I am naked and immobile on the bed. The Master has tied my arms and legs with four straps and then mummified me using several rolls of kitchen wrap. Only my head and feet have been left unwrapped. He is in the bathroom, getting ready, while I enjoy my immobility because I know it's the moment of tranquility that precedes my torment.

The Master comes out of the bathroom. He's only wearing a black slip, but he's holding a toiletry bag whose contents I don't know. He pulls up a chair to the foot of the bed and sits down. From my position, I have to make a great effort to see him, so I give up trying. I feel him massaging my feet. First, the soles, then the heels, and finally the toes. And he starts again. After two passes, he begins to use his tongue. He runs it over my feet from bottom to top, slowly and carefully. We both enjoy it, but the situation reminds me that I'm an object at his mercy. The Master is now enjoying me in a way that's pleasurable for me, but soon he could change his mind. This thought unsettles me.

Soon the Master decides to change the game. He takes out a bottle from the toiletry bag and pours its contents onto his hands. He rubs his hands over my feet. It's some kind of moisturizing oil. I feel my feet clean, relaxed, and moisturized. But the key, what the Master is looking for, is that I feel good, especially in my feet. Then the tickling starts. I resist laughing. I curl up my feet to wrinkle the soles and make my torture more difficult. I hold out for 3 seconds before losing control of my laughter. I move my feet desperately from side to side. It's useless. Mummified as I am, the difference between moving and staying still is minimal. Nevertheless, I keep moving my feet. It's not my choice, just like I don't choose to keep laughing, it's a reflex. I know there's something I could do to make him stop, but I don't want to give it to him.

The Master doesn't take pity on me. I'm his, and he wants to enjoy himself. He enjoys my laughter. He enjoys hearing me guffaw. He enjoys seeing me twist and turn endlessly inside the plastic cocoon I'm in. But I think he enjoys it most when he hears me stammering, asking him to stop. I think this because my pleas only make him redouble his efforts. My will is about to be broken, but I don't want to lose the game so soon. Not yet.

Finally, he stops. I feel my lungs exhausted from laughing so much. I'm sweating and suffocating. But he's decided to continue. He searches in the toiletry bag he brought from the bathroom and takes out a brush with bristles, which he rubs forcefully over my feet. I think I won't be able to resist, but the intensity of the tickling gives me strength where there was only exhaustion. He holds one foot with one hand while brushing it with the other. The sensation is terrible, like having a thousand small fingers tickling me. I alternate between loud laughter and almost tearful pleas, but both are ignored. I think I'm going to give i...