This choice: Last Exit Before Toll (I Mean Toes.) • Go Back...Chapter #25The Kinky Torture Game by: Vordertur   “C’mon. Please don’t do this. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Really?”
“No. Lie.”
“Damn it!”
You snicker and grab hold of her ankle, locking it in tight as a vise. She practically jumps out of her skin before you’ve even done anything, and you’re on the defensive right off the bat, trying to avoid getting kicked in the face for your trouble. Good news is you’ve got plenty of experience with her playbook by this point and you know most of her best material. All it takes is a little duck and weave and you’re pulling off a dodge sequence that’d make the Wachowski Brothers proud. And all without a superinflated special effects budget, to boot. “C’mon, BG,” you say, twisting the knife even further as you brace your fingernails against the creamy soft sole of her foot and give it the tiniest little scritch. “You really expect me to pass up a chance for this kind of fun? Look how cute.” And then, just to emphasize your point, you jam your index finger into the tiny little crevice between her baby toe and the next one over, then give it a furious wiggle. Her eyes go saucer-wide, her back arches like an epileptic at a glow-stick rave, and she starts gasping for air like a fish floundering on a dock.
“Acccckkkkggglllggggphhhbttthhbbtthpttt!”
“English translation, please?”
“STOP!”
You do, but only so she can catch her breath just enough for the two of you to have a conversation. You grin teasingly at her. “Are you really trying to tell me that if the shoe were on the other foot, metaphorically speaking, you wouldn’t be doing the same thing?”
She fixes you with that harsh, blue-eyed stare of hers, but it’s hard to be all that intimidated when she’s also flush-faced, messy-haired and shaking from residual giggles. And also only partly shod. But she does her best to maximize the intimidation factor, at least until she realizes you’re not buying it. She sighs. “Don’t let the outfit fool you. I don’t really hang out with the S&M crowd, you know. Not into that sort of thing. Whips, chains…”
“Bic pen caps?”
“Say what now?”
For a long time now, you’ve known that it’s just a good idea to carry around a writing implement for emergencies. You used to be one of those people who would always find himself needing a pen and having to beg, borrow or steal someone else’s. So you started carrying your own, and it’d saved your bacon more than once. Who knew such a simple utensil could also be twisted to such evil?
Thanks for the help, Bic.
There’s nothing all that special about the pen: it’s just a run of the mill, cheapie ballpoint. But the cap is plastic, and the clip portion is sharp and scratchy and when poked into tender skin? Like, say, the skin between a certain superheroine’s itty-bitty toes?
“Hey! Careful, you’ll break my pen cap.”
“I’ll break your face!
“Tsk. Threats of violence. How positively brutish of you.”
“My fists. Let me show you them.”
“I’m sure you would if you had the chance. So it’s a real shame your hands are stuck to that wall, isn’t it?”
“That’s it. Dig the hole deeper. When I get loose, my vengeance will be epic. I am talking hellfire, boy. Fire and brimstone the likes of which you have never seen. Molten lava consuming your writhing body, and I mean Writhing with a capital ‘W,’ son.”
“That’s some pretty impressive imagery you’re conjuring up, there.” You lightly scrape the edge of the pen cap against her sole, dragging it from heel to toes in one long, uninterrupted stroke. She squeals – that’s right, squeals. “But don’t think I didn’t realize you were just trying to distract me away from tickling you.” You smirk.
“Ok, ok! I get it!” She’s panting, out of breath again, and randomly twitching at phantom tickles: a clear sign that she’s got next to nothing left – running on fumes as they say. “They’re cute. They really are.” She wiggles her toes weakly. “But I can’t… God, you’re killing me, here!”
“Oh, now you’re just exaggerating. You’re young, you’re healthy. This is good exercise.”
“This is torture. Why don’t you just break out the waterboard while you’re at it?”
“Exaggerating much?”
“I’m upset. I’m saying things I don’t really mean. You still need to stop.”
“But I haven’t even gotten to your other foot yet. What if it starts feeling all lonely and ignored and stuff?”
“It’ll get over it.”
“But what if it doesn’t?”
“I know a good therapist.”
“Mmmm, too risky. I think the poor thing needs some attention.” Ignoring the rest of her protests, you haul over a large, empty wooden crate and “help” her clamber onto it before yanking off her other boot and sock and propping both now bare feet on your lap. She glares at you, clearly envisioning a world where your head explodes from the sheer amount of hatred she’s funneling through that stare. It’s a good thing exploding heads don’t work that way, though, and yours stays blessedly intact. “But here’s a consolation prize.” You place the vial of solvent into her palm, which means now you’re racing against the clock. You know you couldn’t have kept her all leashed up forever, but now you’ve gone and made it official: there’s only a little bit of time left until she gets herself loose, so you need to make it count.
First order of business? Those soft, pale arches of hers. They wriggle and flex and squirm as you go to work on them, and it’s like the poor things can’t make up their mind how they want to deal with you. One moment, little pink wrinkles form on the surface of her skin as she struggles to pull her feet away. The next, she’s kicking and jerking her legs, the soles of her feet flushed a bright pink and stretched taut like the skin of a drum. The only thing that stays the same is the volume of her laughter: loud. It’s music to your ears – better than any symphony, better than all the heavy metal concerts you risked permanent deafness for. Better than the Glee covers of all your favorite Broadway showtunes.
She giggles as your fingers dance over her heels, she snickers as they cavort over her arches. By the time you reach her toes, she’s howling like an alley cat being murdered. But when you break out the pen cap again and start digging it between her toes, that’s when she really loses it. She starts shrieking again, and you suddenly start wondering why the someone hasn’t just gone and called the police yet. (Not that you’re complaining, of course.) Eventually she runs out of breath (not for the first time,) and she’s reduced to sad little whimpering noises – half-hearted mewling as you continue raking your fingernails all over those helpless but adorable little feet.
And just when you begin to wonder how much more the poor girl can take, her hands close over your wrists and you feel both your arms getting savagely twisted behind your back. “Ow! Ow-ow-ow-ow!”
She apologizes quickly and releases your hands. She’s still out of breath, so the words come out more like a prolonged bit of panting than actual speech. “Sorry. Just… just needed to get you to stop. No more… no more tickling. Too… too tired. Can’t breathe.”
“Heh. Yeah, I did kinda run you ragged, didn’t I?”
She shoots you a glare that could cut glass.
“I should probably stop rubbing salt in the wound, shouldn’t I?”
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