GiggleTales
Registered User
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2024
- Messages
- 9
- Points
- 3
The Langford Museum of History wasn’t what Mariah Whitlock expected. The grand name promised something respectable—perhaps even dignified—but what she found upon stepping inside was a different story entirely.
The carpet smelled faintly of mildew, and the air was heavy, thick with the weight of age and neglect. Around her loomed the exhibits: poorly lit dioramas, faded informational plaques, and eerily lifelike mannequins frozen mid-action in their glass displays. A musty silence hung over the space, occasionally broken by the creak of the building’s ancient heating system.
Mariah adjusted the strap of her satchel as her eyes scanned the dim hall. It wasn’t as if she had expected the Smithsonian, but this? This was a far cry from what she imagined when her boss volunteered her to meet with Herb Miller, the museum’s longtime curator. Supposedly, Mr. Miller was eager to form a partnership with the local library, hoping a series of public history lectures would attract a new wave of visitors. But as Mariah took in her surroundings, she had her doubts.
Mariah stepped into the Langford Museum of History, her thoughtful gaze scanning the dim interior. She was the sort of woman who seemed to embody precision and order, from the neat part in her fine blonde hair to the polished shine of her black leather boots. Her hair, a soft golden shade that fell just past her shoulders, was pulled back on one side with a modest silver barrette, leaving a few wisps to frame her heart-shaped face.
Her pale complexion carried a natural glow, though it was devoid of any makeup save for the faintest touch of rose-tinted lipstick. The look was understated, almost as if she had chosen it to avoid standing out. Her wire-frame glasses added to her bookish demeanor, magnifying the cool blue-gray of her eyes—a gaze that was sharp and observant, quick to take in every detail.
Her outfit was every bit as conservative as her demeanor. She wore a cream-colored blouse with a high, rounded collar, the fabric adorned with a subtle floral embroidery pattern that only became visible when the light caught it just right. The blouse was neatly tucked into a gray tweed skirt that hugged her hips before flaring out slightly at the hem, falling just below her knees.
Her legs were sheathed in beige nylons, the sheen catching the faint light as she walked. Over the nylons, she had donned a pair of soft gray wool socks that peeked out above the tops of her black ankle boots—sturdy but stylish footwear that clicked softly against the museum’s worn tile floor. A deep brown satchel hung over her shoulder, its leather weathered but well-cared-for, hinting at years of reliable use.
Everything about her appearance spoke of careful deliberation. She wasn’t flashy or showy, but there was an air of elegance to her simplicity, a quiet confidence that seemed to shield her from the chaos of the outside world. Yet there was also a faint rigidity to her posture, a stiffness in her shoulders, as if she were bracing herself against the unfamiliar surroundings.
The woman standing at the museum’s front desk—a plump, older lady with a knit cardigan and a tired smile—gestured toward the far end of the hall. “Mr. Miller’s office is just through there,” she said. “He’s been expecting you.”
Mariah offered a polite nod before setting off, her black ankle boots clicking softly against the scuffed tile floor. Her gray tweed skirt brushed her knees as she walked, and the blouse tucked neatly into its waistband gave her a prim, conservative air. The faint clink of pens and notebooks in her satchel was a comforting weight against her side.
She didn’t linger as she passed the exhibits, though a few caught her attention. One diorama, labeled “Pioneers Settle the Frontier” in faded block letters, showed a group of mannequins dressed in patchy, homespun clothes. The settlers looked heroic, their poses defiant as they aimed their rifles toward the distance. Across from them, encased in a separate glass box, was another scene: a group of Native Americans, faces twisted in snarls, armed with bows and tomahawks.
Mariah stopped, frowning. The mannequins’ paint had begun to crack, and the figures themselves seemed grotesquely exaggerated. The settlers were portrayed with striking dignity, their faces stoic and noble, while the Native Americans were hunched, brutish, and animalistic. She scanned the small brass plaque beneath the display:
"Defending Civilization: The Courage of the Pioneer Spirit, 1850."
Mariah’s stomach tightened. Seriously? she thought. She had seen outdated depictions like this before in old textbooks, but to see them still on display in 2024 was unsettling. She shook her head and continued down the hall.
At last, she reached the heavy oak door marked Curator’s Office. She smoothed the front of her blouse, adjusted her glasses, and knocked.
“Come in!”
The voice was gravelly but kind, with the slight rasp of age. Mariah pushed open the door to find a man in his sixties sitting behind an old mahogany desk. Herb Miller was tall and thin, with wiry gray hair and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His office was a cluttered mess: stacks of papers and books were piled precariously on every surface, and a half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten on a side table.
“Miss Whitlock, I presume?” he said, standing and offering a firm handshake.
“Yes, thank you for meeting with me,” Mariah replied. Her voice was polite but carried a slight edge, the kind of tone that implied she was both professional and not one to be trifled with.
Herb gestured for her to sit. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet someone from the library. I’ve got some exciting ideas for how we might collaborate. People don’t appreciate local history the way they used to, you know. I’m hoping we can change that.”
Mariah took a seat, her posture perfectly straight. “I’d be happy to hear your ideas,” she said, though her earlier doubts lingered.
Herb launched into his pitch with enthusiasm, describing a series of evening lectures that would spotlight various aspects of Langford’s history—pioneers, mining booms, the Wild West. He envisioned local historians, reenactments, and guided tours through the museum’s exhibits. As he spoke, his passion was evident, but Mariah’s focus kept drifting to the outdated dioramas she’d seen on the way in.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Miller,” she said carefully when he paused for her input. “But I couldn’t help noticing some of the exhibits on display. They seem… dated.”
Herb blinked. “Dated? How so?”
Mariah hesitated. She had to tread lightly. “Well,” she began, choosing her words with precision, “the depictions of Native Americans, for instance, might come across as offensive to modern audiences. They’re presented as violent aggressors, while the settlers are cast as unambiguous heroes. That kind of narrative is… problematic.”
Herb’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, his friendly demeanor faltered. “Problematic?” he repeated, as though the word were foreign to him.
“I’m just suggesting that an update might be in order,” Mariah continued. “History is complicated, and exhibits like these should reflect that complexity. A more balanced portrayal could help attract a broader audience.”
Herb leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Miss Whitlock, this museum has been telling the story of Langford for over sixty years. Those exhibits were crafted by experts—people who lived through those times or were taught by those who did.”
“With respect,” Mariah said, “those experts lived in a different era. Audiences today expect historical accuracy, not outdated stereotypes.”
Herb’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The room grew uncomfortably silent. Finally, Mariah stood, smoothing her skirt. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Miller, but I don’t think our institutions are aligned. Best of luck with your lectures.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and left the office, her boots clicking briskly down the hall.
