This choice: Open Mouth. Insert Foot. • Go Back...Chapter #25Don’t Talk with your Mouth Full! by: Vordertur   “Some ideas are too good not to share.” And with that, you pop a couple of her toes into your mouth. It’s like hitting her with a taser, only without all the inconvenient pain and possibility of peeing yourself. And more laughing. It starts small: a few giggles here and there, but they don’t stop. In fact, they just get worse. And soon enough, you can see her stomach quivering, then heaving underneath her costume as she laughs herself silly. Her hips twitch from side to side, and her legs kick and flail randomly.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, that tickles!” she manages to gasp out, but you’re too busy trying to Hoover the eggplant-purple nail polish off her big toe to even notice.
And so there she is, bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count, bases loaded. Time for the biggest Hail Mary play in the history of Hail Mary plays. Desperate times call for desperate measures. So desperate, no one’s gonna care that we’re mixing sports metaphors, here. Using the goop binding her hands as leverage, she lifts both feet up off the ground and plants the still-booted one against your shoulder, then tries to shove you away with everything she’s got. It’s a decent trick – almost works – but you were completely expecting it. You grab hold of her ankle and, with a smirk, start tugging on her second boot. The look on her face is priceless – that perfect blend of horror, misery and resignation. Game over, man. Game over. She groans.
“Shouldn’t have done that, BG,” you snicker, the words coming out just a touch muffled since you’re trying to speak around a mouthful of toes. “Now this one’s gotta go, too.”
She pokes her tongue out at you and *Hmph!s* loudly. Defiant to the last. You gotta respect that.
“Vewwwwwwy maffffuuufff.” (“Very mature.”)
It doesn’t take long to strip away her other boot and sock, after which you toss both backwards over your shoulder and promptly forget about them. “Am I gonna get those back?!” She protests with a half-giggle as your tongue snakes in between her toes. They push back. You push harder. She breaks down into helpless giggles.
You flash her your best “Magic 8-ball” look. “Reply hazy. Try again later,” it seems to say. She isn’t content with that, and struggles even more to try and win free, but it isn’t easy now that she quite literally doesn’t even have a leg to stand on. All her weight is hanging off her wrists, which you figure has got to be pretty painful. You figure the least you can do is help her out a little since she’s being such a good sport (Ha.) about all this.
You drop into a crouch and rest one of her feet on your knee. But it’s not all good news. You leave your fingers lightly scritching across the tops of her toes, and the look she sends your way nearly breaks your heart. It’s like you ran over her dog with a Humvee. And then backed over it a half dozen times just for good measure. “Whhhyyyy?!” she whines, plaintively.
“I give. I take away.”
“Haaaaaaate you,” she hisses.
Snickering softly, you lean in and brush the tip of your tongue against her heel. That gets a snort out of her. You graze it along the side of her instep and then slide it up her arch. That gets a yelp. But you’re still just toying with her. This is kid’s stuff. Total rookie league. You’ve been going easy on her, but now it’s time to bring the A-game.
She picks up on the switch – somehow she knows that it’s about to get real, and she tenses up, her toes curling tight. Her brow furrows and she glares at you: that whole “if looks could kill” thing. Her death stare isn’t actually fatal, but it does make you flinch a bit. “What… what are you doing?”
The tone of her voice has dropped a couple of degrees. There’s a chill to it, like stepping out of a nice warm house into the middle of a frigid winter street when the snow’s blowing everywhere and the wind’s snapping at your clothes. You don’t quite shiver, but it sends a tingle down your spine. “Oh. Nothing.”
It’s a lie. A horrible, horrible, blatant lie, and you don’t even bother to hide the fact that you’ve got something up your sleeve as you wrestle her feet into position. She fights you, but it’s a token gesture since she’s not sure where the attack’s going to come from and she’s saving her energy for when it’ll matter.
Not that it’ll do her a lick of good, of course.
And speaking of licking…
You bring one foot up to your mouth and go to town. It’s a horrorshow – like a dozen bears versus a river full of salmon.
There’s kicking, thrashing, wailing, crying, screaming. And that’s just you.
Somewhere in the middle of it, you spare just enough attention from what you’re doing to take a quick glance up at her. She’s starting to flag. Her hair’s limp, her shoulders are sagging, and she’s having a hard time catching her breath. You’re not an expert on these things, but you know she’s got to be a pretty healthy sort, to be running around rooftops all night, chasing down bad guys. If she’s having a hard time getting her wind back, then you know you’ve pretty much pushed her to her breaking point.
So now it’s time to talk strategy. You’ve really only got two options. Option One: let loose with everything you’ve got left. Flood all torpedo tubes, open up all missile silos. The Russians are invading, it’s nuclear Armageddon time. Burn the land and boil the sea, put her out of her misery. You’ve been pretty rough on her; finishing this nasty (but really fun) business with one last, all-out tickle assault would actually be kind of a mercy.
Well, maybe not, but that’s your story and you’re sticking to it.
On the other hand, you could take a little pity on her, maybe give her a chance to recover just a touch… and stretch out the torture for a little longer. But what kind of horrible, twisted bastard would do something like that?   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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