Untitled Vignette

“Extend yourself, please,” Lady Darleen’s voice commanded.

Mike RYP-168 obeyed quickly, eagerly, stretching out his arms and legs. He felt the restraints snap into place: Across his waist, just above his jipers, around his wrists and ankles, upper arms and thighs, and thumbs and large toes. He heard the click of solenoids as he lay flat on his back, looking up at the dull gray of the production slot holding him. Then the tickling began.

It started with the soles of his bare feet, a combination of mechanical implements and nerve-tingling gravatronics. A wave of tickle ran up from his heels to his toes and then repeated, again and again, while the slower implements of smooth plastic scritched here and there. Mike laughed and squirmed, attempting to twist away. There was no shame in that; no man could keep from struggling in the slot, any more than he could keep from laughing. That was why the slots had restraints.

Mike kept laughing as the tickling continued, cycling through a standard pattern that had been adjusted to match his individual sensitivities. The waves of tickle ended as the gravatronics subsided except to provide an occasional burst, here and there, at random. The physical implements switched from hard plastic to a soft brush, dry-painting his soles with a deep, soft tease. Back and forth the brushes ran, back and forth. Sometimes they tickled his left sole only, sometimes his right sole, and sometimes both feet at once. Occasionally they would stroke the tops of his feet, as well, before returning to the back-and-forth that worked its way slowly from his toes down to his heels, and then back up again.

The brushes withdrew. The grav-feathers continued to apply their random tickle-bursts: On the ball of his right sole, on his left instep, on one heel and then the other. Each burst began at one particular spot, and then spread out in a tickle-ring, just often enough to keep Mike squirming, just enough to keep the c-energies flowing for the production slot to collect.

Then the gravatronics began to brush his bare arms and legs, from the wrists down and from the ankles up. This time, the immaterial nerve-tease felt almost like the soft brushes. Almost but not quite. It had its own special tickle, one that was just as effective, if not quite the same. A very effective tickle, running up Mike’s legs, and down his arms, slowly, over and over again. And to make it even more effective, other tickle-bursts continued to splatter against his bare and vulnerable soles.

Mike laughed hard and struggled hard. Uselessly, of course. An amazon Lady, with her NAMSteel-augmented body, might be able to escape a production slot, but no mere man ever could. Mike was buff and fit, of course, with the close-cropped hair that the Ladies demanded. But the slot’s metal restraints, padded with gravatronic fields of force, were far stronger than any man ever could be.

So Mike could struggle without guilt, without any fear of escape, as the delicious tickles poured into him. The physical implements returned, in the form of soft brushes that now tickle-teased his bare belly and chest. And ran up and down his sides. Tickling and tickling and tickling.

Eventually, the upper-body tickling faded. Mike was most ticklish, and best ticklish, on the soles of his feet, and so that was where his personal variant of the standard tickle-program concentrated. Mike suspected that he was in for a long stretch where the slot owned his soles. Nor was he wrong.

The gravatronics sent a tingle through Mike’s feet. Not enough to force giggles, but still enough that Mike wanted to smile and squirm. The physical tickle-combs, however, did force laughter, with their swift strikes, lightly raking Mikes left sole first, then his right, and then both soles together. And then the pattern repeated, not quite the same as before.

The slot held Mike’s ankles apart, so neither foot could protect the other. Mike’s large toes were bound fast as well, reducing even further their pathetic ability to dodge the ticking touch. But now the slot deployed auxiliary restraints for his small toes as well, rendering Mike’s feet completely helpless. Making Mike’s soles completely vulnerable for the long stretch of tickling to come.

The grav-feathers continued to buzz Mike’s feet. The plastic tickle-combs continued their attack. They didn’t strike frequently, or in a regular tempo, but combined with the tingling of the gravatronics, their random rakes were frequent enough to keep Mike squirming. And laughing, as the smooth plastic kept up their tireless tickle-attack. They tickle-raked up Mike’s soles. Down his soles. Across his soles. In simple and complex curves across his soles. Sometimes over just Mike’s left sole. Sometimes over his right. Sometimes over both at once. They never repeated, never formed a pattern. But they always tickled, wherever they touched. And they kept tickling Mike’s insteps. And they kept tickling the balls of his feet. And they kept tickle-raking the entirety of both his soles, from his toes on down to his heels.

The tickle-rakes finally moved away from his feet, to run up his legs, instead. Mike heard the clicking as more tickle-implements deployed. More plastic tickle-combs, to rake down his arms and down his sides, to tickle-rake lightly across his bare chest, and even more lightly over his bare belly. The gravatronic tickling shifted to splatter his soles again, as Mike howled with laughter, struggling with futile madness against the restraints holding him. Then more gravatronics activated to run tickle-waves across his shoulders, down his spine, and all along the backs of his legs, paying special attention to the sensitive place behind his knees. The grav-feathers could tickle him in the places where the slot’s physical implements couldn’t reach, which was one of several reasons for their use.