As she passed the exhibits, something made her pause. A faint sound reached her ears, barely audible over the creaks and groans of the old building. It was rhythmic, almost like… drumming.
Mariah stopped and turned, her gaze sweeping the room. The sound was coming from the diorama she had noticed earlier—the one depicting Native Americans. The drumming grew louder as she approached, her steps tentative.
Inside the glass, six mannequins stood frozen in a battle-ready pose. They were dressed in traditional buckskin and war paint, their faces fierce and unyielding. But as Mariah leaned closer, something shifted.
Her breath caught in her throat as the figures twitched. It was subtle at first—a slight movement of the fingers, a blink of an eye. Then, with an eerie smoothness, the figures turned their heads to look directly at her.
The glass dissolved into darkness.
Mariah’s breath caught in her throat as the museum faded around her, the glass from the diorama dissolving into an inky, suffocating darkness. The rhythmic drumming echoed louder in her ears, a primal, almost otherworldly sound that seemed to reverberate through her very bones. She tried to move, but her body felt weightless, like she was suspended in nothingness.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the darkness receded.
The ground beneath her was no longer tile but hard, uneven earth. The air was sharp with the scent of dry grass and woodsmoke, and sunlight burned through her eyelids. A breeze brushed against her face, stirring loose strands of her blonde hair. Slowly, Mariah opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh brightness.
She was lying in a patch of dirt, surrounded by scrubby brush and towering, sun-scorched trees. The landscape stretched endlessly before her—a rugged expanse of hills and plains dotted with jagged rocks. It was nothing like the museum, nothing like anything she’d ever seen before. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, heart racing.
“What in the…?” she muttered, her voice hoarse. Her satchel was gone, as were her glasses. She squinted at the horizon, struggling to make sense of her surroundings.
Then she heard it: a blood-curdling cry that pierced the still air.
Mariah’s head whipped around toward the sound. It came from somewhere behind her, a deep, guttural yell followed by the pounding of hooves. Her pulse quickened as the cries multiplied, joined by the unmistakable whoops of men shouting in unison.
Instinct took over. Run.
Scrambling to her feet, Mariah took off, her boots slipping on the uneven ground. Her skirt caught on low-hanging branches as she pushed through the scrub, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The cries were getting closer, accompanied now by the distant thrum of hooves growing louder with each passing second.
Her surroundings blurred as she ran, every step driven by adrenaline and pure terror. She didn’t know who was chasing her or why, but every fiber of her being screamed that she needed to get away.
A sudden, sharp tug on her ankle sent her sprawling to the ground. She hit the dirt hard, the impact jarring her bones, and when she tried to move, she found herself stuck. Looking down, she saw the source of her fall: a thick loop of rope, its other end tethered to a tree. A snare.
Before she could free herself, rough hands grabbed her arms, hauling her upright. She cried out in surprise and fear, but her voice was quickly silenced as a gag—a strip of coarse leather—was tied tightly across her mouth. Mariah struggled against her captors, kicking and twisting, but it was no use.
There were six of them, men dressed in traditional buckskin and adorned with feathers and beads. Their faces were painted with vivid stripes of red and black, their eyes cold and unforgiving as they spoke to one another in a language Mariah couldn’t understand.
Her heart pounded as they tied her wrists together with rawhide strips, securing them tightly behind her back. One of the men—taller and older than the others—gripped her by the arm and barked an order. The others nodded, and before she knew it, she was being dragged toward a cluster of horses waiting nearby.
Mariah was hoisted from the horse she’d been thrown onto and carried into the center of what looked like a small, temporary settlement. Dozens of eyes turned to her as they passed—a mix of women, children, and warriors. The stares were intense, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.
Mariah’s mind reeled. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
The warriors carried her to the center of the camp, where a thick wooden post had been driven into the ground. They tied her wrists above her head, stretching her arms uncomfortably high. Her toes barely touched the ground, and every slight movement sent a burning ache through her shoulders.
The gag was pulled from her mouth, and she gasped for air, coughing as her dry throat caught. She tried to speak, but her voice was barely more than a croak.
“Let me go!” she managed to say, her words trembling with desperation. “Please, I—I don’t know what’s going on!”
The warriors ignored her, stepping back as another figure approached.
The man who emerged from the crowd was older, his hair streaked with gray and his face deeply lined. He wore a large feathered headdress and carried a carved wooden staff, his presence commanding immediate respect from those around him. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto Mariah with an intensity that made her shiver.
This was the chief.
He stepped closer, tilting his head as he examined her. The feathers of his headdress swayed with each movement, and the beads around his neck clinked softly. His gaze swept over her from head to toe, lingering on her strange clothes.
“What is this?” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. His accent was thick, the words deliberate. “You do not belong here.”
Mariah opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She felt trapped under his gaze, as though he could see straight through her.
The chief stepped closer, his staff tapping the ground with each step. “You wear the clothes of a settler,” he said, his tone sharp and suspicious. “Are you a spy?”
“No!” Mariah said quickly, shaking her head. “I’m not—I don’t know how I got here! I swear!”
The chief’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in closer, studying her with unsettling focus. His eyes flicked down to her boots, then her skirt, then her blouse, taking in every detail of her appearance. “Your clothes,” he said slowly, “are strange. Too clean. Too soft. You hide something.”
“I’m not hiding anything!” Mariah protested. “I’m just… lost. Please, you have to believe me!”
The chief narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. He turned to one of the warriors beside him and spoke in their language, gesturing toward Mariah. The warrior nodded, his expression grim, and stepped forward with a knife.
Mariah’s heart leapt into her throat. “Wait!” she cried. “Please, just listen to me!”
But the chief silenced her with a sharp glare. “You will speak when spoken to,” he said coldly. “Until then, you will stay here. Perhaps you will tell the truth once your fear grows strong enough.”
He stepped back, leaving Mariah tied to the post as the camp resumed its activity around her. She was left trembling, her mind racing as she struggled against the ropes that bound her. The chief’s words echoed in her mind, his suspicion and hostility a stark reminder of how far she was from the safety of her old life.
Mariah’s heart hammered in her chest, her arms aching from the ropes that bound her to the wooden post. Her feet barely touched the ground, leaving her in a vulnerable, helpless position. The heat of the sun beat down on her skin, and the air was thick with the scent of smoke and earth. She could feel the eyes of the warriors on her, their gaze intense, filled with confusion and suspicion. The chief had made it clear: she was no friend to them.
As the murmurs of the tribe grew louder, Mariah’s breath quickened, and she struggled against the ropes again, hoping to find even a fraction of freedom. She had no idea why she was here, why she had been brought to this place. Every moment felt like an eternity, each second stretching into the next as she tried to think of a way to escape.
The chief stepped forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied her once more. He had circled her earlier, noticing her strange clothes, her strange ways. It was clear she was different from the settlers they had heard so much about, but in her vulnerability, she was still the unknown.
