ElFewja
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 21, 2007
- Messages
- 1,296
- Points
- 0
Wrote this, I think, around early 2009. It was a year or two after I began watching One Piece, and by the point in time that I wrote this I had caught up to the most current arc (at the time I think it was Ennies Lobby). To say this was inspired by One Piece is a bit of a misnomer.. it's more like a cheap knockoff. I just kept wanting to see a tickling related piece centered around the Arabasta arc and then I was like, oh right, I do stuff myself sometimes. Actually, I was borderlining not putting it up like a lot of stuff from the same time period, but... well, this one just barely meets whatever sort of standard I have right now. It's not really good but it's.. good enough. Probably needs a rewrite but I'm not so interested in the source that I want to commit the work. Rest of the 09 stuff I haven't posted is mostly garbage compared to this, though, so whatever. Anyway, try to enjoy 😱.
Tickler's Canvas (M/f feet)
“Enter.” The word was spoken loudly and confidently from beyond the large double wooden doors. Without a moments pause she pushed the twin doors open and entered the large, ornate dining room.
“Welcome, guest of honor Ms. Violet.” Came that voice again from the opposite side of that extremely long, very polished wooden table.
“Mr. Black.” She spoke and nodded confidently. There was not another soul gracing the bright red carpets of this room, but still there was an air of tension.
“Come, sit.” Spoke that broad man as he drew a thick cigar to his mouth. Obediently, she crossed that brilliant crimson carpet, the purple hems of her robe drifting listlessly as she flowed forward, sitting at the table which held enough food to feed at least forty people. “Do you know why I gave you this special invitation to my chambers, Ms. Violet?”
As he spoke, she stared at the long scar that dashed across his face from ear to ear, wondering if such a scar could truly have been earned in battle. It was eerie, she thought; it gave him the appearance of having been struck across the face with a sword recently. She supposed that her cover had been blown when he asked that question, but she knew better than to admit such things directly and instead favored ignorance. “Not in the least.” She answered simply.
“You are to be commemorated, Ms. Violet,” he began before drawing upon his cigar and exhaling a deep gray smoke ring, “You were chosen to become a secondary, based entirely on your battle prowess. You probably could fight evenly with Mr. Blue.” She blushed; though she had never met him, she at least knew Mr. Blue to be a famed Blade Master from another country, thus his placement as one of the three Primaries. “In fact,” he continued as Ms. Violet felt a pressure on her wrists from behind. As she turned her head to see an unknown blond man with a ridiculous growth of a beard that needed to be trimmed, she heard Mr. Black continue, “You were the last person I suspected to be the one sabotaging our great corporation.” It was no use; he had tied her wrists together that quickly; she had not even felt him take her arms from the arm rests.
Years of work, throwing everything away to save her country, and now it seemed at an end. Without flinching, she spoke plainly, “Mr. Black, how long have we known each other? What makes you suspect-“ her attempts to feign ignorance were quickly interrupted by Mr. Blacks enraged voice.
“Silence! Now, you have made quite the mockery of our business, and I wish to embarrass you on a similar level. Mr. Yellow, she is all yours.”
From behind her, she saw that excruciatingly thin man with the ridiculous beard walk to the table and bow. Afraid to attempt to free herself, as both Mr. Black and a Primary she knew nothing of were in the same room, she sat patiently with a face of iron as Mr. Yellow pushed the plates to the side before lifting her left leg from the ground and placing it onto the table. As he stripped her of her boot she began to wonder what they had planned for her. After a moments pause an iron shackle suddenly snapped shut around her ankle from the tables top, binding her leg too tightly against that polished wood. With that, her sock was stripped away, leaving her foot bare as the warm air of the room caressed it gently.
