Into Each Life Some Tickles Must Fall
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Gawrlto was used to having eyes on him. After all, it’s not everyday that wastelanders saw a sentient, intelligent deathclaw roaming about in post apocalyptic America. Those near Vault 13 got to know them better, but outside of that immediate vicinity, any sightings of deathclaws would trigger an immediate fight or flight response with a heavy leaning on flight – so imagine when Gawrlto traveled north, halfway to New Reno, where he and his companions arrived at a small little nameless trading hub.
Among the hushed whispers of the canines and meowings of the feline survivors were jeers of mocking laughter under anxiously held breaths. They had heard from messengers of a large caravan that they were bringing a special guest, but nobody had taken the messenger seriously – they thought that it was the jet addiction that had made them go a little crazy. After all, a talking deathclaw? That was a little hard to believe. Gawrlto felt uneasy, but when accompanied by the trade caravan backed with military equipment, at least he felt safe for the moment.
“What the fuck did you bring into my town, Alberto?” A smaller, huffy ring-tailed lemur screamed from the second floor balcony of what Gawrlto assumed to be the city hall of some sort – it was the most decorated building he had seen so far. “I’m going to give you a count of ten before bullets start flying, you greedy bastard – talk!”
“Calm down, Despacito.” Albert, the ghoulified Wombat groaned in a raspy voice. “We found him down south – in a vault, of all places. He’s a proper vault dweller. Not feral. Put the damn guns away, we got purified water in the caravan, and if you so much as waste a drop of it I will personally grind you into dust.”
“You realize he can rip us all to shreds? His scales are bulletproof!” The huffy lemur shouted from behind the safety of his laced curtains.
“Actually, sir – I fancy myself a scholar.” Gawrlto interjected. “And I find acts of violence a most barbaric and senseless act – if you’d permit me to stay, I’d love to learn about the surface dwellers and your culture.”
“CULTURE!” The lemur shrieked. “You? The death machine? What a joke, what a joke! Get out of my city – out, out, OUT! I’m responsible for everyone’s safety here and you’re not welcomed! I don’t want to see a blood bath here in our quiet town – we already have enough trouble with the raiders down south!”
“Actually, Despacito – we dealt with the raiders on our way back. Actually, Gawrlto here dealt with them.” Alberto interrupted the mayor’s panic attack. “As far as we’re concerned, Gawrlto is a guest of honor, if nothing else – and without the raiders there the trade route has been secured. We also have a deal with Vault 13 with purified water, so despite what you may think – Gawrlto is welcomed to stay as long as he likes, if you still enjoy clean, rad-free water.”
“Bah!” The lemur threw his hands up in the air. “When all of you become nothing more than bloodstains on the wall, don’t say I didn’t warn you about the fucking DEATHCLAW you let into the town!!”
“Ignore him.” Alberto rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Our mayor has a tendency to be overly dramatic when it comes to risk assessment. Come, let me show you to the mess hall – we’ve got some real good molerat meat skewers.”
—
With a stuffed stomach full of grilled mutant meat, Gawrlto took a walk around town. He had met enough of the town’s inhabitants in the mess hall, to whom most welcomed him when they realized he was a rare breed of intelligent deathclaw and saw the benefits of not making an enemy of a death machine that could shred them into gore ribbons should he so wished. Some antagonized him with ridicules and taunts, but soon found themselves humiliated when the well tempered deathclaw didn’t take their bait. Gawrlto wandered in the ruined, wasteland trading hub until he reached the other end, and decided to explore some of the old concrete buildings that had been standing since before the great war.
It was there that he found a moment of silence and solace from the loud, busy settlement. A metal catwalk took him above ground where he saw the lights of civilization piercing the blinding darkness that covered the wasteland. The glow of incandescent yellow was so different from the nauseating radioactive green and the dull halogen orange. Marvelous. If only he had been born prewar, he would have chosen to become an engineer, or perhaps a theoretical physicist. The deathclaw was indulgent in his thoughts as he looked over the calming city when someone, something crept up from behind him, stabbed him with a dirty syringe full of chems, and pushed the plunger, and injected him with a cocktail of sedatives. Before Gawrlto could even groan, blackness filled his eyes and he slumped on the ground.
When he regained consciousness, the cool, humid night air no longer surrounded him. Instead, his nostrils told him he was underground, where the flavor of musk and staleness enveloped the room. Heavy and dusty, the blinded deathclaw knew not where he was, but that he was underground – possibly four or five stories below the surface.