“Your clothes,” the chief spoke, his voice gruff. “They are foreign to us. Your feet…” He paused, his eyes drifting down to the delicate, pale skin of her legs, where her boots had been removed earlier. The faint glimmer of her nylon-covered feet caught the light.
Mariah swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. She tried to keep her composure, but the weight of their scrutiny, the way they all seemed to watch her with an unsettling curiosity, made her stomach churn.
“Tell us who you are,” the chief demanded. His voice was firm, and his posture was commanding. The warriors flanked him, their stares unwavering.
Mariah's breath hitched as she realized they weren’t just questioning her; they were looking for something from her. Her mind raced, but there was no easy answer, no simple explanation for what had happened to her.
One of the warriors, younger and quicker than the others, moved closer to her, his eyes narrowing at her bare feet. Mariah stiffened as he reached for one of her legs, carefully peeling back the fabric of her skirt to expose her ankle, the pale skin contrasting against the dirt of the camp. The nylon was soft, unfamiliar, and he seemed to marvel at the sensation between his fingers. She flinched, but the warrior did not release his hold.
The chief watched the interaction carefully, then glanced back at the others. “The woman is from another world,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Her feet... they are different.” His voice lowered as he continued to study her, his mind already drawing conclusions.
A hush fell over the camp as the chief moved forward again, his eyes locking onto Mariah’s face. “You are not like us,” he stated. "But your feet... they are a weakness."
Mariah’s pulse raced as she struggled in vain against the ropes. She didn’t understand. Why were they so fixated on her feet? The sensation of their eyes on her was almost unbearable.
The chief motioned for one of the men to kneel before her. The warrior obeyed, his fingers hovering near her bare feet as if contemplating the right move. The air around them thickened with tension as he gently touched her ankle, his fingers tracing the outline of her foot through the soft material of the nylon.
Mariah gasped, the unexpected contact sending a ripple of unease through her body. Her feet, usually hidden away from the world, felt exposed, vulnerable. A sudden, involuntary giggle bubbled up in her throat, and she clenched her jaw in embarrassment. She tried to pull her foot away, but the warrior held her firm, his fingers applying pressure on the sole. The sensation was not painful, but it was enough to make her squirm.
“Tell us what you know,” the chief demanded. His voice was cold, but there was an underlying impatience, a sharpness to it.
Mariah gasped again, caught off guard as the warrior's fingers moved, brushing against her foot in a light, teasing way. The sensation was unbearable, and before she could stop herself, she let out a surprised laugh. She squirmed, trying to suppress it, but the more she fought, the harder it became to control herself. The laughter came out in helpless bursts, quick and sharp, escaping before she could stop it.
Her face flushed with embarrassment. “Please,” she pleaded, her voice strained between giggles. “Stop—stop it!”
But the warrior didn’t relent. His fingers danced lightly across her soft, delicate sole, drawing out more involuntary laughter from her lips. She jerked her foot away again, trying to pull herself free from the binds that held her. But there was no escape—no escape from the relentless tickling that was wearing down her defenses.
As the warriors watched her reactions closely, the chief’s expression remained unreadable. He wasn’t satisfied yet. There was more to uncover. “You will talk,” he said, his voice steady as he gave another silent command.
Mariah's body shook with laughter now, helpless to stop it. She felt humiliated, but there was nothing she could do. The warrior continued, his movements calculated, knowing just where to touch, where to apply pressure to make her squirm and laugh uncontrollably.
The chief stood by, watching, calculating. “Perhaps we will learn more about this woman, her world… and why she has come to us.”
Mariah’s laughter, sharp and involuntary, echoed through the quiet camp. The warrior’s fingers were relentless, their touch light but persistent against her delicate foot, teasing and tormenting her senses in a way she couldn't control. Every tiny movement, every giggle that slipped past her lips, made her feel more exposed, more vulnerable. She gritted her teeth, trying to resist, but it was futile.
The chief stood in front of her, watching with cold calculation, his gaze piercing. His arms were crossed as he observed the warrior’s actions, his expression unreadable. The others gathered around, their eyes fixed on Mariah, sensing her discomfort and the strange power they now held over her.
Her laughter came in fits, short bursts as her body twitched involuntarily. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would stop, but the warrior didn’t relent. The pressure on her foot never ceased, the light strokes causing her to tense and twist, her breath hitching each time the sensation threatened to overwhelm her.
“Tell us,” the chief spoke, his voice steady and calm, despite the growing chaos of Mariah's reactions. “Where are you from? Why are you here?”
Mariah’s voice was strangled as she fought against the laughter and the panic swelling inside her. She couldn’t focus. She couldn’t think straight as she struggled against the ropes, trying to free herself, but it was hopeless. She was entirely at their mercy.
But then, without warning, the warrior’s touch moved. He shifted his focus, moving from her foot to her legs, and she gasped in surprise. His fingers danced lightly along her ribs, pressing gently, teasing with soft, quick movements.
The change in sensation caught Mariah off guard, and another wave of helpless laughter burst from her lips. The sensation of his fingers pressing into her ribs was overwhelming, each touch sending spasms through her body. She wrenched against the ropes again, but nothing could stop it.
“No! Stop!” she gasped between laughs, her voice cracking. But the warrior only pressed harder, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her sides. Her body jerked in response, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gasped for air. She couldn't control herself, the laughter spilling out in uncontrollable bursts, each one more desperate than the last.
“Tell us,” the chief demanded again, his voice colder now. He stepped closer, leaning in slightly, watching her struggle. “You have no choice but to speak. Tell us why you are here. We are not so easily fooled.”
Mariah couldn’t respond. She was too overwhelmed, the laughter still rolling through her, leaving her breathless. Her chest heaved as she tried to regain control, but each time she moved, each time she tried to steady herself, the fingers kept coming, slipping up and down her ribs and waist. It was maddening, her body caught between the need to breathe and the wild, uncontrollable laughter that had taken over.
The warrior’s attention shifted again, and Mariah’s heart raced in panic as she realized where he was going next. His fingers traced the edge of her arms, moving toward her armpits. She tried to twist away, but her limbs were bound tight, and she was completely at their mercy.
The moment his fingers brushed against her sensitive skin, she burst into another fit of laughter, this one even louder than the last. Her shoulders shook with the force of it, her face flushed with humiliation. The sensation was unbearable, a relentless tickling that felt like it was attacking her very core. She couldn't stop it. Her laughter became breathless, almost painful as she struggled in vain.
“Please,” she gasped, tears welling in her eyes as she laughed uncontrollably. “I don’t know… Please, stop! I’m not who you think I am!”