A second later and the man named Mr. Yellow reached behind her and pulled an object up to the table; it was white and had the appearance of a small painter's canvas, but with a strange, beaded heart shaped hole in the middle. Carefully, he fitted her foot into the left side of the hole alongside some additional padding to cover the other half, pushing the frame back slightly so that the edges of her foot and toes stuck through just enough to not be touched by the canvas’ edges. The thing was clearly designed for some mode of foot torture as it had bits of soft but very firm foam that stuck between her toes, separating and immobilizing them. Sticking his hand inside of his mustard colored coat he straightened up, nodding to Mr. Black.
“You see,” Mr. Black began as Mr. Yellow disappeared behind her for a few long moments, “Mr. Yellow is our company’s top interrogator. He uses… peculiar methods to draw out whatever we want from a victim. For example, Ms. Indigo…”
Charlotte, she thought to herself. “What did you do to her?! If you hurt her!”
After laughing very hard – hard enough to cause him to tear up – he wiped his eyes and responded, “Oh, isn’t that cute. You, threatening me after being bound. She’s quite alright; in fact, you could say that she is extremely happy.” That last part he said with a sinister smile. “But yes, she told us all about you, Ms. Violet. Or perhaps you would prefer Celeste, daughter of the moon, heir to the throne?” So he knew everything; that she had invaded his organization to sabotage it and save her kingdom. Poor Charlotte, she thought; what had they done to her to cause her to divulge everything? Just then, her menacing glare was turned to that of surprise as she felt something drift across her trapped foot.
Almost instantly her glare was transformed to that of a smile offset by glowing, light hearted eyes that desperately attempted to contain her secret ticklishness. Despite her best efforts, her hidden laughter was drawn forth by the recurring and swift yet unseen sensations that Mr. Yellow induced on her sole. Rocking back and forth in the chair, her eyes shut themselves as her lips compressed into a tightly knit circle. After but a few moments that had lasted far too long the sensations suddenly stopped. Opening her eyes she saw the blonde man dabble a rectangular headed paint brush on a pallet. Yes, she thought as she recalled the intel she had gained over the years, Mr. Yellow was an avid painter; as the thin piece of wood with its head the size of her largest toe neared her foot again, she began to tug tightly at the her bondage, despite how little it gave way. Surely, he did not intend to do what she thought; that was going too far. The words formed and dispersed in a panic that was washed away by the crazed feelings of those bristles caressing circles about the ball of her foot.
“Well, I have business to attend to, my dear barefoot princess,” Mr. Black spoke sinisterly, spiting her situation with those accursed words as her laughter grew from quickly understanding her complete immobility, “I do hope that nothing happens to your precious kingdom while you comfortably rest here, laughing your little head off. Good day.” For all she knew or cared, he left or stayed; it hardly mattered what he did, now. Nothing mattered more than what was happening to her poor, pinned foot.
Not long after the dry, stiff thing retracted for an instant while he dabbled a very thin coat of yellow paint to it. Already she felt like she could not take anymore, but from what wetness she felt on her left foot, he had hardly covered any skin; by the look of that brush, with it’s head approximately the size of her big – but tiny – toe, it wouldn’t take long to coat if he used ample paint, which it did not appear he would. A smile appeared on his face as he stared wistfully into his pallet, before the muscles around it began to contract and melodious words met her ears. “Yes, if I used too much paint, it would dull the sensations. I try to use as little as I can. To draw out the torture. These breaks are important for that reason: false sense of an end, see? You know, I’ve never had a single girl endure long enough to get the second foot,” he spoke softly to her before slowly moving the brush back towards her defenseless sole.
"Please, no more," she managed to breathily spout out before the brush crash landed, wiggling back and forth. Gritting her teeth, she began to start tugging at the canvas as much as the shackle would allow, lightly shaking the horrid contraption. Unable to free herself she began to laugh heartily once more.
“Your feet,” he began, just beyond her light and consistent laughter as he discovered what felt to be every ticklish centimeter of her foot as he swirled circles about that flat part, to the left of her ball, while her toes twitched within their bondage, “Yes, your feet are magnificent. Extremely sensitive, don’t you agree?” Although she tried not to laugh as best she could, that last insult made the sensations upon her feet tickle just that much more, and in turn pulled laughter stowed away deeply somewhere in her lungs to the light of the candles in this large room. “They look soft. Tantalizing, really,” he continued, ‘I wish I could really play with them, rather than do this to them. Tell me, would you let me play with them, if I asked nicely?”