“I told you to get out of my city!” A familiar voice shrieked. It was the lemur. The mayor. Gawrlto wanted to reply, but found there a salty and musky rag in his mouth – several of it. Its scent began to fill his mouth, and he could tell it was sweaty. Feline. Canine. Rodents. Socks. He had been gagged with worn socks, enough of it to ball up to fill his mouth completely. His tongue was pressed under it, forced to taste the dry saltiness to them. His arms were bound to the armrest, and his ankles to something in front of him, stretched out with nothing below his knees, both of which were sturdy and stronger than he was. Even when he tried to exert his strength he found himself incapable of budging an inch. Panicked, the deathclaw moved his fingers and toes only to find them as immobile as the rest of his body – as were his tail, where the tip of it was attached to something around his neck from behind. Each of his digits were bound with multiple steel wires, which kept them from bending or curling in any directions. His razor sharp claws were rendered completely harmless.
“Mmmmrrrrgggg mmhhh hhhhhggghhh??!” He moaned into the gag.
“Should have left when you had the chance, you feral lizard!” The lemur continued his rant. “Your kind can’t be trusted! I saw with my own eyes how you dangerous savages rip apart a whole caravan! A single one of you – a hailstorm of bullets couldn’t stop ya – well, guess what! You’re going to pay for what your kind did to ours!”
“MGRRRRR!! MMGGGGRRRR!!”
“But first, let’s make sure you can’t ever hurt anyone again.” The lemur smirked. He snapped his fingers and signaled his goons, a ferret and a possum, who took a metal file in each of their hands and stood right up to the deathclaw. Gawrlto felt their presence near him, and the deathclaw felt anxiety for the first time in his life. Not even when he was among his own kind, or facing the deathclaw matriarch had he ever felt a smudge of fear. Now, in front of the soft skins, he felt an uncomfortable energy swirl in the center of his stomach. He was helpless to whatever revenge these people wanted to take on him.
Gawrlto held his breath as he felt his captors begin whatever they planned. He would have jerked himself back at the surprise touch had he not been completely immobilized, but the best he could do was emit a low growl-like hum from his throat. He felt something brush against the tip of his toe claws. Something that grinded against the sharp keratin. Something that reverberated with miniature, rhythmic tremors. The deathclaw sucked in a gasp of foot-sweat scented air. They were filing off the sharpness of his toe claws. “MMMHHHH!!!”
The groan of protest did nothing to deter the ferret or the possum. In fact, any resistance from the deathclaw only spurred them on more. More than their own conviction had them to start. They felt vindicated in the act, taking revenge on Gawrlto for what other feral deathclaws had done to their friends and family, and to the unfortunate travelers, traders, and caravans who suffered a most miserable end at the hands of these reptilian creatures.
“MGGGGRRRR!! MMMHHH HHHM HHHMM GRRRR!!”
For Gawrlto, it was beyond anything he had ever felt. Although he was never part of the hunting pack, he still had some pride and confidence in his talons. He had chosen not to pursue the path of violence in the wasteland, which he had always thought was the noble thing to do. He had chosen because he was a cut above the others. He fought against his wild instincts. He was civilized, and had always resorted to reasoning rather than bloodshed whenever he could. He didn’t abuse the power he was born with unless no other option was left. He thought himself a cut above the others – and yet, there he was, completely defenseless to two softskins filing away his weapons one stroke at a time. He felt the groves in the metal files eating away at his claws. His cheeks burned with rage and humiliation.
It only took several moments for the sharp claws to be blunted, but they did not stop there. The two tormentors switched to another caliber of files and continued grinding away until the half-foot long claw was reduced to barely a stump. What used to be a deadly weapon reduced to a pile of keratin dust on the floor. Gawrlto growled when he felt the lightness on his toe. It was surreal, as if he was missing a crucial part of himself. The tormentors did not stop there. They each moved to the next toe and repeated the same thing, and the next, until all three toe claws were filed down to nothing, and soon the claw at Gawrlto’s heel met the same fate. And his hands, too. They did not escape the burning anger of the metal files until each of Gawrlto’s digits were completely smoothed and disarmed, leaving a pathetic rounded tip that barely extended beyond his scaly skin.
