“Mmms Mstmmr,” human woman Marci Gotz answered through her gag. She was nude as well as gagged, except for her slave collar, and hogtied. Although bisnik like Master Tiim didn’t call the tie by that name; Earthly hogs were alien beasts, here on Ustan.
“Then let us begin.”
With those words, Marci felt the soft brush begin to tease her skin. She giggled into her gag and squirmed, pulling at the ropes on her wrists and ankles. She couldn’t keep herself still as the sweet squirmy tickle sensations sank into her sides and into her arms and legs.
She had asked for this. “Master: I beg the tickle!” she had said. Now she was getting that tickle. A delicious tickle, despite – or because – she couldn’t possibly hold still for it. Not when that brush painted broad teasing strokes, and especially not when Master Tiim rolled her on her side to apply a tickle between her breasts and all around her belly.
Marci was the only one giggling into her gag. Rolled over, she could now see Roxanne. The other woman had grown up in Ireland, before joining the Hostage Corps and becoming a slave woman. But her parents were from Alabama, and her skin was more than dark enough to make her bare soles stand out in creamy contrast. When set beside Marci’s American-white complexion and mouse-brown hair, it made both women look exotic. Or at least the bisnik found them exotic, for all that the blue-furred aliens had their own ethnic variations.
But that wasn’t important, at the moment. What had Marci’s immediate attention was the pleasantly squirmy tease of her Master’s finger running down her spine and the soft tickle of the brush in his other hand, applied to the tops of her bare feet.
Roxanne pulled at the ropes binding her ankles as Master Beeron tickle-scrubbed her bare soles. She laughed into her gag as the melodious teasing sensations sank into her skin and ran through her entire body. She heard Marci’s muffled giggles and wondered, briefly, if the other women knew how lucky she was. Then the question vanished from Roxanne’s mind as Master Beeron’s tickle began to move down her legs again.
Bisnik loved to tickle and be tickled – and they considered ‘tickle torture’ to be a contradiction in terms. Fortunately the Hostage Corps had a vaccine against this human weakness – actually an immunization against Bhoorz Fever, with a side effect of eliminating the agony that many humans felt on being tickled. Unfortunately, it didn’t always work. And while Roxanne had always been attracted to the idea of being tied and helplessly tickled, she was one of the few cases where the vaccine didn’t take.
Roxanne had begged for an alternative treatment. She didn’t have to beg very hard. Master Beeron had supported her when the medics warned against the treatment’s extreme exhaustion. He had fed her broth after the electrodes had been removed and she found herself too weak to even lift the spoon. And he had tested her, once her strength had come back. The pure delight she had felt then – without even a trace of the old scraping-fingernails torment – was one of her most treasured memories.
She was feeling that delight once more, as Master Beeron rolled her to her side and applied his tickle cloth to her bare breasts and bare belly. The ropes pinned her arms and legs behind her, leaving her vulnerable, and she fought against them, unable to hold still for this tickle even as she laughed and laughed into her gag.
That laughter changed to muffled giggles as the tickling took on a slower and softer tempo. It still teased, but gently, gently now. Sides and belly and breasts. Around her nipples and lightly across them. In her belly-button, and above and below it. Along her arms and up her legs. Master Beeron had abandoned the scrap of towel-cloth somewhere along the way, and now his fingers were massage-ticking the tops of Roxanne’s feet. And then she felt the tickle reach her soles again. A slow finger-tickling, this time, sending chord after chord of pleasing, teasing sensations into her arches. Between her toes, over the balls of her feet, and into her heels. Tickle tickle tickle. Steady and harmonious, and just a bit too exciting to resist.
As a matter of fact, Marci didn’t know how lucky she was. She had heard something vague about the vaccine and its side effect, but all she really knew was that she enjoyed being tickled as much as Master Tiim enjoyed tickling her. That it felt good. Really good. Especially now, as that soft brush licked her naked soles. Brush. Brush. Brush. Brush. Alternating between her left foot and her right. Teasing and pleasing her in a most squirmy manner as it ran from her heel to her toes. Brush. Brush. Brush. Brush. Sending tickle-sensations into her feet and sending giggles out from her head. Brush. Brush. Brush. Brush. Pause. And now Master Tiim was holding the toes of her right foot apart, applying that broad brush sideways to the sensitive places between them. Oh! How that made her squirm! Marci bit down hard on her gag as the shivers of pleasure ran through her. And now Master was doing the same to the toes of her left foot! And it was no less delightful for being anticipated. It teased and tickled most wonderfully.