Tears of laughter were beginning to start in Mike’s eyes when the tickling paused. He drew in deep breaths, recovering, as cool air washed over his skin. He was bare everywhere, except for his jipers, the better to be tickled anywhere. Or everywhere, although that tickling could only last for a brief time. Unfortunately. Mike had heard of deliberately agonizing forms of tickling, and of men who found any tickle to be an agony, but (Thanks to the Great Mother!) the Ladies of Elmtree Forge held a different view. They wanted the men they owned to enjoy their work, partly from mercy, and partly for the sake of producing c-energies of greater purity. Quality c-energies produced quality NAMSteel, after all.

Ten t-minutes later, Mike heard the clicking as the tickle-implements deployed once more. A soft brush began to dry-paint his belly, and a stiffer brush started scrubbing his soles. Once more Mike felt the tickle-sensations pouring into his body, and the laughter pouring out. (And the c-energies as well, he hoped, even if he couldn’t feel that part.)

Then the gravatronics came on. Mike felt a light tingling over his belly, and a soft massage over his soles. They didn’t tickle, not this time. Instead, they just made Mike more sensitive to the physical implements that were gently assaulting him. To the silk-soft tease of the brush as it ran back and forth, dry-painting from belly-button to nipples, and then back down again. And to the prickly-tickle scrubbing of his bare and vulnerable soles.

This tickling went on and on and on, the soft brush painting his belly and chest with a tender tease, and the stiff brush tickle-scrubbing his soles. Mike giggled and squirmed and struggled and laughed, and still the tickling continued. The gravatronics kept his skin tingling, soothing it and renewing its sensitivity, allowing the soft brush and the stiff brush to continue inflicting their respective tickle-sensations. It felt wonderful, the best part of the shift. Mike was tickle-drunk, drained and giggly – but not yet so drained that he didn’t crave more.

The tickling continued, no longer wildly random and no longer vigorous, but rather settled. Settled into a steady pace. A predictable tickle, but still irresistible for all its predictability. Brush. Brush. Brush. The silken dry-paint paced over Mike’s chest and belly. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. The scrubbing brushes prickle-tickled Mike’s toes and insteps, his heels and the balls of his soles. Tickle. Tickle. Tickle. The grav-feathers kept the way open for the tickle to continue.

Mike found himself struggling wildly as the steady tickling pattered on. Even though he knew that struggling was useless. Even though he knew that he was helpless. He couldn’t help himself; his struggles made the wonderful tickle-sensations feel even better.

But Mike’s wrists and arms were held. His legs and ankles were held. His waist and thumbs and large toes were held. Mike could not escape the tickling. He could not avoid the tickling. He was completely and totally vulnerable to the tickling, and that was the best part of all.

Mike gasped for breath. The tickling had paused. Mike whimpered; he wasn’t ready for it to end. Another deep breath, and he found that it hadn’t. Mike giggled, squirming, and the tickles started again, this time focused entirely on his feet.

The gravatronics now applied a squirmy tickle to Mike’s soles, seeming to seek out every one of his sensitive nerve endings there. A bit later, the soft brushes deployed, applying a second silken tickle to those tickle-aroused nerves. Then a rubbery roller ran up and down each sole once, toes-to-heel-to-toes its little knobs gently tickle-nipping the most sensitive of Mike’s nerve endings. And the grav-tentacles resumed their squirmy touch, starting the cycle over again.

Mike was aware of his feet, and of nothing but his feet. Mostly, he was aware of his soles, but the tops of his feet also received a silken tickle-caress each time the brushes moved in. Squirm, silk, nip came the tickles, on both of his feet at once. Squirm, silk, nip, the tickles repeated, covering every part of his vulnerable soles. Squirm, silk, nip, over his toes and the spaces between. Over his the balls and insteps and heels. And with silken strokes tickle-kissing the tops, as well. Squirm, silk, nip, over and over again.

Squirm, silk, nip. Mike was crying with laughter now, happy tears flowing freely. Squirm, silk, nip. And yet the tickles still continued to soak into his feet. Squirm, silk, nip, on his feet. Squirm, silk, nip, tickling his feet. Tickling and tickling and tickling them. Mike was no longer aware of his laughter or his struggles. He was only aware of his feet. And the tickling…

The bell rang. The restraints withdrew and the production slot opened. Mike RYP-168 had completed yet another shift, producing c-energies for the Elmtree Forge.

(end)