with its low, drawn out thunks. The torture, if the clock could be believed, had not gone on more than a mere two minutes as she had somehow managed to ascertain, but her body – specifically her lungs, diaphragm and stomach – ached as if she had laughed this way for much longer, her feet in particular felt as if they had received this wondrous – no, this horrendous; she could not even think of allowing herself to enjoy it – torment for several excruciating hours by the fire that burned hotly against and within them. What would real hours feel like then, she wondered to herself as she fought to keep her thoughts together, a burning sense of lust or desire mixed with a terrible dread consuming her from within at the mere thought of this unbearable feeling being prolonged and forced upon her for so long.
But she could not ignore her feet, no matter how hard she tried to look elsewhere; there was something desirable in seeing them so bound and tortured. For long minutes after she had given up thought, while uncontrollable laughter rended itself free of her, forcing it’s way through her clenched teeth, she gazed down at her jeweled toenails with almost a sense of hunger or thirst burning her lips, as if she wanted them to, no, needed them to be tortured so, simply because of their beauty. Truly, bound as they were by that lustrous yet sickly python of smoke, they were just that: beautiful. Something about them tied and immobile seemed proper, and as her gaze fell to the tops of her feet, similar thoughts crept through the recesses of her mind. Those ankles, thin things that they were beneath her dress, ought to be tied together for eternity, she began to think; her feet, bare before her foes, ought to be punished for their beauty and tickled into oblivion as a result. Before long she again looked up to the mirror, catching a glimpse through her veil of hair at the laughing wreck she had become, but the look to her face was short lived as her attention fell upon her gently quivering, naked soles. If before she had ever felt lust, it paled before the incredible fire that now flared up inside of her now, threatening to consume her with each passing second. Stretched as they were, her bare soles seemed smooth and desirable, her arches regally high and deep, and her toe pads stalks of undeniable pleasure; she wanted them to be tickled more than she wanted anything else in this world or any other. But yes, glorious as they were, those awful angels must be punished, and she would gladly sit here, content to laugh until the world’s end if that must be the price she paid for it. O, she laughed with painful pleasure while eying herself, until at last the image and her thoughts became too much for her, and she returned to thrashing with what little strength she had left, inwardly fighting against the pleasant feelings welling up inside of her, knowing full well that the emotions were part of her torture.
It ended. It was sudden, far too sudden for Gloria to have noticed, ending so abruptly that she wondered if she had been tickled at all. There were sensations, and then there were none, though she continued to giggle, still sensing the ghosts of the tongues’ caresses. Several long moments passed before a true logical consciousness returned to her; her feet, free of the smoke, wiggled about almost of their own accord, as if unsure of their own freedom and sought to test it. Although she tried not to, she could not help but gaze at her soles in the mirror, leading her to begin wiggling her toes so that her soles wrinkled and unwrinkled which in turned forced the flames she had felt during the torture to well up anew, though not as strong. Feeling the need to distract herself of these thoughts, she looked to the clock, discovering that only ten minutes at most had passed since the tickling could have possibly begun. Had it not ended then, she surely would have lost her mind, but to have only endured ten minutes… her body felt as though ten hours of torture had wracked her body, leaving her little more than a pile of heavily breathing rubble. Finally deciding that the veil of hair was too much, she blew, then blew again, finding herself hard pressed to push her damp hair away from her face, coated as it was in a salty mix of sweat and tears, but she continued to blow, attempting to free her vision; she knew she could use her powers, but she feared what might happen or what she might to do herself if she tried to use them right now.
A few minutes passed before her breathing stabilized, at which point she began to properly analyze the situation. The rope still held her against the chair, albeit more loosely than it had originally, and the chair seemed to have moved some few feet as a result of her struggles, but little else had changed. Just then, she realized that the gem no longer pressed itself between her bosoms; looking about, she realized it to rest beneath her chair, just out of reach of her now free feet if she bent them underneath her, assuming that mirror had not been enchanted to cast hideous lies in her direction. An evil thought bubbled within her, and though she sought to repress it, Gloria found herself unable to defeat it. Before she realized what she had done, Gloria wove a small but sturdy pocket of air together and smashed her chair from behind, forcing her to the ground upon her back, rudely situated on broken wood; she sought not to escape, she realized as she rolled to her left, onto her stomach, so that her hand – the arm of it still bound against her side by the rope – could just reach the gem, which she took into hand and gripped tightly within a closed fist; as she grasped it, she wondered what would have happened if she had instead laid her naked feet onto it, but these thoughts were soon dispelled as all at once, the smoke instantly grasped her ankles and toes tightly against the carpet, providing significantly less freedom than before while the tongues pelted her in their unruly way. Turning as it began, she began to pant lightly but quickly as she gazed upon her pathetic image, drinking in the flood of laughter that sought to fill the room while eying her gently writing feet, desiring nothing else but to have them suffer like this for all of eternity.