Despite the sincerity of his words, there seemed to be an air of lies about him; she didn’t care what he had to say, though, firmly shouting “Go to hell.”
“Ah, well well, that’s a shame. Yes, a shame, indeed.” The sensations lingered on, until that damned brush withdrew for more paint with which to torture her, allowing her but a few seconds of freedom as she inhaled deeply.
Lightly dabbing the brush into another color her eyes widened. "No. Stop. Stop!" Hope quickly was ushered away when that demonic brush neared her foot again, despite her pleas. "Stop stop stoaahaap," her begging easily transformed into screams of the aforementioned amidst crazed laughter while that evil brush circled het smallest toe. It didn’t take long to coat, but it was the worst of what she had experienced yet, and felt to take an eternity or more, during which she had valiantly fought against each shackle and every bit of that heavy canvas that held her captive, albeit with no gains against any of the individual pieces that bound her.
Through tired pants, she watched as her tormentor withdrew, preparing his weapon of preference once more. "Anything, I'll-- I'll--" Her words escaped her as he continued to push his tool so near to her flesh that seemed to draw it towards them with a gravity-esque pull, one which only seeks tickling. Distantly she saw his cold blue eyes analyzing her, all the while that brush that was the whole of her attention drew nearer and nearer, slower than it had ever before. With all of her strength, she fought, trying to pull her foot free, knowing that, even if it was only temporary, any end to this torment needed to be had; her sensitive flesh could not take this sort of punishment, nor could her will. Agony swept through her as the brush touched the pad of her second smallest toe, and sat still while she begged her captor to stop profusely.
“Please…” she struggled between pants for air, “Please.. no more…”
“What, already? But I’ve hardly started my dear Ms. Violet.” A wrenching feeling gnawed at her as she struggled to allow every bit of laughter to escape her. All the while, despite trying to contain it as best she could by tightening her muscles, clenching her teeth, and shaking her head about madly, turning her once neat hair into a frivolous mess, she was forced to laugh. The reaction of closing her eyes seemed to only heighten her body’s sense of touch, but she could not help but keep them closed, as watching that man abuse her feet was far worse than feeling every miniature bristle of that damned brush, that, in her mind, she had begun to count and recognize as they slowly cantered up and down the ticklish road that was her toe,. There was one bristled that she took note of, as the brush firmly tickled her into insanity; it stuck out to the side, striking at her pinky toe unexpectedly every few seconds, causing her to gasp each time as it caressed that spot just beneath her nail and danced its merry little way down the revealed pad of her toe. As he began to round the edges carefully, making sure not to miss a single spot, she could hear him begin to speak again. “You know,” he began in the middle of his torture, “I could stop.”
That was all she needed to hear to have her beg; “Yes!” she shouted. “Yes, please! I can’t take anymore!”
“The price will be steep.”
“Anything!”
“Alright.” With that simple word, everything came to an end; upon opening her eyes, she saw the pallet and brush resting upon that table that she only hazily recalled now. “Let’s make a deal, though. I’ll help you save your kingdom; get you out of here, really, and even fight against that Mr. Black.”
“Ok…” she said, hesitantly, awaiting the deal aspect of his supposed deal.
“But… I want to trade this service for your feet.” Perplexed, she sat, staring at him, waiting for him to explain. “Well, not literally, but figuratively. This truly has been the most beautiful canvas I've had a chance with, and your laugh... marvelous. But I don’t like to torture, you know. I like my women to enjoy it.” As if reading her mind, from the very slight amount which her face contorted while trying hard to keep her regal manner, he continued on, “Oh, well, I don’t have to stop. I was instructed to continue until I lost interest… and I never lose interest. Besides, it’ll be worse if you don’t agree; if I have to go on torturing you until you do agree, that is. Trust me. You’ll like what we do after this is all said and done. I guarantee it.”