Just when he thought it was over, another strange sensation washed over him as he heard something motorized brought into the mix. He felt something grind against the rough, calloused soles of his feet. It was a powered angle grinder, and it soon cut through his natural armor. The ferret was a skilled blacksmith for the town, and he had perfect control over the precision of the tool. He made sure that his weapon of choice only stripped away the roughest, scaliest parts of the deathclaw’s soles. Years of callous buildup were removed within minutes, and Gawrlto suppressed the whimpering sounds of real, actual fear when he felt how much more sensitive his feet had become. He had read the enclave’s research notes on early experiments on deathclaws. He knew how sensitive reptilians could be without the top layers of their scales protecting them, and he had also combed over a book of torture methods in the history of the world. His mind ran wild with guesses and assumptions with each second his feet became more and more tender. The protection against the balls and pads of his foot – gone. The thick scales against his heels – gone. The callouses along his arches – stripped away by the grinder. Even the rough skin under his toes was removed meticulously, until both of his soles were bared and vulnerable; smoother and more sensitive than the day he hatched out of an egg.
And Gawrlto felt the breeze against them – the air that was moved by a century-old fan. The slow moving, stale air against his skin. And the deathclaw shuddered to think what was next.
He yipped like a pup when he next felt something cold touch the soles of his feet. Cold, wet, and slick. It was an oil of some sort, and from the smell of it, organic. Possibly some sort of fruit or vegetable. They coated his soles and around each of his bound, immobile toes.
“Don’t worry, champ. This isn’t going to hurt – some of us are vaulties, too – and our vault ran some very different experiments than yours.” An unfamiliar voice spoke up as the oily rag ran across his feet again. There was a cruel tone in his words. “We know of some other effective methods to.. Teach your kind a lesson. Heh.”
It was then that Gawrlto made the connection with the taste of those sweaty socks in his mouth and the things they’ve been doing to his feet. The deathclaw squirmed with limited movements in his bondage, and it made his tormentors giggle when they understood that their captive finally realized how much trouble he was in.
“MMMM-NMMMM!! MMM-NMMM!!”
The deathclaw cried for mercy. It was so unlike him or his kind to do so, but he couldn’t bear to think about what was to happen next.
But it did, regardless of his desires for it to not.
Brushes with stiff bristles. Scrubbers. They all attacked his soles at the same time. The ferret and possum scrubbed them as hard as they could, and the sensation was different from the grinder that took away the only thing protecting his feet. The prickly sensation swarmed his brain, as though a nest of disturbed cazadors. Angry. Aggressive. Antagonizing. Each scrub filled his mind with madness. The deathclaw had never felt anything like this. It drove him to laugh his ass off, despite the severity of the situation. Gawrlto sucked in air through his mouth, then expelled them in uncontrolled, unbridled laughter. His heart palpitated and pounded in his chest. His feet trembled with each touch. The brushes and scrubbers only intensified in their assault. Up and down his arches, left to right to left. Perhaps the blindfold added to his sensitivity, but the deathclaw wouldn’t volunteer to confirm that theory. All he knew was that his body reacted to the stimuli.
The humiliation grew, chipping away his ego as the angle grinder chipped away the armor on his feet. He had no resistance.
Smaller brushes joined in the fray, as did other hands. Gawrlto felt them scrubbing and cleaning his toes. Between them. All six of his toes at the same time. More brushes joined in on his heels. The bristles ran in circles. He struggled against them, but specialized wires held his toes back. He felt the heat grow on the bottom of his soles, as did the tickling. The deathclaw howled with shame and madness through his gag of sweaty socks, mixed with unwilling laughter. Each breath he exhaled, it was with indignity and disgrace, as if his character had its life choked out of him; as if he was being debased, assassinated.
His tormentors did not stop there.
Soon the deathclaw’s body responded in other ways. His slit opened up and revealed the most sensitive spot on his body – his hidden shaft. It was only semi-stiff at first, but when his captors saw, they snickered and bought out a plastic tube that fit his cock perfectly. Then, a machine was turned on, and the tube began to stroke and milk him as his soles were ravaged by the mayor’s vengeful, perverse goons.
Another prick at his neck, and another dose of chems were injected into him. This time, it was not a sedative. This time, it was an aphrodisiac. It was a strong mixture, and it pushed Gawrlto into heat within seconds. Blood rushed in his veins as his whole body became hotter, more receptive to everything that happened. His blindness did not help. His mood was elevated, and the deathclaw was confused. He knew what they had done in his head, but the sensations and flood of dopamine and endorphins in his brain took over the rationality soon enough.