The Gem of Desires (Spirit/F Feet)
Though their title as given by the outsiders changed alongside the age – first magicians, then witches, now psychics and excessively lucky persons – the Order never did. Truly there were individuals born with the spark among the others, but without proper training, those who were so lucky had not even the faintest awareness of their gift, and of course, unless born into the order, new entrants were forbidden. As such, the order consisted of so few these days, directly stemming from purging by the others and declining maternity among those who survived; the Order was spread so thin that Gloria – last of the Sylvamoor family – was surprised to find a parcel bearing the Sigil at the doorstep of her tower - where she had remained secluded these past twenty years since her birth - hidden away within the primordial forests of an island un-harassed by both time and civilization, as the outsiders so jokingly called it.
For long hours amidst her studies, Gloria’s thoughts pondered over the strange package, wondering what the wrapping that was impervious to any sort of spell she could imagine could possibly contain. Finally, as the sun’s last ray pawed desperately through the tower’s window, her studies for the day were finished, allowing her time enough to carefully shred the gold lace that held the parcels top tightly against the bottom, revealing an intricate chain of very fine silver fixated to a multi-hued gem whose colors danced between all those of the rainbow and many more that she had never before experienced. Although she, much like her mother before her, had little contact with what remained of the Order, Gloria hesitated at discarding the mysterious gem, and as the ancient clock her grandfather had forged over two hundred years ago ticked away ferociously, the image of the jewels radiance inside of that box grew within her soul and mind, until at last she felt she had to try it on. With earnest gusto, she removed the as yet untouched gem and slipped it’s necklace about her so that it dangled just between her half exposed breasts, clasping the chain behind her neck in a way that lightly pinched her skin.
While gazing away at a somewhat ancient mirror, one she knew to be at least as old as the clock if she recalled properly, a peculiar sensation tingled down her spine, as if she had felt a chill that managed to invade her long black gown - speckled all over with the silver light stolen from a distant star - which trailed seductively over the vermillion carpet of her chambers when she moved. Another chill crept down her partially exposed back some seconds later, drawing, of all things, a particularly deep yawn from her abdomen, clueing her that her body wished to inform her of her need for rest. After deciding that the silver laid against her bare skin added a sort of radiance to her figure, not to mention that the mysterious jewel’s tendency to shift colors amplified her gown’s midnight silk, Gloria glided expertly across her chamber, her black slippers whispering mute words to the carpet and no-one else while she slowly made her way to that lone chair by the window. Lethargy racked her severely with each leaden movement of her legs, until at last she heavily dropped into the oaken chair that rushed forward too readily to catch her. While Gloria looked out her half open window at the trees below, fighting to keep her eyes open and retain consciousness, she slowly became aware of a second presence within the room, though she was unable to locate it with her sleepy blue eyes. From somewhere – she knew not where – a long length of rope snaked its way through the air and towards her. Unable to move or to even will herself to scream out, she lazily watched the rope slither about her body until she was so bound to the chair that she could see not an ounce of flesh nor silk above her still free legs. Suddenly, a voice softer than velvet, smooth and bewitching, began to reverberate loudly against the walls of her mind, echoing as if in an empty ballroom. “Are you prepared?” it seemed to speak with a voice so sickenly sweet that, could honey speak, or even form coherent thoughts, it would be jealous.
Although she tried to think back at it, attempting to voice any of a thousand statements or questions, her focus instead fell down towards her feet, whose slippers decided to flee her with a hither to unknown rapidity.
“You know what for.” The voice responded as Gloria watched her slippers dance merrily away, distracting her from the present situation until her feet, both at once, felt a non-existent finger waltz along the white silken stocking that guarded each foot’s respective arch, forcing her to cackle with laughter as the feeling came on so suddenly, expending energy she no longer thought existed within her.
