The Tickle Dungeons Pt. 01

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.

She pulled and pushed--and still the attendant's fingers stroked maddeningly at her soles. The other still had her hand at the tender, ticklish flesh above her knee, and she yowled.

Oh--OH--MERCY!!! NO! NO! NOOO! AHAAHAHAAHAHAAHAAHAH!!

The girl working her foot moved now to her inner thighs. She arched her back as much as she could. When the girl tickled her vulva, she peed uncontrollably. Her mind was a blizzard of defeat and chaos. She was begging now, between howling gasps. Begging for mercy--for them to stop--for the Inspector to return and free her.

She babbled, pleading--begging for any shred of mercy--oh, just please stop--please--PLEASE!!

Around her, at the start of a chime, the dungeons were alive with the howling of other unfortunates. The pandemonium of miserable hysterical laughter, breathless begging, desperate pleading--the terrified shrieks of the subjects--the stone halls reverberated with the cries.

Her breath was in great, periodic gulps between rushes of laughter. She got breaks from time to time--little lagoons of peace amid the ocean of suffering. At those times, she sobbed raggedly.

Then they came back to her. She watched where they wanted her to watch, moving with predatory slowness towards the backs of her knees--NO! NO!! NOT THERE! PLEASE NOT THERE!! OH MERCY!! PLEASE!! They stroked her feet with some kind of brush that tickled terribly. Such simple motions, and she shrieked until her voice cracked. They kept on, enthralled by her writhing and incoherent begging and pleading.

A paintbrush applied something to her vulva that seemed to hiss and pop--but then sank into her vulnerable skin with an inexorable zeal for tickling. They perched over her, stroking her flanks and ribs with feathers. If she'd had anything in her bowels or bladder, she'd have released it many times over.

She became aware of quiet--and a lack of the impossible sense of electric torment that was the tickling.

She was panting, soaked with sweat, and a girl in a smock was wiping her down with a sponge. She panted, looking about--was it over? Was this just a break? Had it been hours? Minutes? Days?

The girl gave her water and she drank it.

"Not too much," the girl warned.

"Is--is there more?" she gasped.

"For you? Until the inspector calls a stop--many days, I should think."

"No!" she moaned.

"When he comes by, beg as prettily as you are able," suggested the girl.

She sobbed. He was there, then, rising before her.

"Well, Chloe-brat," he said, evenly. "the attendants are having their hour break. Most of the unfortunates are going to be posted for public observation--but think we have agreed that you will undergo the second session today, yes?"

He stroked her cheek.

"Please--" she whimpered. "Oh, sir--please--Master--"

He reached out and squeezed her nipple, rolling it between his finger and thumb. She gasped.

"Chloe," he said, in the tone of a teacher speaking to an underperforming child. "I realize this is difficult for you--it will get easier as time goes on--"

"MASTER!" she shrieked. This could not go on--it couldn't!

"Hush," he said. "Do we have a muzzle for her?"

No-No--NO!

"Master--please--fuck me--hard--in the anus, then my mouth, master. I will clean your anus with my tongue--"

He glanced down at her. He drew his fingers through her hair. She sobbed.

"Yes. We will do all those things--but for now," he smirked. "I shall return after my early dinner to escort you to your chambers."

"Mavoreau!" she cried, desperate and ragged--but around her, again the chorus of laughter and crying rose for what was, mostly, a new batch of unfortunates.

One of the ticklers squatted between her thighs, using a feather on her vulva. the other sat farther back on a low stool, tickling first one immobilized foot and then the other.

"PLEASE!PLEASEPLEASE!! STOP!STOP!!STOP!!" she howled.

They cackled as they worked.

"NO!NO! AHHAHAAHAHAHAAHAAHAH!! NO!!" she gasped.

The one on the stool switched to the other foot, and she screamed shrilly.

She got a break, and it was insufficient for her to gather her composure before they started again. Pokes and tickles at her ribs. Then one found the underside of her knees, and she tried to levitate by sheer force of panic.

The room swam, and they gave her another break. Then both of them tickled her ribs, and she wailed and begged.

She was aware of being moved into a cell of some sort and she fervently hoped they were done with her. She lay on a soft pallet on the floor.

She smelled food--it actually smelled decent--she cracked an eye. She saw shoes--trousers. Looking up, Mavoreau.

Oh!

He looked down at her. Not dispassionate--not entirely sympathetic--but not hateful either.

"The food is from the top kitchen," he told her. "It's what the royalty ate tonight."

She coughed and tried to say something.

"Give your voice a rest, and listen," he told her. Looking up, she gave him a wretched nod.

She took some water, and drank it.

"There are a lot of people who are quite mad at you," he said. "And the Great Grimalkin has plagued the elite of DunnisUrom for five years of heists, robberies, and burglary. The Governor of DunnisUrom wants you made an example of."

She drank more water with a shaking hand.

