Link to full story: Tickle Slaves
The book had no words but only pictures which were magically transcribed to move. Moving pictures. The first image was of a foot. But it was so much more than that.
Not much could be seen but the foot was lying on a wooden slab of sorts, so the owner was most likely on a wooden table. A thick metal cuff bolted to the wood was holding the poor foot down, keeping it trapped in place. Each and every one of the toes, from the biggest to the pinky toe, was ensnared in little leather ropes. Each rope was tied to little loops on the top of the metal cuff, ensuring that his toes could not move, and that his foot was taut and vulnerable. The foot twitched, but only in the most frantic and minimal of ways. Movement was a dream, not a reality.
The picture was so dark, and yet, on the foot she could see the flicker of a torch. This is because the foot was so caked in oils and scents and gods know what else. The flesh looked silky smooth yet looked red and raw. The kind of abuse that only shows itself after hours of torture.
And Amelia could hear the sounds. It was hardly human but much closer to a wet gurgling noise. And then she heard a voice. It was so faint she could hardly make it out. If it was high, deep, playful, or sincere she could not know. All she heard were the words.
“Are you alright, my dear?”
Amelia almost thought she could hear sobbing.
“Good,” the voice said. “You look so much more right this way.”
A hand entered the moving image. It was pale like milk or a ghost. The hand itself looked strong with veins, and yet the fingers were long and moved like the limbs of a spider. On almost every finger was a golden ring much gaudier than anything Amelia had ever dreamed of, most sparkling with diamonds or other gemstones. And the nails, the nails that then made Amelia’s eyes go huge, were chipped black.
The nail of the index finger poked the very top of the foot, and something like a gasp was heard.
“You know what time it is, my dear. Kitchi kitchi koo.”
The finger slid down the poor, immobile sole. It slowly glided across the ball of the foot, and the foot shivered but could not move, forced to withstand the cruel finger. If the owner of the hand knew of the foot’s suffering, they either did not see or did not care, as the nail left a line of dryness in the ocean of oil on the foot.
It slid down the arch and the leather cords vibrated. It reached the heel before turning around and even more slowly working its way back up the foot. There were more wet gurgles and what sounded like broken sobs, but the foot was trapped and the tickler did not stop. The finger moved up and down and up and down for so long that even Amelia’s feet, stuck in her hot leather boots, felt sympathy for the foot.
And then it stopped. The finger pulled back. The hand slapped down on the wooden board, the rings clacking against it, and the person laughed.
“You are so very ticklish. Did you know that?” The hand grabbed the foot and massaged it. The owner of the foot groaned and whimpered. “Did you ever dream that this would be your new life? I bet not, huh? This must be so scary for you.”
Amelia started to flip the page.
And then the hand used all of its nails to scribble over the ball and arch and heel and the owner of the foot let out the most pitiful squeal of panic and pain that Amelia had ever heard. The fingers cruelly spidered all across the foot, pausing only to let the one suffering think it was over, before starting all over again. The flesh grew even redder, and the noises Amelia heard sounded less human. The tickler was in no hurry. They lustfully scribbled their nails across the foot before stopping, placing their nails at the top of the foot, and slowly raking down the poor sole from top to bottom. Raking the ball and arch and heel, and then doing it again in such a way that there was no way the one being tickled was enjoying this even a little.
“Oh yes,” the tickler said. Amelia could hear the voice better now. A woman with a husky voice. She sounded like she was in the bedroom, like she might moan any second. “Yes, that’s right. Scream for me, pet. Or your little toes are getting it next.”