As though she knew it was coming – as if she were saying it herself – the voice came again. “Oooh, ticklish are we?” the voice cooed, followed by a swift attack which felt as if several fingers paraded upon the bottoms of her toes, striking and scratching so expertly it was as if they knew exactly where, when and how to inflict the most torture upon her. Just as she clenched her toes to her skin inside of those white prisons so that she might form an impenetrable defense for her toe pads, the invisible fingers all at once scratched at the very sensitive space just beneath her clenched toes with what felt like long human finger nails, forcing her to shrilly shriek for help even though there were no others present. Just as suddenly as they had begun, the sensations stopped.
Immediately the voice began again, answering questions that had not yet formed within her mind. “The gem you wear. It amplifies the powers of those who wear it, to the point that their powers form a separate entity. It – the gem that is – is called The Gem of Desires, because the entity that comes into being fulfills the wearer’s desires. You, or rather we, punish ourselves for our sins, but of course you knew this as we live here in solitude. But it isn’t enough – you know it isn’t enough – and yet, until now, you had not the courage to truly punish yourself for what you have done. But I – we – know what you truly cannot stand, and we remember.”
With those words her stockings flew away from her feet without any sort of resistance and leapt out the window, never to be seen again, leaving her sensitive feet quite bare to her invisible captor. Why tell me these things, she wondered to herself, the entity allowing her time to form coherent thoughts now.
“Because it will amplify your torment to know that you willed this torture upon yourself. Now.” As it spoke, thin, wispy orange smoke rose from the floor, wrapping around each of her toes, their crimson paint glittering to the torches’ whims, as a small tingling of dread began to grow within her abdomen while she watched. Though it was just smoke, it felt as strong as iron, and Gloria found that she could not escape its grasp. Soon it had entirely trapped her toes, pulling them up and away from her soles, exposing those areas which she knew to be the most sensitive to touch. More smoke had arisen and begun to wrap about her dress, where her ankles were, holding the fabric tightly to her skin and her ankles tightly in place while she sat, the dread growing further and further as her mobility was robbed of her. Looking into the mirror that stood directly before her, reflecting her in all of her pathetic glory as she gazed at her naked soles, now entirely defenseless and vulnerable to what would come, and perhaps more beautiful as a result, Gloria saw how captive she had become to this mysterious piece of jewelry, as it – or she had – had completely immobilized her and robbed her of her will. Whatever had entrapped her allowed the time to grow long as she sat, the dread of what was to come growing, consuming her fully as she stared at her pretty feet, those tiny, strangely beautiful things that would soon become the very source of all the agony that would course through her, likely overwhelming her.
A memory quickly surfaced from a time long ago, when her mother had stilled lived. Gloria had been sitting patiently at the dinner table, finishing an assignment that was intended to help gain further control over her powers, when their cat decided to rub against her ankle. Of course it tickled lightly, but the reason she remembered it, as the sense of dread took hold of her entire being and her eyes grew wide, was that that particularly time, her kitten had chosen to lick her sole a single time, tickling her maddeningly with that wet, sandpapery tongue. “No.” she said, realizing what was about to happen. “No, not that. Please,” Pleaded Gloria to the empty air as dread intermingled with panic, taking over her senses as she wildly looked about her for some possible means of escape, “Please. Anything but that.”
“You know that I won’t let you go, and still you plead? I’m you, but I’m not you. I’m not you, nor am I your friend; I intend to make you suffer far beyond the point which you believe you should, and still farther past the point your endurance can withstand. But, because I am partially you, I know exactly how, where, and when to strike in order to torture you the absolute most.”