But the words didn’t stop the tickling. They didn’t stop the relentless teasing at her sides, her ribs, and now her armpits. Each touch sent a wave of helplessness crashing through her. Her body jerked violently, straining against the ropes, but it was no use. She couldn’t free herself. She couldn’t make it stop.
The warriors seemed to take pleasure in her helplessness, their eyes fixed on her every movement, every reaction. The chief watched with quiet intensity, his face impassive as he observed her struggle.
As Mariah laughed and twisted, her body aching from the onslaught, her thoughts scrambled for any way out, any way to end the torment. But all she could do was laugh, her mind too clouded by the sensations to think clearly.
Next thing she knew, They untied her from the pole and tied her spread eagle on a big rock in the middle of the camp. She was now stripped to her underwear, which added to her humiliation, and it seemed like all of the warriors were just waiting for their turn to tcikle her sensitive body.
The feeling of humiliation adn being hadled by a group of strong warriors, made Mariah feel a little arroused. But why did she feel more horny than scared? She did not seem to understand how could this situation make her horny.
Mariah's body strained as the warriors roughly repositioned her. The ropes bit into her skin, tugging at her limbs as they pulled her into a spread-eagle position. The force of the move left her feeling exposed, her arms and legs splayed wide, unable to find any kind of relief. Her chest heaved, breath quick and shallow, as she fought against the ropes that held her in place. The tension in her body was palpable, and the vulnerability of her position made her stomach twist in dread.
The air around her felt thick, oppressive, charged with the weight of the situation. She could hear the distant sound of murmurs from the tribe, but her focus remained on the two warriors who stood before her now. They were closer, their eyes full of intent, their gazes fixed on her body. She could see the way they observed her, their eyes scanning her every movement, every expression.
One warrior knelt by her feet, his fingers hovering near her ankles. The other moved closer to her sides, positioning himself where her ribs met her waist. Mariah’s heart raced, dread pooling in her gut. She had no idea what they wanted from her, but it was clear from the way they moved that they weren’t about to stop until they got answers.
“You have no choice,” one of the warriors said, his voice low and firm. “Tell us what we want to know, and this can stop.”
Mariah’s lips trembled as she tried to catch her breath. “I... I don’t know anything. Please... please, let me go.”
But the warriors ignored her pleas, their actions deliberate, unyielding. The first warrior—squat and muscular—moved his fingers slowly along her sole, tracing the arch with delicate pressure. The shock of it caught her off guard, and before she could suppress it, a soft giggle escaped her lips.
The warrior’s eyes gleamed at the sound. Encouraged by her reaction, he pressed his fingers deeper, digging into the tender part of her foot, just beneath her toes. Another involuntary laugh bubbled from Mariah’s throat, louder this time. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it down, but her body betrayed her, jerking against the ropes with every soft stroke of his fingers.
“Please…” she gasped between laughs, her voice breathless and strained. “Stop. I don’t know what you want.”
The second warrior didn’t speak. He watched the first intently, his expression cold. With an almost practiced grace, he moved closer to Mariah’s ribs, his fingers brushing against the sides of her torso. He let his hands hover there for a moment, watching her body tense, before pressing in, his fingers digging lightly into her flesh.
Mariah's breath hitched, the sudden sensation of being touched in such a vulnerable place sending waves of ticklish panic through her. Her chest heaved as she laughed, uncontrollable bursts of sound that shook her entire body. She twisted in the ropes, unable to free herself, the sensation almost too much to bear.
Her laughter was frantic now, quick and high-pitched. The warrior’s fingers pressed harder against her ribs, tracing their way along the side of her body, deliberately targeting the most sensitive spots. With every move, her body jerked, unable to stop the onslaught of ticklish sensations.
“No, no, please,” she begged, the words barely escaping her between gasps for air. “I can’t—stop!”
But the warriors did not relent. The first warrior, still focused on her feet, moved up to her inner ankle, his thumb brushing the delicate skin there. Mariah’s breath caught, her muscles seizing as another burst of laughter escaped her. Her mind raced, trying desperately to think of an escape, but all she could feel was the tension in her body, the tightness in her limbs, the helplessness that seemed to consume her.
The warrior at her sides shifted his attention to her underarms, his fingers slipping under the edges of her shirt to gently trace the soft skin there. The moment his fingers made contact, Mariah’s body arched, the laughter coming out in loud, desperate bursts, too wild to control. She could feel the sweat trickling down her face, the strain in her muscles, but still, she couldn't stop laughing.
The warriors worked in sync, each one expertly navigating her most ticklish spots, finding new places to tease and torment. Mariah’s entire body trembled, her ribs aching from the constant laughter, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her throat was sore, but she could not escape the sensations that coursed through her.
The chief watched, his face unreadable as he observed the way the warriors manipulated the situation. He could see the power they held over her, the helplessness she felt, but he knew that they needed more—answers that would satisfy their curiosity, answers that would explain why she had come into their world.
Mariah’s body was shaking now, her breaths ragged and uneven. “Please…” she whispered again, her voice trembling, her eyes still closed as tears began to form. “I don’t know... I don’t know anything.”
The warriors paused, but only for a moment. They exchanged a brief glance before the chief, still watching from the edge of the camp, nodded slightly. The tension hung heavy in the air as the warriors prepared to continue their interrogation. It was clear that they would stop only when they had the answers they sought—or when Mariah could give no more.
That is when she screamed "I'LL FUCK YOU ALL IF YOU STOP!!"
This made the chief smile. He approached her tied up body, and when the warriors attacked her skin with evil tickling again, the chief said "Oh you stupid white woman, you are not in a position to make a deal, but okay, we will all have sex with you. Warriors! You heard her! Enjoy!"
Mariah was still laughing her ass off when she felt one of her legs being untied. A young warrior took her ankle and lifted it up while taking out his penis and inserting it into her vagine. If it wasn't for the torturous tickling, she would have cried 'cause of how big he was. As he was fucking her, she was screaming and laughing. Fighting for her breath, all she could do is gasp when the warrior started sucking on her toes and licking her soles while speeding up his thrusting.
She was loosing her mind and enjoying herself at the same time.
They were fucking her hard, one by one, all while never stoping the tickle torture. Her face was red and she was laughing and fighing for breath.
Once all of them have fucked her and came all over the rick and her chest they stopped tickling her. That is when the chief decided to speak again. Mariah's eyes were closed and she was crying and laughing at the same time. She was still tied up when the chief said something that made her lose all hope.
He said "This girl won't tell us anything, and we cannot let her leave without being sure she is not a spy. Boys, enjoy her left foot, and use your teeth to tickle her while licking her soles. We will fuck her more later, but for now, I will use her right foot for my own pleasure. She is our slave now."
Mariah accepted her faith, and Herb Miller just smiled as he was closing the curtain in front of the exhibit. The sign in front of it said "closed for restoration".