He pinched his trousers, drawing them up as he left the chair to kneel. He speared a small piece of cooked fowl and dipped it in a sauce. He held it to her lips.

"Eat."

She opened, and he put it in, and she ate it. Her whole body ached. Every muscle was sore.

"I have a number of requests for various houses and guilds you've robbed to come and visit you here. They want you tickled, daily, two sessions each day, for a moon, at least."

She whimpered.

"I have a different idea," he said, spearing another. "It won't be pleasant--but it won't... be that."

She took the bite.

"You," he said, "will trust me. You did once--at least I thought so. There will be another session tomorrow--" she gave a weak moan--"and then public display--but, I have a solution for you." He gave her another bite.

She groaned, something that was almost incomprehensible.

"No," he agreed, "you will have to bear a session tomorrow. And then your display. And then, I will have my plan."

He reached out and gave her flank a pat.

"It won't be pleasant at all--but better than today."

She swam in and out of wakefulness in the dark cell. Finally, she slept.

They'd fucked when he was a student of Forensics and she was a girl at Finishing School. Both from fine families. Both highly educated in their way. They hadn't had permission to couple--but they'd done it anyway in a rented room at an upper-class inn.

She'd known what to expect--and had been prepared for the essentially demeaning act of being dominated by a boy. He hadn't disappointed in that regard. He'd started by bathing her in a humiliating fashion. He had then administered an enema while she knelt on all fours.

She'd been in misery, sucking his cock, desperately holding her bowels until she couldn't take it and expelled it into a chamber pot as he watched. He'd sat on the toilet and spanked her then, her cries loud enough to be heard in the other rooms.

In the bedchamber, he'd taken her--it had hurt even though she was wetter than she'd ever been. Her legs wrapped around him, she'd thrust her hips, trying to spend--or, failing that, making him spend.

She accomplished neither, and she was afraid he was going to use her anus, but he bent her over the bed and took her from behind. She felt him spend and spent the next several minutes with him laying on the bed, her cleaning his cock with her mouth.

It was, at the time, the most degrading thing that ever happened to her--but she was so aroused--so desperately horny that when he told her they could go--or stay and he would give her an orgasm that night, she immediately agreed to stay--knowing that the second round would be as bad or worse than the first.

He took her downstairs and they ate street food and wandered in the upper class district among the paper lantern glows. She misbehaved slightly to annoy and needle him. He promised to punish her for it later. She snarled at that--but found it romantic.

He bought a paddle with her name engraved from a vendor and she glared at him, but found it arousing.

They returned to the inn where he had paid through the night and she could almost not stop herself from fairly dashing back to their room. When she opened the door, to her absolute horror, his mother waited, sitting on the bed. Its sheets stained from their sex, and her broken hymen.

He was scolded and sent home. She had to remain with his mother, who introduced her to new degradations and spanked her vulva so that her cries could be heard down on the street.

That she came close to spending several times during this ordeal--but in the end, defeated and submitted, she was allowed to crawl into a bed and sleep.

The next day, she had fled south, to the rim cities around the seat of the empire. Four years later, she'd returned or, at least, the Great Grimalkin had returned. A flamboyant, uncatchable thief, who had humiliated the investigatory arm of the gendarme and, of course, one of its most accomplished investigators.

He had spent lavishly on the trap--kept it secret from her contacts--and she had fallen for it. She moaned on the pallet. She had gone out of her way to humiliate Mavoreau, who had not known who he was dealing with, until she was caught. He'd removed the veil from her face and gasped--that was the last thing she'd seen before sliding into drugged sleep.

She'd been so certain she'd never be caught--not by the clumsy and slow gendarme. Not by the inspector, whom she still thought of with her hand between her thighs. Not by anyone! But here she was.

The day had been dreadful--she was utterly exhausted--but so sore, and so dreading the morning, that sleep eluded her.

Tomorrow they would know her every weakness--her softest spots, her absolute lack of resistance. They knew her intimately now and understood how easy she was to terrorize. She couldn't even struggle or get any pity for her most desperate little noises.

Finally, when she heard the morning bells, she crawled off the pad and peed in the toilet trench where the guard could see her. The idea of being taken back to the tickle dungeons was terrifying--a public spectacle in the streets was bad--terrible--but better than that.

Most saw a single session in the dungeons as a light penalty given to lower classes and, as far as that went, comparatively private. Those who had been, however, knew that a full session was an unbearable horror and the idea of being remanded for several days was almost unheard of.

The gendarme appeared at her door.

She followed commands complacently and had her hands shackled behind her. She was naked, marched out of the cell past a smirking Mavoreau with a Mistress of the order standing with him, watching.

She was placed with her shackled hands hitched to a board on the wall. All the unfortunates looked miserable and scared. For all of them, save Chloe, it was their first--and probably last--encounter with the dreaded tickle dungeons. She was going to have a great deal more if her enemies had their way. She realized with a sour dread that many of those she'd robbed were likely toasting the wonderful, ruinous indignity of her sentence.