The moments dragged silently onward, during each of which Gloria grew tenser than she had been the second before; soon, waiting for the torture had become torturous in and of itself, as each thunk of her grandfather’s grandfather clock echoed hollowly, announcing still another horrible second of anticipation, another horrible second that meant tickling would come, while her mind flew about wildly within her skull as it attempted to fathom the feelings that would soon assail her. It – or she as it were – would truly push her beyond the limits of what she could receive, she knew, but she longed for it to begin so that it might pass all the sooner. Several minutes had passed, now, and she began to sweat lightly, wondering just where her limits lay, wondering how far she would have to go to reach the end, which likely consisted of her insanity. Suddenly, the wispy tendril’s touch grew more apparent, seemingly tightening and restricting her movements more so than they had before, forcing her to jump spasmodically as if startled from behind. Her feet felt more susceptible to touch than they ever had before, and as she shut her eyes to the world in anticipation while drawing a deep breath, she could feel ever subtle change in the air about them: every breeze, every tiny flick of the orange smoke against her flesh so tendered by the terrible anticipation, and every miniscule molecule of sweat that slovenly dripped it’s horrible itching path down the edges of either sole as she waited. For too long she held her breath, expecting the oncoming attack with every available thought, until at last – perhaps thirty seconds after the sudden constriction – Gloria could no longer retain what air she held and, upon releasing it, gasped and groped for fresh oxygen with which to fill her lungs. Instantly, as if one of those pesky humans had fired one of their awful guns, she knew with all of her being that it was then she would be tortured; every fiber of her body felt as if it were lit alive with a blazing bonfire of awareness as each nerve ending within her tense feet stood on end, ready to receive the punishment that she willed upon them as she inwardly begged for just another minute, or even a mere moment of continued tranquility, so that she might stave off her punishment but knew it to be of no avail.
There was no hesitation in the attack; no subtle beginnings nor any warnings, and she knew that that was how it must occur. That memory of sensation stirred uncontrollably, like a wild thing, flicking up the arch like it had years ago, a dull thing at first as if it were but a reminder of the peace she had had but seconds ago, then all at once, the entirety of her soles flared into existence within her mind, as if hundreds – no, thousands – of mischievous cats had discovered her poor feet, their bottoms coated with an infinite amount of milk. As if starved for decades, those grisly, rough tongues lashed away, each with its own distinct and individual rhythm, offering Gloria not even a hundredth of a second of peace from the sensations that plagued her. They were everywhere; not even a centimeter of her sensitive flesh was spared, and she quickly fell to madness, largely unaware of her own banshee shrieks and screams of laughter that swept out of her window and through the forest below, startling the creatures that lived there. Even her toes, hidden away within that transparent and unnatural fog, felt the cruel caresses; in fact, it seemed to Gloria that that area received more attention than any other, as if she had foolishly coated her feet in catnip for centuries or had somehow used a more potent chemical upon her toes so as to attract the cats to them; it felt as though, if there were a thousand tongues, then at least a hundred, if not two or three, focused entirely upon her toes or that extremely vulnerable area just beneath them that, if her toes were free, would desperately attempt to guard. But she knew that area to be her most sensitive, and found it no surprise that three or more of the tongue like sensations covered any given spot there, forcing her toes to repeatedly quiver against that jailer smoke that held them so tightly in place for their torture. Their complete haplessness – that absolute inability to struggle or even to wiggle whatsoever, all movement as a form of protection stripped of her – amplified the feeling a hundredfold or more, but the knowledge that she willed this upon herself, that she forced this incredible amount of sensations onto her feet, truly made the tickling absolutely unbearable, and yet the only thing she allowed herself to do was laugh; the laughter tore at her throat, threatening to destroy it in order to be expelled easier.
For long minutes she shrieked and gasped for air, but never once did she beg for it to end; never once did she beg to be released of her suffering, and although she desired it to be over she beat down those feelings until they were no more. All the same, the voice knew, taunting her for her own ticklishness, but she was lost within herself, only aware that it did in fact speak as she was unable to focus upon its words. At times she would writhe about against her rope cage, shrieking madly as she tossed her head to and fro, obscuring her face with that jet black hair that would have otherwise shielded her neck. Other moments would be spent staring at the clock, watching, counting the horrible seconds as the pendulum loudly confirmed them with its low, drawn out thunks. The torture, if the clock could be believed, had not gone on more than a mere two minutes as she had somehow managed to ascertain, but her body – specifically her lungs, diaphragm and stomach – ached as if she had laughed this way for much longer, her feet in particular felt as if they had received this wondrous – no, this horrendous; she could not even think of allowing herself to enjoy it – torment for several excruciating hours by the fire that burned hotly against and within them. What would real hours feel like then, she wondered to herself as she fought to keep her thoughts together, a burning sense of lust or desire mixed with a terrible dread consuming her from within at the mere thought of this unbearable feeling being prolonged and forced upon her for so long.