After a moments thought, she tilted her head downwards slightly; realizing that there was no way out of this situation without invoking his assistance, she reluctantly agreed. “If there is no other way, then.”
“Good.”
Speaking this, he began to move about, but did not immediately free her; unsure of his intentions, she politely reminded him to let her out. “Please. Release me, now.” She said in that voice that commanded more than it asked.
“Oh, yes, of course. But the paint. Can’t leave it there. And, sorry, you’ll need to hold still for this.”
With an eyebrow raised, she tilted her head away from her torturer turned savior. "What are you doOING!" A split second later, and she exploded with laughter again as something firm harshly worked its way up and down her foot; a scrubbing brush, she managed to discern by the warm water that splashed about on both soles and what felt like soap bubbles slipping their way down the edge and arch of her foot. "STOP STOP STOP!" She repeatedly screamed, praying for release from her torture. For two excruciatingly long minutes, the man thoroughly scrubbed her feet into hysterics while she laughed and screamed so hard that she soon found herself unable to laugh any longer, becoming entirely unaware of the world around her for but a few blissful moments. At some point he had stopped apparently, and she had been breathing heavily while her bondage was removed.
“That was far from necessary,” she wheezed out at him.
“They're mine, now. I’ll do what I want with them. Your majesty.” Was the curt response he offered her while he moved about, undoing the rope at her wrists. “Wait here but a moment and we will be on our way.” It hardly mattered; she had giggled herself silly and felt a lack of energy about her entirety, causing her to be unable to even lift her foot away from the shackles that had bound it to the table, leaving her susceptible to their iron vice of a grip once more should her captor will it. Just as she began to set her bare foot down to the ground, he reemerged from bending beneath the table and, seeing her, grabbed her ankle.
Kneeling down he placed her foot onto his knee, latching the boot onto her, saying something about not allowing his new tickle slave to dirty her soles as she cringed at the idea of being anyone’s slave, let alone their tickle slave. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something like a belt whip about in front of him. A click caught the attention of her otherwise frazzled brain as she looked down to see a key exiting a metal rim at the top of the boot. “There,” he said, slipping the key into his pocket, “The other will have to wait. Come, your majesty. He’s about to start the rebellion.” With that, he rose, helping her from the chair she had warmed with her body as he rushed forward, helping her clumsy self struggle up the stairs and out the door while she fought to regain her former self.
Tickler's Canvas (M/f feet)
“Enter.” The word was spoken loudly and confidently from beyond the large double wooden doors. Without a moments pause she pushed the twin doors open and entered the large, ornate dining room.
“Welcome, guest of honor Ms. Violet.” Came that voice again from the opposite side of that extremely long, very polished wooden table.
“Mr. Black.” She spoke and nodded confidently. There was not another soul gracing the bright red carpets of this room, but still there was an air of tension.
“Come, sit.” Spoke that broad man as he drew a thick cigar to his mouth. Obediently, she crossed that brilliant crimson carpet, the purple hems of her robe drifting listlessly as she flowed forward, sitting at the table which held enough food to feed at least forty people. “Do you know why I gave you this special invitation to my chambers, Ms. Violet?”
As he spoke, she stared at the long scar that dashed across his face from ear to ear, wondering if such a scar could truly have been earned in battle. It was eerie, she thought; it gave him the appearance of having been struck across the face with a sword recently. She supposed that her cover had been blown when he asked that question, but she knew better than to admit such things directly and instead favored ignorance. “Not in the least.” She answered simply.
“You are to be commemorated, Ms. Violet,” he began before drawing upon his cigar and exhaling a deep gray smoke ring, “You were chosen to become a secondary, based entirely on your battle prowess. You probably could fight evenly with Mr. Blue.” She blushed; though she had never met him, she at least knew Mr. Blue to be a famed Blade Master from another country, thus his placement as one of the three Primaries. “In fact,” he continued as Ms. Violet felt a pressure on her wrists from behind. As she turned her head to see an unknown blond man with a ridiculous growth of a beard that needed to be trimmed, she heard Mr. Black continue, “You were the last person I suspected to be the one sabotaging our great corporation.” It was no use; he had tied her wrists together that quickly; she had not even felt him take her arms from the arm rests.