Marci fought the ropes binding her: Vigorously, briefly, and uselessly. The struggle only made her more aware of her helplessness. More excited by it. And it caused the tickling to pause, disappointingly. Marci subsided, panting; she could just breathe around the knotted cloth gag if she opened wide. Then her happy squirms resumed as she felt Master Tiim apply the tickle once again.
Brush. Brush. Brush. Brush. Slower now, and running across her arches rather than up and down her soles. Still alternating between her bare left and bare right foot, each stroke creating a sweet anticipation for the next tender-exciting kiss of those long bristles. And producing a helpless, muffled giggle each time they touched.
Roxanne could now feel that Master Beeron had also switched to using a soft brush. She could feel every centimeter of the long slow strokes that teased and teased, making her squirm and squirm. He had her on her side, running those long strokes from her collar to her sex. Sometimes he would run the brush between her breasts, and sometimes around them, giving her sides a gentle tickle before guiding the brush back to her belly. Sometimes he would run the soft bristles over one nipple or the other, making them hard and happy. Sometimes he would run the brush in a circle around her belly-button before completing the stroke, and sometimes he would pause to wiggle a finger in her belly-button. That gave Roxanne more-intense tickle, making her squeak into her gag, briefly, before the long and tender brush-strokes returned her to giggling.
A pause, as Master Beeron checked Roxanne’s bonds. She caught glimpses of his hands as he did so. Strong hands, warm and confident, that briefly soothed her in a counterpoint to Marci’s giggles in the background. Giggles that made Roxanne eager for her own tickling to resume.
And resume it did, with brush-strokes up her legs and across her feet. Strokes that ran across the tops of her feet at first, and then over her soles. Back and forth across the arches, with several strokes applied first to her bare left foot and then to her right. Then back to her left foot again, before returning her right. Steady, implacable tickle-strokes and made Roxanne clench her toes. But doing that was no defense; she still had plenty of vulnerable skin on her bare feet for Master to tickle. And tickle that skin he did.
Roxanne giggled and giggled as the tickle-sensations sank into her bare feet. She squirmed, pulling at the ropes keeping her helpless. Ropes that reminded her of her helplessness, every time she tested them. Ropes that made her even more aware of the tickle Master Beeron was applying to her. And she couldn’t help pulling at them, because it felt good. It felt as good as it always had, ever since that long-ago treatment, when Master Beeron had first bought her. It even felt as good as her early dreams of being tied and helplessly tickled.
Marci was squirming energetically now as the laughter poured out of her. Master Tiim had set aside his brush, in favor of his fingers and a blunt-toothed plastic comb. The device had been designed for blue bisnik fur, but it actually worked much better as a tickle-implement than a body-comb.
It was actually Master Beeron’s comb. The four of them had met in Lop-Lop, over half a continent away, but had then discovered that their homes were less than two hundred kilometers apart. That distance was nothing to the planet’s transport grid, making it simple for Marci and Master Tiim to visit. And for Master Beeron to teach Master Tiim some of his tickle-tricks.
Like the comb. Between it and his fingers, Master Tiim managed to tickle all over, making Marci feel as if she were being bathed in tickles. She was lying belly-up now, on one of Master Beeron’s cushions. Her arms and legs were tucked beneath, as well-secured as ever, but that position still left huge amounts of ticklish skin exposed. Furless human skin left wide open for Master Tiim to tickle. To tickle and tease and stroke and touch and squirmify most pleasantly.
Without knowing quite how it happened, Marci found herself lying face-down again. Master Tiim was tickling her feet once more, drawing her attention to them. Making her aware of her feet. Making her aware of nothing but her feet as Master’s fingers and comb tickle-teased them. Making her aware of her soles and the tops of her feet. Of her toes and her arches. Of the balls of her feet and the sensitive spots between her toes. Of the delightful differences between Master’s finger-tickling and the tickle-comb.
And both kinds of tickling felt wonderful. Thoroughly wonderful. Entirely wonderful. All the more wonderful because of one simple fact: She couldn’t escape.
Roxanne watched Marci undergo the tickle at the hands of Master Tiim. Her own master was now applying only a mild tickle, his fingers compelling no more than the occasional squirm and the occasional giggle from as they lightly touched her dark skin. That left Roxanne with attention to spare for the much more vigorous tickling that Marci was enjoying, as Master Tiim applied comb and fingers to the other woman’s sides, chest, and belly.
