THE DUNNISUROM TICKLE DUNGEONS -- CHLOE
Chloe was in deep, deep trouble. She was naked, her legs spread, her wrists cuffed above her head. She was held in a sitting style device with her thighs resting in curved pads and her feet stuck out and held mostly straight with her ankles encased in thick wooden blocks and small loops of rubber holding ever toe in place so the soles of her feet were thrust out.
She had a pad supporting the small of her back, and a thick, fur-lined leather collar with rods holding it in place so she couldn't move her head much. Her buttocks and vulva hung in the open air, but a curved leather vice held her hips firmly.
She blinked back the start of tears and she saw Inspector Mavoreau stride up to her, his hands behind his back.
Oh, Sattvas! He looked smug! She summoned courage she certainly did not feel and glared at him. "I see you're failing to master your cock," she sneered.
"By the time we are done with this--" he gestured about, "you will beg to have it sunk in your anus if it means you are not being treated."
"It can't be sunk very far," she said, "if I remember accurately. I might not--it was forgettable."
"You will grovel many times in an apology for that," he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek, "before I accept it. Be thinking on what intense indignities you can suggest such that I will entertain it."
"I can think of no greater indignity than having to pretend your cock or your mind are anything special," she hissed.
The two attendants by the archway started to move--but he held up a hand. He saw the fear in her face, and that was enough.
"I had thought to take you following this first session," he said. "It would be an unpleasant end to the day--but an end to it. Since you seem to feel I should do otherwise, I shall see you after this first session and if you feel inclined to beg me prettily enough to take you--or if I should finish the day with a second session instead? I'm inclined to do the latter, honestly." He said. "Maybe groveling will truly suit you? We'll see."
His smile was thin and smug.
She almost broke and begged then--only the certainty that it would not help her, and would amuse him, stayed her. The tickle dungeons were notorious. A "session" as they called it, was four hours long. Most people sentenced to them only got one session before being checked for proper penitence--which they almost always got--but she was due more than that. Maybe a lot more.
Chloe had robbed more high society women than she could count. She had scaled towers, disarmed Art-driven alarms, opened vaults, and run along narrow walls on moonless nights without making a sound. She had been chased by guards whose grasp she had easily evaded. She had vanished into mists and sewer tunnels and alleys.
That tower? She should have known it was too good to be true. She'd gone up the wall with a rope thin enough to be almost invisible at night. The window had been braced open with metal wedges. She'd crept across the floor of the tower attic and picked a lock from the inside. A good one: a less skilled thief would've been unable to even get into the next chamber.
The trigger was a nearly perfectly balanced catch under the glass box containing the bejeweled chastity belt she'd come to steal. Her checks were careful, but they were not perfect, and the trap's mechanism had been.
Then the clockworks Mavoreau had commissioned were triggered she had heard the men move from downstairs. She'd gone back up--but too late. The heavy shutters that had clamped down over the upper windows were strong--solid. Bladders released a gas that made her sluggish. The men Mavoreau had sent wore scarves over their faces soaked in a chemical that neutralized the poison. She dodged several of them, but he had a second wave, those armed with weighted nets, and they'd caught her.
He'd had a Magistrate with him to affirm her guilt. Now she was here. She glared at him.
They'd immobilized her this morning when they shaved her sex. They used a stinging chemical that meant she wouldn't have hair below her neck for years to come. Then they'd used a funnel to make her drink a potion. At this point she hadn't even been fighting. They poured the alchemical potion down her throat and she had no choice but to take it.
It was used in the tickle dungeons to make the non-ticklish ticklish. It made the already ticklish extremely ticklish.
Before the drink, Chloe had already been ticklish enough that despite her high-society lifestyle she avoided the foot-care salons that catered to high status girls. The gentle washing and buffing and the trimming of nails was simply too much. The tickling there was more than she could take.
Her friends had sometimes tickled her for sport. They had relished making her shriek and flail. Their mothers and aunts had even known her as the "ticklish one." In bed, when she was being pleasured, illicitly, by one of her girl-friends, they'd had to be careful around her sex--too light a touch and she would laugh!
It was probably no surprise that the groups of ladies she had taken from--that the establishment that had realized the Great Grimalkin was the ticklish young society girl from a few years ago--had decided that her penance would to be broken again and again in the Tickle Dungeons. She had seen the drained and defeated looking unfortunates, posted about town, drooping in their display cages. And that was only after one session! The idea of being sent for days and days--moons--of "sessions" was unthinkable. Impossible. Now it was going to happen. The high cliffs of dread filled her with terror.
Now... now... as the potion did it's foul work, she thought she could feel the faint air vapors across her feet. Her ribs seemed to beckon for light infuriating touches. Her thighs seemed to quiver and tickle--with no one touching her at all. Every inch of her skin felt fresh and soft and vulnerable and they had access to all of her.
The ticklers wore black body-suits. They were lean and strong. They had long fingers. The only feature on their faces were leering red or white smiles. Their appearance was supposed to heighten the tension.
Around her a cauldron bubbled: greenish bubbles swelled and popped at the top. The Tickle Dungeons were filled with "pure air." It was created in the alchemical bowls and it was said to burn out of control in fire lights. All the lights in the Tickle Dungeons came from water-lights.
The "pure air" was used to help prevent the subjects from fainting. Now Chloe desperately wished she could faint.
He paused and gave a nod to the waiting attendants. "Begin."
Shit. She didn't even last until they touched her. She saw their flexing fingers formed into theatrical claws and those feral, painted-on grins, and she broke--instantly.
"Please sir! Oh, please! No! You can't--you can't! I can't bear it! PLEASE!" She put everything she had into the gasping, begging desperation--he had to come back and release her. Had to! Had--No--No!! NO!!!
The two girls slid in--one near her feet--the other moving slowly towards her stomach. Around her the hysterical laughter and cries filled the air. Horrible, desperate wails of those who were already in the throes of tickling.
No! OH! Oh-NO! FUCK!
They found her ribs, playing up and down along her lean frame like a screaming, howling musical instrument. She jolted and struggled!! NO!!
She got nothing--no relief--as they continued to tickle mercilessly along her. NO! NO! AHHH!! AHAHAAHAHAAHAHA!!
Laughter ripped from her mouth. She pulled as hard as she could at her bonds, and tried to twist to get some relief.
One of the attendants goosed her leg above the knee. It was unbearable!! NO!!! NOO!!!
She tried to bear it--for moments--but the attendant didn't move her hand and the sensation of tickling went from horrible to terrible to inconceivable. She wailed in forced laughter, mouth open.
The other predator found purchase on her feet and she tried to howl with laughter without air in her lungs. The tickler used feathers along her sole--tweaking here and there, acting with theatrical exaggeration which drove Chloe into hysteria and then into spasms and gales of helpless shrieks.
She thought she might faint--should faint--but she did not: the pure air she was breathing seemed to keep her lungs fresh for her screams.
Desperate to move her feet from the unacceptable sensation, she struggled, helpless.