Years of work, throwing everything away to save her country, and now it seemed at an end. Without flinching, she spoke plainly, “Mr. Black, how long have we known each other? What makes you suspect-“ her attempts to feign ignorance were quickly interrupted by Mr. Blacks enraged voice.
“Silence! Now, you have made quite the mockery of our business, and I wish to embarrass you on a similar level. Mr. Yellow, she is all yours.”
From behind her, she saw that excruciatingly thin man with the ridiculous beard walk to the table and bow. Afraid to attempt to free herself, as both Mr. Black and a Primary she knew nothing of were in the same room, she sat patiently with a face of iron as Mr. Yellow pushed the plates to the side before lifting her left leg from the ground and placing it onto the table. As he stripped her of her boot she began to wonder what they had planned for her. After a moments pause an iron shackle suddenly snapped shut around her ankle from the tables top, binding her leg too tightly against that polished wood. With that, her sock was stripped away, leaving her foot bare as the warm air of the room caressed it gently.
A second later and the man named Mr. Yellow reached behind her and pulled an object up to the table; it was white and had the appearance of a small painter's canvas, but with a strange, beaded heart shaped hole in the middle. Carefully, he fitted her foot into the left side of the hole alongside some additional padding to cover the other half, pushing the frame back slightly so that the edges of her foot and toes stuck through just enough to not be touched by the canvas’ edges. The thing was clearly designed for some mode of foot torture as it had bits of soft but very firm foam that stuck between her toes, separating and immobilizing them. Sticking his hand inside of his mustard colored coat he straightened up, nodding to Mr. Black.
“You see,” Mr. Black began as Mr. Yellow disappeared behind her for a few long moments, “Mr. Yellow is our company’s top interrogator. He uses… peculiar methods to draw out whatever we want from a victim. For example, Ms. Indigo…”
Charlotte, she thought to herself. “What did you do to her?! If you hurt her!”
After laughing very hard – hard enough to cause him to tear up – he wiped his eyes and responded, “Oh, isn’t that cute. You, threatening me after being bound. She’s quite alright; in fact, you could say that she is extremely happy.” That last part he said with a sinister smile. “But yes, she told us all about you, Ms. Violet. Or perhaps you would prefer Celeste, daughter of the moon, heir to the throne?” So he knew everything; that she had invaded his organization to sabotage it and save her kingdom. Poor Charlotte, she thought; what had they done to her to cause her to divulge everything? Just then, her menacing glare was turned to that of surprise as she felt something drift across her trapped foot.
Almost instantly her glare was transformed to that of a smile offset by glowing, light hearted eyes that desperately attempted to contain her secret ticklishness. Despite her best efforts, her hidden laughter was drawn forth by the recurring and swift yet unseen sensations that Mr. Yellow induced on her sole. Rocking back and forth in the chair, her eyes shut themselves as her lips compressed into a tightly knit circle. After but a few moments that had lasted far too long the sensations suddenly stopped. Opening her eyes she saw the blonde man dabble a rectangular headed paint brush on a pallet. Yes, she thought as she recalled the intel she had gained over the years, Mr. Yellow was an avid painter; as the thin piece of wood with its head the size of her largest toe neared her foot again, she began to tug tightly at the her bondage, despite how little it gave way. Surely, he did not intend to do what she thought; that was going too far. The words formed and dispersed in a panic that was washed away by the crazed feelings of those bristles caressing circles about the ball of her foot.
“Well, I have business to attend to, my dear barefoot princess,” Mr. Black spoke sinisterly, spiting her situation with those accursed words as her laughter grew from quickly understanding her complete immobility, “I do hope that nothing happens to your precious kingdom while you comfortably rest here, laughing your little head off. Good day.” For all she knew or cared, he left or stayed; it hardly mattered what he did, now. Nothing mattered more than what was happening to her poor, pinned foot.
