“I know you have no secrets to tell, but I’m going to make you tell me anyway…”
Imagine being mistaken for someone with top secret information and wrongfully captured, mummified, gagged, and tied down to a table by your captor. He takes your feet, locking them in stocks, ankles bound and pressed tightly together, and strips you of your shoes and sweaty socks, exposing your hyper-sensitive, silky-smooth soles, and begins applying copious amounts of lotion and oil to your feet, lathering every vulnerable inch from the bottom of your heels to the crevices between and underneath each and every toe, and finishes it off by tying your big toes together to further immobilize you. Never speaking a word. Never acknowledging any of your protests or muffled explanation that you’re not who he thinks you are…
But that’s not all your captor doesn’t realize yet. If it’s not bad enough he captured the wrong person, the person he did capture just happens to love being put in bondage and tickle tortured without mercy, until they’re in a puddle of tears and begging for an end they know will never come…at least not on their terms. The entire time he preps you for your ticklish interrogation, all you can think about is what tools he has in his stockpile, how he’s going to use them on your trapped, helpless feet, and how long he’ll torment you before he decides to stop (or if you even want him to).
After hours of your oiled soles being scrubbed, scraped, scratched, and brushed, your captor repeating the same questions over and over the only break from the relentless torture, he pauses, finally realizing that he may have just inflicted his devices and delightfully cruel methods on an innocent person. When he looks down at you—at your twitching, spreading toes, your tightly wrapped body heaving up and down with a lingering, delirious laughter muffled by the gag while trying to catch your breath at the same time, the tears of laughter (and maybe a mixture of sobs, but you had lost grip of reality too long ago to notice the difference) dripping through your blindfold—he can see that you’ve been enjoying this. Maybe more than he has. Not once have you asked him to stop, not once did you ever attempt to answer his questions, not once since the tickling began have you tried to convince him you’re not who he’s looking for.
Although he does this for a living, driving people to the brink of their sanity through such a humiliating, simple method as tickling, he’s never had someone at his mercy who’s all but eager to see how skilled he truly is…and if he can actually break them.
And so, realizing that at this point you have no interest in being set free or allowed to walk away—and completely unable to make that choice for yourself, anyway—he reapplies a fresh layer of oil to your raw, stretched soles, picks his next tool, and resumes tickle torturing you, now with the mission of figuring out what secrets he can get out of his new tickle toy…
