Crimson light dapples the cool stone floor of your little chamber, the subtle fire-stones in their wall niches the only commendable source of illumination. The light almost seems to flicker organically in the gloom, despite the still and phosphorescent nature of its source. It glitters on grim walls of polished rock, across racks and trays of ornate tools, over your desk and over the metallic work-table dominating the room, throwing into glossy relief the ominous metal pincers ready to embrace a fresh patient.
That wouldn't be long now, you reflect, making up a chart of employee satisfaction for the past several weeks, a task made nigh-impossible by your roiling anticipation. You had an... 'Interview' scheduled in a few minutes, this one with a particularly fascinating customer. It had been a relatively short time since his Excellency had first asked you to improve the attitudes of the courtroom entertainers, but you had quickly come to enjoy the position.
Not all the courtiers agreed for their part; that one dancer, Lyn Me, had tried obstinately to get you fired, claiming that you were hardly a real torturer. What a primitive and misguided term, that word, though one of the more flattering one's she was prepared to give you after a lengthy session only the two of you were ever to be privy too. Turned out that those prim little feet of hers were unbelievably sensitive despite a lifetime of thumping against dance-floors across the Rim.
Right on schedule, the door hisses open grudgingly and a corpulent, porcine being enters, vibro-axe bobbing on one hefty shoulder. Behind him follows another garmorrean, pushing a comparatively smaller but far more graceful creature. A beautiful twi'lek, all emerald skin and buxom curves, her only garment a length of dark netting wound tightly over her contours, belted haphazardly in an attempt to keep it in place.
Experienced with the routine by now, the two guards roughly shove her down in a hard chair in front of the desk, two metal bands neatly sliding over her delicate wrists to keep her seated.
"Thank-you, G'nort, G'nark. Please go about your business while I talk with Miss Oola." You say, bringing up your guest's file as the strongmen shuffle out. Your eye flick from the screen to your captive's pretty face, beauty only enhanced if anything by the angry pout of her full lips.
"Thank-you for joining me today, Miss Oola."
She grumbles something in Rylothian that would have been unpleasant if it were but a decibel louder.
"Well, then, I'm glad to hear that you're as enthused about this discussion as I am. I hope you don't mind if I get to the point immediately, but I'm sure you'll affirm that you're time is to important for pleasantries. Now, I have been informed that you've been uncooperative with his Excellency. Just going through the motions when you dance, pulling on your chain distractingly-"
"The collar chafes." She grumbles, head swaying to the other side, fleshy lekku bouncing against her back.
"-And getting into conflicts with the other entertainers. I have some more extensive notes on this last issue. You appear to have ...stolen Rystall's dance outfit and filled the interior with feathers, which stood up when she rubbed against them?"
Oola nods unhappily, though you can detect a phantasmic smile as she doubtless recall's the buxom redhead's predicament. You almost smile yourself at the picture of the blue-skinned dancer gyrating in her tight black body-glove, struggling to carry out the motions of a dance while countless little feathers fluttered and stroked against her soft, sensitive skin.
"Apparently she could hardly breath or stand up without giggling, despite managing to dance, which apparently made for a more lively performance for the Bothan delegation. You'll doubtless be pleased to note the his Excellency has edited her contract to include wearing the outfit during all of her performances, but it was still most improper of you."
"Bitch had it coming." Oola scowls, lekku swaying. "She and that slut Jess sabotaged my costume, and it just fell apart in front of the whole court the other day!" Colour shines in her face at the memory, though you can't tell how much is anger and what measure is humiliation.
"Yes, I've... heard about that. It would explain why you tried a similar trick with her costume soon after as well, only to be caught and tangled in a clothing rack. Where, if I remember..." You prompt.