He put a strange looking relic back into his pocket while saying to himself "Always a great feeling, sending another girl into their camp. The course has been fed again."
Commission OPEN on DeviantArt!
The carpet smelled faintly of mildew, and the air was heavy, thick with the weight of age and neglect. Around her loomed the exhibits: poorly lit dioramas, faded informational plaques, and eerily lifelike mannequins frozen mid-action in their glass displays. A musty silence hung over the space, occasionally broken by the creak of the building’s ancient heating system.
Mariah adjusted the strap of her satchel as her eyes scanned the dim hall. It wasn’t as if she had expected the Smithsonian, but this? This was a far cry from what she imagined when her boss volunteered her to meet with Herb Miller, the museum’s longtime curator. Supposedly, Mr. Miller was eager to form a partnership with the local library, hoping a series of public history lectures would attract a new wave of visitors. But as Mariah took in her surroundings, she had her doubts.
Mariah stepped into the Langford Museum of History, her thoughtful gaze scanning the dim interior. She was the sort of woman who seemed to embody precision and order, from the neat part in her fine blonde hair to the polished shine of her black leather boots. Her hair, a soft golden shade that fell just past her shoulders, was pulled back on one side with a modest silver barrette, leaving a few wisps to frame her heart-shaped face.
Her pale complexion carried a natural glow, though it was devoid of any makeup save for the faintest touch of rose-tinted lipstick. The look was understated, almost as if she had chosen it to avoid standing out. Her wire-frame glasses added to her bookish demeanor, magnifying the cool blue-gray of her eyes—a gaze that was sharp and observant, quick to take in every detail.
Her outfit was every bit as conservative as her demeanor. She wore a cream-colored blouse with a high, rounded collar, the fabric adorned with a subtle floral embroidery pattern that only became visible when the light caught it just right. The blouse was neatly tucked into a gray tweed skirt that hugged her hips before flaring out slightly at the hem, falling just below her knees.
Her legs were sheathed in beige nylons, the sheen catching the faint light as she walked. Over the nylons, she had donned a pair of soft gray wool socks that peeked out above the tops of her black ankle boots—sturdy but stylish footwear that clicked softly against the museum’s worn tile floor. A deep brown satchel hung over her shoulder, its leather weathered but well-cared-for, hinting at years of reliable use.
Everything about her appearance spoke of careful deliberation. She wasn’t flashy or showy, but there was an air of elegance to her simplicity, a quiet confidence that seemed to shield her from the chaos of the outside world. Yet there was also a faint rigidity to her posture, a stiffness in her shoulders, as if she were bracing herself against the unfamiliar surroundings.
The woman standing at the museum’s front desk—a plump, older lady with a knit cardigan and a tired smile—gestured toward the far end of the hall. “Mr. Miller’s office is just through there,” she said. “He’s been expecting you.”
Mariah offered a polite nod before setting off, her black ankle boots clicking softly against the scuffed tile floor. Her gray tweed skirt brushed her knees as she walked, and the blouse tucked neatly into its waistband gave her a prim, conservative air. The faint clink of pens and notebooks in her satchel was a comforting weight against her side.
She didn’t linger as she passed the exhibits, though a few caught her attention. One diorama, labeled “Pioneers Settle the Frontier” in faded block letters, showed a group of mannequins dressed in patchy, homespun clothes. The settlers looked heroic, their poses defiant as they aimed their rifles toward the distance. Across from them, encased in a separate glass box, was another scene: a group of Native Americans, faces twisted in snarls, armed with bows and tomahawks.
Mariah stopped, frowning. The mannequins’ paint had begun to crack, and the figures themselves seemed grotesquely exaggerated. The settlers were portrayed with striking dignity, their faces stoic and noble, while the Native Americans were hunched, brutish, and animalistic. She scanned the small brass plaque beneath the display:
"Defending Civilization: The Courage of the Pioneer Spirit, 1850."
Mariah’s stomach tightened. Seriously? she thought. She had seen outdated depictions like this before in old textbooks, but to see them still on display in 2024 was unsettling. She shook her head and continued down the hall.
At last, she reached the heavy oak door marked Curator’s Office. She smoothed the front of her blouse, adjusted her glasses, and knocked.
“Come in!”
The voice was gravelly but kind, with the slight rasp of age. Mariah pushed open the door to find a man in his sixties sitting behind an old mahogany desk. Herb Miller was tall and thin, with wiry gray hair and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His office was a cluttered mess: stacks of papers and books were piled precariously on every surface, and a half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten on a side table.
“Miss Whitlock, I presume?” he said, standing and offering a firm handshake.
“Yes, thank you for meeting with me,” Mariah replied. Her voice was polite but carried a slight edge, the kind of tone that implied she was both professional and not one to be trifled with.
Herb gestured for her to sit. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet someone from the library. I’ve got some exciting ideas for how we might collaborate. People don’t appreciate local history the way they used to, you know. I’m hoping we can change that.”
Mariah took a seat, her posture perfectly straight. “I’d be happy to hear your ideas,” she said, though her earlier doubts lingered.
Herb launched into his pitch with enthusiasm, describing a series of evening lectures that would spotlight various aspects of Langford’s history—pioneers, mining booms, the Wild West. He envisioned local historians, reenactments, and guided tours through the museum’s exhibits. As he spoke, his passion was evident, but Mariah’s focus kept drifting to the outdated dioramas she’d seen on the way in.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Miller,” she said carefully when he paused for her input. “But I couldn’t help noticing some of the exhibits on display. They seem… dated.”
Herb blinked. “Dated? How so?”
Mariah hesitated. She had to tread lightly. “Well,” she began, choosing her words with precision, “the depictions of Native Americans, for instance, might come across as offensive to modern audiences. They’re presented as violent aggressors, while the settlers are cast as unambiguous heroes. That kind of narrative is… problematic.”
Herb’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, his friendly demeanor faltered. “Problematic?” he repeated, as though the word were foreign to him.
“I’m just suggesting that an update might be in order,” Mariah continued. “History is complicated, and exhibits like these should reflect that complexity. A more balanced portrayal could help attract a broader audience.”
Herb leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Miss Whitlock, this museum has been telling the story of Langford for over sixty years. Those exhibits were crafted by experts—people who lived through those times or were taught by those who did.”
“With respect,” Mariah said, “those experts lived in a different era. Audiences today expect historical accuracy, not outdated stereotypes.”
Herb’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The room grew uncomfortably silent. Finally, Mariah stood, smoothing her skirt. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Miller, but I don’t think our institutions are aligned. Best of luck with your lectures.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and left the office, her boots clicking briskly down the hall.
As she passed the exhibits, something made her pause. A faint sound reached her ears, barely audible over the creaks and groans of the old building. It was rhythmic, almost like… drumming.