Roxanne’s lazy tickle continued alongside Marci’s more vigorous one. And continued. And continued. Roxanne found herself growing frustrated as she watched Marci’s happy helplessness. The soft and gentle touch of her own master’s fingers felt good, but Roxanne wanted more. Especially when Master Tiim rolled Marci back over onto her belly and began a finger-and-comb tickling of Marci’s bare feet. Roxanne wanted that too.
Master Beeron bent over and whispered into Roxanne’s ear: “And now it’s your turn.”
That was when Roxanne discovered that Master Beeron had brought a second comb. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. She could feel it tickling her own bare soles. She could feel its swift tickle-raking, as Master ran it over those vulnerable soles of hers again and again. She could feel Master’s fingers make sudden, friendly attacks, teasing and wiggling, alternating with the deep tickle-rake of that comb.
The delightful tickle-duet sank deep into Roxanne’s feet, making her strain against the ropes holding her and forcing her to laugh madly into her gag. Knowing that Marci was receiving the same tickling doubled Roxanne’s own delight. It made her own tickling seem more, the more that she was wishing for just moments ago. Twice as much more. Twice as much as was possible. Roxanne soared on that tickle, for it was sweet, and it was wonderful, and it was glorious.
Marci snuggled against her Master Tiim. The ropes no longer held her fast, only the cuddling arms of her owner. Still nude and collared, and now blissfully limp, she knew she was ‘tickled out.’ She might have wished for just a bit more, when Master had called a halt, but she had to admit that he was right to do so.
Besides, this was just as good, in its own way: The cool air, his warm body, the competent hands that now comforted and soothed her, and the relaxed affection she sensed from him, returning her own. She liked being the human slave woman of a blue-furred bisnik master, even more than she thought she would when she joined the Hostage Corps. Yes, it was hard work sometimes, and annoying sometimes, but there were also plenty of times like this.
Speaking of hard work, Marci could feel her strength returning. When it did, she would have to dress and help Roxanne in the kitchen. Barefoot, of course, which is how both Master Tiim and Master Beeron preferred to keep their slave women.
Back on Earth, Marci had been an indifferent cook. She’d never learned while growing up, and the cooking classes she had taken as an adult had seemed useless at the time. Tom just couldn’t be pleased. But now those classes were providing a solid base as she learned about bisnik cooking. She still had a lot to learn, of course: How to reproduce certain human recipes with local ingredients, as well how to make Master Tiim’s long-time favorites. Master Tiim supported her in both of those goals, and Master Beeron promised that Roxanne could help teach Marci. Which she no doubt could. The black woman had been here on Ustan for years, as opposed to mere weeks for Marci.
But Marci didn’t need to start quite yet. Master Tiim still wanted to cuddle, and she was still content to do so.
Roxanne had a wrap covering her. Other than that, she was in the same state as Marci: Untied but still nude and collared, and happily relaxed in the arms of her own bisnik master.
Her thoughts drifted dreamily to the upcoming meal. She was a good cook. Most of her family were, and her mother was determined that Roxanne would not turn out to be an – ahem – black sheep in that regard. So among other things, she had learned to cook lamb – lamb had become popular again in Ireland, thirty years ago – and oodnok was almost the same, at least as far as cooking it went. They were having chops, tonight, and while having to teach Marci would be complication, it wouldn’t be much of one. Roxanne was proud of her cooking skills, and happy to show them off.
Anyway, that was for later. Right now she was cuddling with Master. She suspected that he liked cuddling her even more than he liked tickling her. And as with most bisnik masters, he liked tickling his slave woman a lot. Not that she minded. Not at all. It was just that Marci’s newness was nudging her thoughts beyond cooking, into drifting thoughts about larger matters. Thoughts about the Long War and the decades of prisoner/slave exchanges between Earth and Ustan. Up in orbit, new human slave women were being exchanged for human prisoners of war. Far away in Earth orbit, new bisnik slave women were being exchanged for bisnik prisoners of war. There and here, bisnik and human women were being newly collared. There and here, bisnik and human slave women were being sold at auction. And on Earth, bisnik slave women were busy pleasing their human masters. And being tickled by them. And being cuddled by them. Roxanne sent them all a little mental salute.
But Roxanne was Master Beeron’s only human woman, and he was her only bisnik master. Roxanne made a small sound of contentment at that thought and moved, just a tiny bit, to snuggle even closer to her owner.