An illustration of a tropical ordeal reminded me of this obscure episode...
I pull the feather slowly between each pair of toes, and stroke the middle of the same foot. Firm and repetitive trails down with an index finger, followed by two more conscientious fingers, as the thumb rides the inner edge of the foot...
Both feet twitch in response.
My feet.
I consider these feet mine, because I caught them three days ago. I brought them to this island and freed them from their heavy, stifling boots. Long before I tied them down, I suspected they'd be lots of fun - the tests all over their body gave them away.
After I anchored them so they couldn't even budge... I brushed on the extract. Three roots, collected from other islands around the world. Cured and mixed carefully. Several thick layers, slathered on. And the effects are just superb.
The feet are increasingly responsive to my efforts. And their ticklishness never fades. I've kept them at full attention for eighteen continuous hours, and they were more and more fun to tickle all the way through.
This is what I wanted. So here they are.
The extract has been just as effective on the rest of the target areas. But I return again and again to the feet. Hours of fun. Then I start back in on the ribs, and the thighs... all over. Concentrating on each place, and then revisiting them as the careful stimulation of the feet goes on and on, through the long day, into the warm night.
Tomorrow I'm going to pick up those boots and throw them into the ocean. My feet will never endure them again. Other boots and socks, perhaps, in the distant future. So very distant.
But not here.
Daily applications of extract, and extended days of tickling, That's what they're getting.
The skin has adapted well. I keep tickling until sleep just cannot be delayed any longer - especially my feet. They're here for my enjoyment. I'm not going to share them, and no one will ever find out.
I pause the action briefly, picking up the boots. When they're watched, I start moving them farther and farther away. To the water's edge.
They tumble, end over end, and make the most satisfying splash.
Let them rot. Strange new homes for the bottom-dwellers in the ocean. I find that idea to be very cheering, as I pick up the bowl of extract.
To celebrate, I coat the entire body. And the soft breeze is enough to cause the laughter to begin. Such a devoted, happy sound...
My fingers ruin it, as they work the extract in briskly. The rope is put to the test. While my hands roam all over, I watch the continuous motions of the toes - driven crazy just by the wind! - and it's more than I can stand.
I add two more hands, and a feather. Jumping into action.
Oh, yes.
The laughter is savage now, and I want it to go on like this all day.
There's no need to pace the action. The entire body tells me its secrets, the rhythms and limits that it knew.
Over the luxurious weeks I teach the body to enjoy far more stimulation than it ever knew it could tolerate. I explore different positions.
I have more and more fun.
One night, I plan a special celebration. A fine meal, and a whole hour without so much as a feather being applied...
The fire is going nicely. Close enough to warm the feet, and certainly without the risk of a stray ember injuring the delightful skin.
Alert, and waiting for the stimulation to continue - correctly knowing it will continue - there is nothing for the body to do, except watch.
I pick up the lifeboat, and slowly bring it closer. A fine little craft, still watertight, built to last for decades. It brought the body here. One of hundreds of uncharted islands, far from the interests of mariners. It did its job well - ferrying my feet from the merchant marine vessel in dead of night, across the water for several days. Stocked with food, and water, and a variety of implements for a full introduction to the stimulation and fun I had planned...
It hovers in the air, where it was never intended to go. The lifeboat, the vehicle which brought my feet here, the only means by which they could leave me.
I pull a board off. From the bottom, near the keel. It makes a loud, squeaking sound until it snaps free.
And the body grows more restless than I've seen it in a long time.
Carefully, I set the board on the crackling fire.
The response is so frantic that I cannot resist. Jealous of the reaction. Eager to cause that kind of hearty struggling...
Four of my hands take hold of the tied feet, and I have my brutal fun.
The timbers make the fire reach upward. Piece by piece, they burn. As they do, the first month of stimulation ends, and the second month begins.
I add more hands, and feathers. It's a perfect night, with a light breeze. Applying a fresh coat of the extract, I can't imagine how I could possibly be happier.
The weathered wood takes hours to burn.
On my feet, and all over the body that truly belongs to me, the party continues. A feast, a savage romp, a gleeful orgy of tickling with no interruption and no limit, no foreseeable end.
08apr02