Mariah stopped and turned, her gaze sweeping the room. The sound was coming from the diorama she had noticed earlier—the one depicting Native Americans. The drumming grew louder as she approached, her steps tentative.
Inside the glass, six mannequins stood frozen in a battle-ready pose. They were dressed in traditional buckskin and war paint, their faces fierce and unyielding. But as Mariah leaned closer, something shifted.
Her breath caught in her throat as the figures twitched. It was subtle at first—a slight movement of the fingers, a blink of an eye. Then, with an eerie smoothness, the figures turned their heads to look directly at her.
The glass dissolved into darkness.
Mariah’s breath caught in her throat as the museum faded around her, the glass from the diorama dissolving into an inky, suffocating darkness. The rhythmic drumming echoed louder in her ears, a primal, almost otherworldly sound that seemed to reverberate through her very bones. She tried to move, but her body felt weightless, like she was suspended in nothingness.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the darkness receded.
The ground beneath her was no longer tile but hard, uneven earth. The air was sharp with the scent of dry grass and woodsmoke, and sunlight burned through her eyelids. A breeze brushed against her face, stirring loose strands of her blonde hair. Slowly, Mariah opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh brightness.
She was lying in a patch of dirt, surrounded by scrubby brush and towering, sun-scorched trees. The landscape stretched endlessly before her—a rugged expanse of hills and plains dotted with jagged rocks. It was nothing like the museum, nothing like anything she’d ever seen before. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, heart racing.
“What in the…?” she muttered, her voice hoarse. Her satchel was gone, as were her glasses. She squinted at the horizon, struggling to make sense of her surroundings.
Then she heard it: a blood-curdling cry that pierced the still air.
Mariah’s head whipped around toward the sound. It came from somewhere behind her, a deep, guttural yell followed by the pounding of hooves. Her pulse quickened as the cries multiplied, joined by the unmistakable whoops of men shouting in unison.
Instinct took over. Run.
Scrambling to her feet, Mariah took off, her boots slipping on the uneven ground. Her skirt caught on low-hanging branches as she pushed through the scrub, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The cries were getting closer, accompanied now by the distant thrum of hooves growing louder with each passing second.
Her surroundings blurred as she ran, every step driven by adrenaline and pure terror. She didn’t know who was chasing her or why, but every fiber of her being screamed that she needed to get away.
A sudden, sharp tug on her ankle sent her sprawling to the ground. She hit the dirt hard, the impact jarring her bones, and when she tried to move, she found herself stuck. Looking down, she saw the source of her fall: a thick loop of rope, its other end tethered to a tree. A snare.
Before she could free herself, rough hands grabbed her arms, hauling her upright. She cried out in surprise and fear, but her voice was quickly silenced as a gag—a strip of coarse leather—was tied tightly across her mouth. Mariah struggled against her captors, kicking and twisting, but it was no use.
There were six of them, men dressed in traditional buckskin and adorned with feathers and beads. Their faces were painted with vivid stripes of red and black, their eyes cold and unforgiving as they spoke to one another in a language Mariah couldn’t understand.
Her heart pounded as they tied her wrists together with rawhide strips, securing them tightly behind her back. One of the men—taller and older than the others—gripped her by the arm and barked an order. The others nodded, and before she knew it, she was being dragged toward a cluster of horses waiting nearby.
Mariah was hoisted from the horse she’d been thrown onto and carried into the center of what looked like a small, temporary settlement. Dozens of eyes turned to her as they passed—a mix of women, children, and warriors. The stares were intense, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.
Mariah’s mind reeled. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
The warriors carried her to the center of the camp, where a thick wooden post had been driven into the ground. They tied her wrists above her head, stretching her arms uncomfortably high. Her toes barely touched the ground, and every slight movement sent a burning ache through her shoulders.
The gag was pulled from her mouth, and she gasped for air, coughing as her dry throat caught. She tried to speak, but her voice was barely more than a croak.
“Let me go!” she managed to say, her words trembling with desperation. “Please, I—I don’t know what’s going on!”
The warriors ignored her, stepping back as another figure approached.
The man who emerged from the crowd was older, his hair streaked with gray and his face deeply lined. He wore a large feathered headdress and carried a carved wooden staff, his presence commanding immediate respect from those around him. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto Mariah with an intensity that made her shiver.
This was the chief.
He stepped closer, tilting his head as he examined her. The feathers of his headdress swayed with each movement, and the beads around his neck clinked softly. His gaze swept over her from head to toe, lingering on her strange clothes.
“What is this?” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. His accent was thick, the words deliberate. “You do not belong here.”
Mariah opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She felt trapped under his gaze, as though he could see straight through her.
The chief stepped closer, his staff tapping the ground with each step. “You wear the clothes of a settler,” he said, his tone sharp and suspicious. “Are you a spy?”
“No!” Mariah said quickly, shaking her head. “I’m not—I don’t know how I got here! I swear!”
The chief’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in closer, studying her with unsettling focus. His eyes flicked down to her boots, then her skirt, then her blouse, taking in every detail of her appearance. “Your clothes,” he said slowly, “are strange. Too clean. Too soft. You hide something.”
“I’m not hiding anything!” Mariah protested. “I’m just… lost. Please, you have to believe me!”
The chief narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. He turned to one of the warriors beside him and spoke in their language, gesturing toward Mariah. The warrior nodded, his expression grim, and stepped forward with a knife.
Mariah’s heart leapt into her throat. “Wait!” she cried. “Please, just listen to me!”
But the chief silenced her with a sharp glare. “You will speak when spoken to,” he said coldly. “Until then, you will stay here. Perhaps you will tell the truth once your fear grows strong enough.”
He stepped back, leaving Mariah tied to the post as the camp resumed its activity around her. She was left trembling, her mind racing as she struggled against the ropes that bound her. The chief’s words echoed in her mind, his suspicion and hostility a stark reminder of how far she was from the safety of her old life.
Mariah’s heart hammered in her chest, her arms aching from the ropes that bound her to the wooden post. Her feet barely touched the ground, leaving her in a vulnerable, helpless position. The heat of the sun beat down on her skin, and the air was thick with the scent of smoke and earth. She could feel the eyes of the warriors on her, their gaze intense, filled with confusion and suspicion. The chief had made it clear: she was no friend to them.
As the murmurs of the tribe grew louder, Mariah’s breath quickened, and she struggled against the ropes again, hoping to find even a fraction of freedom. She had no idea why she was here, why she had been brought to this place. Every moment felt like an eternity, each second stretching into the next as she tried to think of a way to escape.
The chief stepped forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied her once more. He had circled her earlier, noticing her strange clothes, her strange ways. It was clear she was different from the settlers they had heard so much about, but in her vulnerability, she was still the unknown.