But she could not ignore her feet, no matter how hard she tried to look elsewhere; there was something desirable in seeing them so bound and tortured. For long minutes after she had given up thought, while uncontrollable laughter rended itself free of her, forcing it’s way through her clenched teeth, she gazed down at her jeweled toenails with almost a sense of hunger or thirst burning her lips, as if she wanted them to, no, needed them to be tortured so, simply because of their beauty. Truly, bound as they were by that lustrous yet sickly python of smoke, they were just that: beautiful. Something about them tied and immobile seemed proper, and as her gaze fell to the tops of her feet, similar thoughts crept through the recesses of her mind. Those ankles, thin things that they were beneath her dress, ought to be tied together for eternity, she began to think; her feet, bare before her foes, ought to be punished for their beauty and tickled into oblivion as a result. Before long she again looked up to the mirror, catching a glimpse through her veil of hair at the laughing wreck she had become, but the look to her face was short lived as her attention fell upon her gently quivering, naked soles. If before she had ever felt lust, it paled before the incredible fire that now flared up inside of her now, threatening to consume her with each passing second. Stretched as they were, her bare soles seemed smooth and desirable, her arches regally high and deep, and her toe pads stalks of undeniable pleasure; she wanted them to be tickled more than she wanted anything else in this world or any other. But yes, glorious as they were, those awful angels must be punished, and she would gladly sit here, content to laugh until the world’s end if that must be the price she paid for it. O, she laughed with painful pleasure while eying herself, until at last the image and her thoughts became too much for her, and she returned to thrashing with what little strength she had left, inwardly fighting against the pleasant feelings welling up inside of her, knowing full well that the emotions were part of her torture.
It ended. It was sudden, far too sudden for Gloria to have noticed, ending so abruptly that she wondered if she had been tickled at all. There were sensations, and then there were none, though she continued to giggle, still sensing the ghosts of the tongues’ caresses. Several long moments passed before a true logical consciousness returned to her; her feet, free of the smoke, wiggled about almost of their own accord, as if unsure of their own freedom and sought to test it. Although she tried not to, she could not help but gaze at her soles in the mirror, leading her to begin wiggling her toes so that her soles wrinkled and unwrinkled which in turned forced the flames she had felt during the torture to well up anew, though not as strong. Feeling the need to distract herself of these thoughts, she looked to the clock, discovering that only ten minutes at most had passed since the tickling could have possibly begun. Had it not ended then, she surely would have lost her mind, but to have only endured ten minutes… her body felt as though ten hours of torture had wracked her body, leaving her little more than a pile of heavily breathing rubble. Finally deciding that the veil of hair was too much, she blew, then blew again, finding herself hard pressed to push her damp hair away from her face, coated as it was in a salty mix of sweat and tears, but she continued to blow, attempting to free her vision; she knew she could use her powers, but she feared what might happen or what she might to do herself if she tried to use them right now.
A few minutes passed before her breathing stabilized, at which point she began to properly analyze the situation. The rope still held her against the chair, albeit more loosely than it had originally, and the chair seemed to have moved some few feet as a result of her struggles, but little else had changed. Just then, she realized that the gem no longer pressed itself between her bosoms; looking about, she realized it to rest beneath her chair, just out of reach of her now free feet if she bent them underneath her, assuming that mirror had not been enchanted to cast hideous lies in her direction. An evil thought bubbled within her, and though she sought to repress it, Gloria found herself unable to defeat it. Before she realized what she had done, Gloria wove a small but sturdy pocket of air together and smashed her chair from behind, forcing her to the ground upon her back, rudely situated on broken wood; she sought not to escape, she realized as she rolled to her left, onto her stomach, so that her hand – the arm of it still bound against her side by the rope – could just reach the gem, which she took into hand and gripped tightly within a closed fist; as she grasped it, she wondered what would have happened if she had instead laid her naked feet onto it, but these thoughts were soon dispelled as all at once, the smoke instantly grasped her ankles and toes tightly against the carpet, providing significantly less freedom than before while the tongues pelted her in their unruly way. Turning as it began, she began to pant lightly but quickly as she gazed upon her pathetic image, drinking in the flood of laughter that sought to fill the room while eying her gently writing feet, desiring nothing else but to have them suffer like this for all of eternity.