Not long after the dry, stiff thing retracted for an instant while he dabbled a very thin coat of yellow paint to it. Already she felt like she could not take anymore, but from what wetness she felt on her left foot, he had hardly covered any skin; by the look of that brush, with it’s head approximately the size of her big – but tiny – toe, it wouldn’t take long to coat if he used ample paint, which it did not appear he would. A smile appeared on his face as he stared wistfully into his pallet, before the muscles around it began to contract and melodious words met her ears. “Yes, if I used too much paint, it would dull the sensations. I try to use as little as I can. To draw out the torture. These breaks are important for that reason: false sense of an end, see? You know, I’ve never had a single girl endure long enough to get the second foot,” he spoke softly to her before slowly moving the brush back towards her defenseless sole.
"Please, no more," she managed to breathily spout out before the brush crash landed, wiggling back and forth. Gritting her teeth, she began to start tugging at the canvas as much as the shackle would allow, lightly shaking the horrid contraption. Unable to free herself she began to laugh heartily once more.
“Your feet,” he began, just beyond her light and consistent laughter as he discovered what felt to be every ticklish centimeter of her foot as he swirled circles about that flat part, to the left of her ball, while her toes twitched within their bondage, “Yes, your feet are magnificent. Extremely sensitive, don’t you agree?” Although she tried not to laugh as best she could, that last insult made the sensations upon her feet tickle just that much more, and in turn pulled laughter stowed away deeply somewhere in her lungs to the light of the candles in this large room. “They look soft. Tantalizing, really,” he continued, ‘I wish I could really play with them, rather than do this to them. Tell me, would you let me play with them, if I asked nicely?”
Despite the sincerity of his words, there seemed to be an air of lies about him; she didn’t care what he had to say, though, firmly shouting “Go to hell.”
“Ah, well well, that’s a shame. Yes, a shame, indeed.” The sensations lingered on, until that damned brush withdrew for more paint with which to torture her, allowing her but a few seconds of freedom as she inhaled deeply.
Lightly dabbing the brush into another color her eyes widened. "No. Stop. Stop!" Hope quickly was ushered away when that demonic brush neared her foot again, despite her pleas. "Stop stop stoaahaap," her begging easily transformed into screams of the aforementioned amidst crazed laughter while that evil brush circled het smallest toe. It didn’t take long to coat, but it was the worst of what she had experienced yet, and felt to take an eternity or more, during which she had valiantly fought against each shackle and every bit of that heavy canvas that held her captive, albeit with no gains against any of the individual pieces that bound her.
Through tired pants, she watched as her tormentor withdrew, preparing his weapon of preference once more. "Anything, I'll-- I'll--" Her words escaped her as he continued to push his tool so near to her flesh that seemed to draw it towards them with a gravity-esque pull, one which only seeks tickling. Distantly she saw his cold blue eyes analyzing her, all the while that brush that was the whole of her attention drew nearer and nearer, slower than it had ever before. With all of her strength, she fought, trying to pull her foot free, knowing that, even if it was only temporary, any end to this torment needed to be had; her sensitive flesh could not take this sort of punishment, nor could her will. Agony swept through her as the brush touched the pad of her second smallest toe, and sat still while she begged her captor to stop profusely.
“Please…” she struggled between pants for air, “Please.. no more…”
“What, already? But I’ve hardly started my dear Ms. Violet.” A wrenching feeling gnawed at her as she struggled to allow every bit of laughter to escape her. All the while, despite trying to contain it as best she could by tightening her muscles, clenching her teeth, and shaking her head about madly, turning her once neat hair into a frivolous mess, she was forced to laugh. The reaction of closing her eyes seemed to only heighten her body’s sense of touch, but she could not help but keep them closed, as watching that man abuse her feet was far worse than feeling every miniature bristle of that damned brush, that, in her mind, she had begun to count and recognize as they slowly cantered up and down the ticklish road that was her toe,. There was one bristled that she took note of, as the brush firmly tickled her into insanity; it stuck out to the side, striking at her pinky toe unexpectedly every few seconds, causing her to gasp each time as it caressed that spot just beneath her nail and danced its merry little way down the revealed pad of her toe. As he began to round the edges carefully, making sure not to miss a single spot, she could hear him begin to speak again. “You know,” he began in the middle of his torture, “I could stop.”