“Your clothes,” the chief spoke, his voice gruff. “They are foreign to us. Your feet…” He paused, his eyes drifting down to the delicate, pale skin of her legs, where her boots had been removed earlier. The faint glimmer of her nylon-covered feet caught the light.
Mariah swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. She tried to keep her composure, but the weight of their scrutiny, the way they all seemed to watch her with an unsettling curiosity, made her stomach churn.
“Tell us who you are,” the chief demanded. His voice was firm, and his posture was commanding. The warriors flanked him, their stares unwavering.
Mariah's breath hitched as she realized they weren’t just questioning her; they were looking for something from her. Her mind raced, but there was no easy answer, no simple explanation for what had happened to her.
One of the warriors, younger and quicker than the others, moved closer to her, his eyes narrowing at her bare feet. Mariah stiffened as he reached for one of her legs, carefully peeling back the fabric of her skirt to expose her ankle, the pale skin contrasting against the dirt of the camp. The nylon was soft, unfamiliar, and he seemed to marvel at the sensation between his fingers. She flinched, but the warrior did not release his hold.
The chief watched the interaction carefully, then glanced back at the others. “The woman is from another world,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Her feet... they are different.” His voice lowered as he continued to study her, his mind already drawing conclusions.
A hush fell over the camp as the chief moved forward again, his eyes locking onto Mariah’s face. “You are not like us,” he stated. "But your feet... they are a weakness."
Mariah’s pulse raced as she struggled in vain against the ropes. She didn’t understand. Why were they so fixated on her feet? The sensation of their eyes on her was almost unbearable.
The chief motioned for one of the men to kneel before her. The warrior obeyed, his fingers hovering near her bare feet as if contemplating the right move. The air around them thickened with tension as he gently touched her ankle, his fingers tracing the outline of her foot through the soft material of the nylon.
Mariah gasped, the unexpected contact sending a ripple of unease through her body. Her feet, usually hidden away from the world, felt exposed, vulnerable. A sudden, involuntary giggle bubbled up in her throat, and she clenched her jaw in embarrassment. She tried to pull her foot away, but the warrior held her firm, his fingers applying pressure on the sole. The sensation was not painful, but it was enough to make her squirm.
“Tell us what you know,” the chief demanded. His voice was cold, but there was an underlying impatience, a sharpness to it.
Mariah gasped again, caught off guard as the warrior's fingers moved, brushing against her foot in a light, teasing way. The sensation was unbearable, and before she could stop herself, she let out a surprised laugh. She squirmed, trying to suppress it, but the more she fought, the harder it became to control herself. The laughter came out in helpless bursts, quick and sharp, escaping before she could stop it.
Her face flushed with embarrassment. “Please,” she pleaded, her voice strained between giggles. “Stop—stop it!”
But the warrior didn’t relent. His fingers danced lightly across her soft, delicate sole, drawing out more involuntary laughter from her lips. She jerked her foot away again, trying to pull herself free from the binds that held her. But there was no escape—no escape from the relentless tickling that was wearing down her defenses.
As the warriors watched her reactions closely, the chief’s expression remained unreadable. He wasn’t satisfied yet. There was more to uncover. “You will talk,” he said, his voice steady as he gave another silent command.
Mariah's body shook with laughter now, helpless to stop it. She felt humiliated, but there was nothing she could do. The warrior continued, his movements calculated, knowing just where to touch, where to apply pressure to make her squirm and laugh uncontrollably.
The chief stood by, watching, calculating. “Perhaps we will learn more about this woman, her world… and why she has come to us.”
Mariah’s laughter, sharp and involuntary, echoed through the quiet camp. The warrior’s fingers were relentless, their touch light but persistent against her delicate foot, teasing and tormenting her senses in a way she couldn't control. Every tiny movement, every giggle that slipped past her lips, made her feel more exposed, more vulnerable. She gritted her teeth, trying to resist, but it was futile.
The chief stood in front of her, watching with cold calculation, his gaze piercing. His arms were crossed as he observed the warrior’s actions, his expression unreadable. The others gathered around, their eyes fixed on Mariah, sensing her discomfort and the strange power they now held over her.
Her laughter came in fits, short bursts as her body twitched involuntarily. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would stop, but the warrior didn’t relent. The pressure on her foot never ceased, the light strokes causing her to tense and twist, her breath hitching each time the sensation threatened to overwhelm her.
“Tell us,” the chief spoke, his voice steady and calm, despite the growing chaos of Mariah's reactions. “Where are you from? Why are you here?”
Mariah’s voice was strangled as she fought against the laughter and the panic swelling inside her. She couldn’t focus. She couldn’t think straight as she struggled against the ropes, trying to free herself, but it was hopeless. She was entirely at their mercy.
But then, without warning, the warrior’s touch moved. He shifted his focus, moving from her foot to her legs, and she gasped in surprise. His fingers danced lightly along her ribs, pressing gently, teasing with soft, quick movements.
The change in sensation caught Mariah off guard, and another wave of helpless laughter burst from her lips. The sensation of his fingers pressing into her ribs was overwhelming, each touch sending spasms through her body. She wrenched against the ropes again, but nothing could stop it.
“No! Stop!” she gasped between laughs, her voice cracking. But the warrior only pressed harder, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her sides. Her body jerked in response, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gasped for air. She couldn't control herself, the laughter spilling out in uncontrollable bursts, each one more desperate than the last.
“Tell us,” the chief demanded again, his voice colder now. He stepped closer, leaning in slightly, watching her struggle. “You have no choice but to speak. Tell us why you are here. We are not so easily fooled.”
Mariah couldn’t respond. She was too overwhelmed, the laughter still rolling through her, leaving her breathless. Her chest heaved as she tried to regain control, but each time she moved, each time she tried to steady herself, the fingers kept coming, slipping up and down her ribs and waist. It was maddening, her body caught between the need to breathe and the wild, uncontrollable laughter that had taken over.
The warrior’s attention shifted again, and Mariah’s heart raced in panic as she realized where he was going next. His fingers traced the edge of her arms, moving toward her armpits. She tried to twist away, but her limbs were bound tight, and she was completely at their mercy.
The moment his fingers brushed against her sensitive skin, she burst into another fit of laughter, this one even louder than the last. Her shoulders shook with the force of it, her face flushed with humiliation. The sensation was unbearable, a relentless tickling that felt like it was attacking her very core. She couldn't stop it. Her laughter became breathless, almost painful as she struggled in vain.
“Please,” she gasped, tears welling in her eyes as she laughed uncontrollably. “I don’t know… Please, stop! I’m not who you think I am!”
But the words didn’t stop the tickling. They didn’t stop the relentless teasing at her sides, her ribs, and now her armpits. Each touch sent a wave of helplessness crashing through her. Her body jerked violently, straining against the ropes, but it was no use. She couldn’t free herself. She couldn’t make it stop.