The milking machine did its job diligently, and the deathclaw was stroked to orgasm as the tickle assault on his soles came to a climax as well. Goobs of sticky deathclaw seed were extracted from him, and the torment continued. Feathers were added to the mix, and for the now hypersensitive deathclaw soles, it was as though he had been pushed to a whole new realm of ticklishness. The plumes darted between his bound toes as the brushes continued their attack on the pads. Frayed wire scrubs ran up and down his arches. Something warm and wet touched his other foot – a tongue. A canine’s tongue, possibly, as it was long and flappy. Someone pushed away the tools to lick his sole from the heel all the way to his toes. The tongue lapped hungrily, and then Gawrlto felt kisses from lips. More mouths joined in and engulfed each of his toes.
Gawrlto growled into the gag of sweaty socks as the milking machine forced a second orgasm from him. Then, he felt something with the consistency of mud and rocks poured over his legs as his sole was feasted on. Bucket after bucket, slurp after slurp. His soles were dripping with saliva when his legs were buried in the heavy, thick substance. The deathclaw squirmed in his chair. Everything above his ankle was covered all the way up his thighs, barely two inches away from his cock and balls.
Then, panic set in once more when he felt the substance become stiff and warm. “MMMNNN NNNMNN MMMNNNN!!!”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” He heard a third voice, but it didn’t give him an ounce of relief when he heard what was said next. “It’s just instant cement.”
It only took several more minutes for the cement to completely set, despite how much was used to fill in the space under the chair, too, along with his legs. It was then that the deathclaw understood that he was going to be trapped there in a block of cement for a long, long time. A third orgasm, and a fourth followed soon after. His tormentors switched feet now – the one that was being tickled was now being slurped on, and the one that was licked clean again suffered the same ticklish fate as the other. His cock was still being stroked by the machine, and he felt another prick on his neck – this time, it was a stimpak. He recognized the feeling of his energy and stamina being restored – but what wasn’t restored was the tough skin on the soles of his feet.
“MMMMHHHGRR MHHHMM MMMMMMMFFFFGGG?!?!?”
The more he cried out, the more the townsfolk laughed at him. How many voices were there? Six? Seven? Maybe even a dozen? He let loose another orgasm as a fifth load was forcibly extracted from him. He felt his spunk shoot from his cock. The stimpak had restored that, too – and possibly even sped up his reproductive factories. It felt more pleasurable – or maybe his body just increased in sensitivity every time he came.
Gawrlto’s eyes became wet behind the blinds. Laughter after laughter spilled from his mouth. His mind was going hazy, even though his body felt like he could still cum several more times without additional stimpaks. The deathclaw cried, laughed, and cursed his fate all at the same time. The taste of foot sweat filled his mouth and his lungs. He could taste and feel nothing else. A sixth orgasm. He didn’t want it, but it felt so good. Another prick, and another dose of aphrodisiac was administered. Seven orgasms, then eight. A stimpak. Nine, ten. How many hours has it been?
—
Roberto never believed that Gawrlto left the very same night he arrived. The caravan leader didn’t believe a single word that the lemur said, nor his ‘witnesses’ the ferret, the possum, the bat, or the other dozen that were part of the mayor’s clique. The only evidence he found was some claw-prints from the other side of the hub, but it was inconclusive; and they were wiped away by an excess and suspicious amount of foot traffic soon enough. The matter was soon dropped, and no amount of protesting could move any form of investigation forward.
Unbeknownst to most people in the hub, there had been a deathclaw trapped underground, beneath just where they lived their daily lives in the wasteland. It has been six months now, and most people have forgotten the one wild night they shared with an intelligent death machine.
Oh, but not for the ferret nor the possum.
The taste of those deathclaw soles were still sweet on their tongue and lips – especially when the deathclaw was fed a special diet of tickles. Not when those pretty deathclaw toes were given a pedicure every week – and then ritualistically tickle the living daylights out of them for the next half day. Not when the pale-brown soles have been tormented to a semi-permanent pink.
Not when they’ve milked so many tickle orgasms from the death machines of the wasteland with nothing but brushes between his toes and a tongue on his soles that whenever they were ungagged, they’d beg for another release. Not when the fierce, once scholarly deathclaw had been renamed Softsoles, a mocking title they happily wear on a dog tag around their neck, like some sort of domesticated tickle pet. Not when Softsoles no longer cared they were trapped and had their arms and legs and most of their torso encased in cement, permanently. Not when Softsoles wore a metal head cage that kept them blind and deaf almost all the time. Not when Softsoles had stopped thinking of tickles as torture, but as the only pleasure he needed.
And especially not when Softsoles would become rock hard when just the whisper of what will be done to his soles passed besides his ears.
He would be nothing more than a tickle toy for the rest of his life – and one the townsfolk intent on keeping that as long as possible.
=The end=