That was all she needed to hear to have her beg; “Yes!” she shouted. “Yes, please! I can’t take anymore!”
“The price will be steep.”
“Anything!”
“Alright.” With that simple word, everything came to an end; upon opening her eyes, she saw the pallet and brush resting upon that table that she only hazily recalled now. “Let’s make a deal, though. I’ll help you save your kingdom; get you out of here, really, and even fight against that Mr. Black.”
“Ok…” she said, hesitantly, awaiting the deal aspect of his supposed deal.
“But… I want to trade this service for your feet.” Perplexed, she sat, staring at him, waiting for him to explain. “Well, not literally, but figuratively. This truly has been the most beautiful canvas I've had a chance with, and your laugh... marvelous. But I don’t like to torture, you know. I like my women to enjoy it.” As if reading her mind, from the very slight amount which her face contorted while trying hard to keep her regal manner, he continued on, “Oh, well, I don’t have to stop. I was instructed to continue until I lost interest… and I never lose interest. Besides, it’ll be worse if you don’t agree; if I have to go on torturing you until you do agree, that is. Trust me. You’ll like what we do after this is all said and done. I guarantee it.”
After a moments thought, she tilted her head downwards slightly; realizing that there was no way out of this situation without invoking his assistance, she reluctantly agreed. “If there is no other way, then.”
“Good.”
Speaking this, he began to move about, but did not immediately free her; unsure of his intentions, she politely reminded him to let her out. “Please. Release me, now.” She said in that voice that commanded more than it asked.
“Oh, yes, of course. But the paint. Can’t leave it there. And, sorry, you’ll need to hold still for this.”
With an eyebrow raised, she tilted her head away from her torturer turned savior. "What are you doOING!" A split second later, and she exploded with laughter again as something firm harshly worked its way up and down her foot; a scrubbing brush, she managed to discern by the warm water that splashed about on both soles and what felt like soap bubbles slipping their way down the edge and arch of her foot. "STOP STOP STOP!" She repeatedly screamed, praying for release from her torture. For two excruciatingly long minutes, the man thoroughly scrubbed her feet into hysterics while she laughed and screamed so hard that she soon found herself unable to laugh any longer, becoming entirely unaware of the world around her for but a few blissful moments. At some point he had stopped apparently, and she had been breathing heavily while her bondage was removed.
“That was far from necessary,” she wheezed out at him.
“They're mine, now. I’ll do what I want with them. Your majesty.” Was the curt response he offered her while he moved about, undoing the rope at her wrists. “Wait here but a moment and we will be on our way.” It hardly mattered; she had giggled herself silly and felt a lack of energy about her entirety, causing her to be unable to even lift her foot away from the shackles that had bound it to the table, leaving her susceptible to their iron vice of a grip once more should her captor will it. Just as she began to set her bare foot down to the ground, he reemerged from bending beneath the table and, seeing her, grabbed her ankle.
Kneeling down he placed her foot onto his knee, latching the boot onto her, saying something about not allowing his new tickle slave to dirty her soles as she cringed at the idea of being anyone’s slave, let alone their tickle slave. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something like a belt whip about in front of him. A click caught the attention of her otherwise frazzled brain as she looked down to see a key exiting a metal rim at the top of the boot. “There,” he said, slipping the key into his pocket, “The other will have to wait. Come, your majesty. He’s about to start the rebellion.” With that, he rose, helping her from the chair she had warmed with her body as he rushed forward, helping her clumsy self struggle up the stairs and out the door while she fought to regain her former self.
