79 lines
3.8 KiB
Plaintext
79 lines
3.8 KiB
Plaintext
The Castle
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My imagination's been at work again... (this should
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give you an idea of the things I daydream about!). I'm on a
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tour of a medieval castle. As the tour group enters the
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dungeon, my eyes immediately light on the stocks. As the
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tour guide is going on about the horrible tortures that used
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to take place, I'm trying to imagine what it would be like
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to be in the stocks. As the group files out of the room, I
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linger behind, just to try them on for size...
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Well, no sooner are my ankles in them then a form
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moves out of the corner of the dungeon, snapping a padlock
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on the stocks! I try to struggle, but I am trapped! I look
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at him; he was also in the tour group. "I noticed you
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staring at the stocks," he says, "and I was hoping you'd
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stay behind." He begins to unlace my sneakers, and I know
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what he is going to do. I start to beg him not to, but he
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ignores me, just smiling. I know yelling won't do any good;
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the walls are many feet of solid stone.
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I'm not wearing any socks, so I'm now helpless before
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him. He takes a large plume from a suit of armor and begins
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to run it up and down my trapped soles without mercy! I am
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laughing out of control and begging him to stop, but he goes
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on. Then he starts to tickle my toes, and I go completely
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wild! After a while he stops, but doesn't let me go. He just
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looks over at the rack and smiles...
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The man unlocks the stocks, but there is no escape for
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me yet. Effortlessly, he drags me to the rack. I'm still a
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little weak from the insideous foot-tickling I've just
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received, so there is nothing I can do to stop him from
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closing the manicles around my wrists. My ankles are locked
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into the stocks at the end of the rack, my bare feet
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sticking out. Now I'm even more helpless than before!
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He begins to turn the wheel of the rack. Not enough to
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actually hurt me; just enough to stretch me out and totally
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immobilize me. "You don't know how long I've waited to get a
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lovely woman like you in such a position," he says. I'm too
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scared to reply. Then, he begins to unbutton my shirt,
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slowly. One button at a time, as if he were savoring every
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second of dreaded anticipation he was forcing me to endure.
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He finally unbuttons the whole thing, exposing my breasts
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and stomach to whatever he chooses to do to me. He taunts
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me, saying, "You _have_ gotten yourself into a ticklish
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situation, haven't you?"
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"Say, `I love to be tickled' for me," he says. I
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refuse, even though it is true. He repeats the command,
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holding the large feather in front of my eyes as a silent
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threat. Still I refuse. I don't know why. Perhaps I really
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want him to tickle me. "Very well," he says, and starts to
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run the plume over my sensitive abdomen.
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The torture is unbearable. I can feel the feather
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gliding against my tummy, ribs, and belly button, and it is
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agony! "Hahahahahahaha!!!!! Please stop!" I beg, but to no
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avail. He keeps on the devilish tickling, until tears are
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rolling down my cheeks. "Say it," he insists, as he plays
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the feather across my breasts, adding new tickling agony.
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I have to relent. "I love to be tickled! I love to be
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tickled!" I confess. "Now please stop! Hehehe!!!"
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He finally relents, giving me time to gulp precious
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air. "Excellent," he says. "Now, since you _do_ admit to
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loving this, perhaps we should pay some more attention to
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these lovely feet of yours..."
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I can only sob in frustration, wondering when the next
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tour group is due. Then I remember; ours was the last tour
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of the day!
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It's a night I'll never forget.
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