Her blush only rises at the memory, and her look slides from angry to forlorn. "...They tickled me for hours, until I confessed what I was doing, than they sent me here so you could have your fun with me." Her hands clench in the restraints and she twists in her seat, giving off a futile gesture of resistance as she at last turns her haughty glare on you. But behind is no small trace of fear, easily discernible to experience eyes. So, it appears that she has heard of your methods and knows what she's in for.
"There's no need for that tone. Nonetheless, the other dancers work under contract and expect to be free from interference in their work. His Excellency expects me to punish you, and I'm only so good as my word. "
You stand, gesturing at the table behind her, luxuriantly padded and shaped like a St. Andrew's Cross. Overhead, over a dozen wicked robotic arms mounted on a central hub twitch almost eagerly like they're capable of conscious sadism as the machine powers up.
"Would you like to do this the easy way, or the hard way?" You ask, resting one hand on the soft surface lightly as the chair releases her. "It'll be easier if you cooperate." You add.
Still angry but bright enough to realize that she's no where to go and no way to escape the palace, Oola walks over and hesitantly lays down on the table, stretching out her arms to mirror its shape. She flinches when you gently grab one sculpted limb and guide it into a solid metal cylinder that swallows it up past the elbow, eyes squeezing and teeth biting into her lip as your fingers brush against her skin above the elbow. Curious.
Symetrical thick metal restraints slide into place over her calves, before pulling back tightly, stretching her out immobile. She tries a few experimental pulls- everyone does- and like her predecessors, begins to look just a little less cocky when she realizes the complete lack of escapabilty inherent in her situation.
You step to the end of the table, where her feet poke out of the silvery devices, only half the ankle visible at most. You're just sliding off one of her crude dance shoes, when you see her tense up out of the corner of your eyes, her own squeezing shut as you partially wriggle the shoe off.
You can see her biting her lip harder, a pinkish glow rising in her face, and you rub the back of the shoe against her foot a few more times than necessary, scarce able to believe it.
It's something else. You think. It has to be something else. There's now way anyone could be that ticklish.
You carelessly toss the shoe aside after a few more sadistic moments, flicking off its counterpart in half the time, admiring the light-green tone of her pristine soles and the large tones, wiggling back and forth as the cool air assails them.
You grab her big toe and one hand, and are surprised when she veritably screams before getting herself under control, jerking the foot away. Smiling mildly to yourself now, you grab it firmly and force it into a little band of metal attached to the main cylinder, which tightens around the plump appendage and promptly retracts, stretching out her entire sole and immobilizing it.
Soon, you've carefully stockaded the other nine digits, and you look up to see a very worried looking Oola, looking down the length of her trapped body at you, sweat gleaming on her head but resolutely keeping silent.
You poke the arch of her left foot, lightly, just once, and giggles sputter out of her mouth, seeming to pop out from between her clenched teeth. You prod the paralyzed flesh again, harder, and again and again. Her giggles intensify, and you step it up, fingers of each hand flicking over the matching foot, tickling her ever so lightly. The effects are astonishing.
"Ohahahha dhahahmai! Thathahat tickles! Ahahahahaha!" She practically screams, body shaking, firm breasts bouncing even under the tight confines of her net costume. Her body shakes as much as physically possible in her restraints, hands twitching and clenching into fists spasmodically. Her lekku jerk back and forth as her head lolls back, laughing freely.
You let up after just a few moments, electing to save that spot for a more properly thorough working-over later, and walk over to her midriff instead. She looks up at you, far past merely nervous, shimmying back and forth in a vain attempt at escape.
Stretched out like this, it's obvious just how inadequate her dance outfit it. The thing nearly threatens to slide off her and give you a show at any moment. It scarce hides the swell or her breasts, and the belts at her shapely hips only serve to accentuate them. Two strips of fabric seperate from a paltry loincloth at her groin, small enough that the lines of her smooth pelvis are clearly visible, rising to cover her chests and framing her bellybutton nicely in the process. The hollows of her underarms are fully stretched out and defenceless in this position, of course, and you swear they're calling to you as you plan your next point of attack.
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