The warriors seemed to take pleasure in her helplessness, their eyes fixed on her every movement, every reaction. The chief watched with quiet intensity, his face impassive as he observed her struggle.
As Mariah laughed and twisted, her body aching from the onslaught, her thoughts scrambled for any way out, any way to end the torment. But all she could do was laugh, her mind too clouded by the sensations to think clearly.
Next thing she knew, They untied her from the pole and tied her spread eagle on a big rock in the middle of the camp. She was now stripped to her underwear, which added to her humiliation, and it seemed like all of the warriors were just waiting for their turn to tcikle her sensitive body.
The feeling of humiliation adn being hadled by a group of strong warriors, made Mariah feel a little arroused. But why did she feel more horny than scared? She did not seem to understand how could this situation make her horny.
Mariah's body strained as the warriors roughly repositioned her. The ropes bit into her skin, tugging at her limbs as they pulled her into a spread-eagle position. The force of the move left her feeling exposed, her arms and legs splayed wide, unable to find any kind of relief. Her chest heaved, breath quick and shallow, as she fought against the ropes that held her in place. The tension in her body was palpable, and the vulnerability of her position made her stomach twist in dread.
The air around her felt thick, oppressive, charged with the weight of the situation. She could hear the distant sound of murmurs from the tribe, but her focus remained on the two warriors who stood before her now. They were closer, their eyes full of intent, their gazes fixed on her body. She could see the way they observed her, their eyes scanning her every movement, every expression.
One warrior knelt by her feet, his fingers hovering near her ankles. The other moved closer to her sides, positioning himself where her ribs met her waist. Mariah’s heart raced, dread pooling in her gut. She had no idea what they wanted from her, but it was clear from the way they moved that they weren’t about to stop until they got answers.
“You have no choice,” one of the warriors said, his voice low and firm. “Tell us what we want to know, and this can stop.”
Mariah’s lips trembled as she tried to catch her breath. “I... I don’t know anything. Please... please, let me go.”
But the warriors ignored her pleas, their actions deliberate, unyielding. The first warrior—squat and muscular—moved his fingers slowly along her sole, tracing the arch with delicate pressure. The shock of it caught her off guard, and before she could suppress it, a soft giggle escaped her lips.
The warrior’s eyes gleamed at the sound. Encouraged by her reaction, he pressed his fingers deeper, digging into the tender part of her foot, just beneath her toes. Another involuntary laugh bubbled from Mariah’s throat, louder this time. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it down, but her body betrayed her, jerking against the ropes with every soft stroke of his fingers.
“Please…” she gasped between laughs, her voice breathless and strained. “Stop. I don’t know what you want.”
The second warrior didn’t speak. He watched the first intently, his expression cold. With an almost practiced grace, he moved closer to Mariah’s ribs, his fingers brushing against the sides of her torso. He let his hands hover there for a moment, watching her body tense, before pressing in, his fingers digging lightly into her flesh.
Mariah's breath hitched, the sudden sensation of being touched in such a vulnerable place sending waves of ticklish panic through her. Her chest heaved as she laughed, uncontrollable bursts of sound that shook her entire body. She twisted in the ropes, unable to free herself, the sensation almost too much to bear.
Her laughter was frantic now, quick and high-pitched. The warrior’s fingers pressed harder against her ribs, tracing their way along the side of her body, deliberately targeting the most sensitive spots. With every move, her body jerked, unable to stop the onslaught of ticklish sensations.
“No, no, please,” she begged, the words barely escaping her between gasps for air. “I can’t—stop!”
But the warriors did not relent. The first warrior, still focused on her feet, moved up to her inner ankle, his thumb brushing the delicate skin there. Mariah’s breath caught, her muscles seizing as another burst of laughter escaped her. Her mind raced, trying desperately to think of an escape, but all she could feel was the tension in her body, the tightness in her limbs, the helplessness that seemed to consume her.
The warrior at her sides shifted his attention to her underarms, his fingers slipping under the edges of her shirt to gently trace the soft skin there. The moment his fingers made contact, Mariah’s body arched, the laughter coming out in loud, desperate bursts, too wild to control. She could feel the sweat trickling down her face, the strain in her muscles, but still, she couldn't stop laughing.
The warriors worked in sync, each one expertly navigating her most ticklish spots, finding new places to tease and torment. Mariah’s entire body trembled, her ribs aching from the constant laughter, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her throat was sore, but she could not escape the sensations that coursed through her.
The chief watched, his face unreadable as he observed the way the warriors manipulated the situation. He could see the power they held over her, the helplessness she felt, but he knew that they needed more—answers that would satisfy their curiosity, answers that would explain why she had come into their world.
Mariah’s body was shaking now, her breaths ragged and uneven. “Please…” she whispered again, her voice trembling, her eyes still closed as tears began to form. “I don’t know... I don’t know anything.”
The warriors paused, but only for a moment. They exchanged a brief glance before the chief, still watching from the edge of the camp, nodded slightly. The tension hung heavy in the air as the warriors prepared to continue their interrogation. It was clear that they would stop only when they had the answers they sought—or when Mariah could give no more.
That is when she screamed "I'LL FUCK YOU ALL IF YOU STOP!!"
This made the chief smile. He approached her tied up body, and when the warriors attacked her skin with evil tickling again, the chief said "Oh you stupid white woman, you are not in a position to make a deal, but okay, we will all have sex with you. Warriors! You heard her! Enjoy!"
Mariah was still laughing her ass off when she felt one of her legs being untied. A young warrior took her ankle and lifted it up while taking out his penis and inserting it into her vagine. If it wasn't for the torturous tickling, she would have cried 'cause of how big he was. As he was fucking her, she was screaming and laughing. Fighting for her breath, all she could do is gasp when the warrior started sucking on her toes and licking her soles while speeding up his thrusting.
She was loosing her mind and enjoying herself at the same time.
They were fucking her hard, one by one, all while never stoping the tickle torture. Her face was red and she was laughing and fighing for breath.
Once all of them have fucked her and came all over the rick and her chest they stopped tickling her. That is when the chief decided to speak again. Mariah's eyes were closed and she was crying and laughing at the same time. She was still tied up when the chief said something that made her lose all hope.
He said "This girl won't tell us anything, and we cannot let her leave without being sure she is not a spy. Boys, enjoy her left foot, and use your teeth to tickle her while licking her soles. We will fuck her more later, but for now, I will use her right foot for my own pleasure. She is our slave now."
Mariah accepted her faith, and Herb Miller just smiled as he was closing the curtain in front of the exhibit. The sign in front of it said "closed for restoration".
He put a strange looking relic back into his pocket while saying to himself "Always a great feeling, sending another girl into their camp. The course has been fed again."
Commission OPEN on DeviantArt!
