Paw Touch-Up Dust-Up (Kinktober: Tickling)

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#2 of Kinktober 2022

Another Kinktober entry. Tickling. Tickles. Ticklish. All of that fun stuff. And who does it feature? Of course, none other than the world's most ticklish raccoon . . . And, to boot, this story has quite a meta spin on it.

Falco's commissioned an artist to have Heather's paws touched up. Her hands, yes . . . And her feet, too. Not the tops of her feet, no. What would be the fun in that?


"Ready to have your palms painted, Heather?" The artist scrolled through his color palette. "Falco specified a nice gray for them."

Heather looked down at her hands, opening and closing all eight fingers. "Yep." She smirked and thrust her hands out of the digital page. "They're all yours," she chirped.

"There we go," he said, finishing up with her fingertips. "You are now the owner of what are called _countershade_hands."

Heather laughed out loud. "Isn't that what that monosodium glutamate site calls it? They have some weird nomenclature for a lot of stuff." She probed her hands, poking the palms with the tip of the opposite index finger and tracing down a thick crease. "Let's just call it . . . cute? How does that sound?"

"I think cute works great. Now," said the artist, glancing at her bare three-toed feet. "Same thing for the bottoms of your feet, Heather."

Heather's ears drooped. "Wait. What? You-You also have to paint under my feet?"

"Afraid so, cutie. Falco paid a fortune for this commission--guy's gotta deliver on his promise!" he said, selecting a finer brush.

"No, no, no." Heather's bushy tail swung to her front; she grabbed hold of it as if it were a teddy bear. "You don't get it. I can't stand anyone touching my feet, and definitely not"--her nose crinkled as if the artist had suggested yanking her toe claws out--"_under_them." She shuddered.

The artist chuckled. "Oh, come on. Are you afraid of a little tickle? It can't be that bad. And I'll be quick." He sketched the outline of a Boy Scout next to the hesitant raccoon. "Scout's honor!"

Heather eyed the stick figure Boy Scout as he walked away, goose-stepping all military-like, and sat on the ground, his legs crossed. "Dude, for real, I have the galaxy's most ticklish feet. It isn't even funny. Look, can't you just, like, draw me so you can't see my soles? Falco won't know the difference."

The Boy Scout whittled a piece of pine wood with his Swiss Army knife.

"You and I both know your paws gotta be on display, Heather. This is Falco Fox we're talking about here. No can do--gotta come through with this commission, cutie. Sorry!"

The second the paintbrush tool moved towards her, Heather squealed and ran off, her tail and Thor's hammer pendant trailing behind her. Being a prisoner of the artist's virtual canvas, however, afforded her no advantage, and in the amount of time it took Tom Araya to belt out that opening shriek on "Angel of Death," Heather was hanging upside down, held up by digital invisible force fields, her bare soles in plain view.

"You bastard! No! I'll tell Falco you're a dirty, rotten son of a gun!" Heather yelled at the top of her lungs. The white parts of her face flushed.

"Don't you get it, Heather? Falco was the one who told me to make sure you get your paws painted. And don't you think he knows you're excruciatingly sensitive under your feet? He created you, after all."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Heather, her tail whipping in exasperation. "I am so gonna have a word with him after this bullshit."

"Relax, will ya? I guess a bit of laughter therapy will help get rid of that crankiness," said the artist, licking the tip of his stylus and looking over at the Boy Scout. "Wanna see someone's paws getting painted, boy?"

The stick figure smiled, folded his pocketknife, and nodded.

"OK! All right, one coat of gray coming up!"

"NO!" was all Heather could get in before the brush made contact with the sole of her left foot--after that, the hapless raccoon dissolved into shrieking, hysterical laughter. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! STOP! I'LL PA-HAHAHAH-PAY YOU WHAT FALCO PAID YOU! BWAHAHAHAH! I'LL FREAKING-HAHAHAHAHA-DOUBLE IT!"

"Keep your feet still!" chided the artist as Heather belly laughed and screamed. "The more you squirm, the longer this will take, little missy." He used delicate strokes, strokes lighter than the atmosphere of the Moon, to paint the bare soles of her feet gray. He'd start at the heel and drag the virtual paintbrush up the delicate skin, spend some time on that horrifically sensitive area between the rest of her foot and her digits, and then work on a toe. "You do have pretty cute paws, young lady. Bet people can't help sneaking in quick tickles, huh?" he said, lifting the brush tool of her wiggling foot.

The teary-eyed raccoon breathed a sigh of relief. "Holy shit, that's intense. Dude. We are done." She craned her neck and locked eyes with the artist. "You did what you have to. Down. Now."

"Heather," said the artist with a cocky smirk. "Falco asked both your feet to be painted!"

Her eyes squeezed shut, a tear going up the side of her head, when the artist went up and down the sole of her other paw. Most people have a foot that's more ticklish than the other one. Not so with Heather. After all, barring obscure mathematical oddities, how can one infinity be greater than another infinity? Heather, with her toes splaying and curling, roared with laughter, just as hard she had when he'd tortured her left foot.

"There we go," he said, switching to the hand tool, about to grab Heather to let her down. "Boy, Falco was not kidding when he said you were sensitive. I don't know anyone that ticklish."

"I told you I can't stand it," she said, her black hair a mess, her necklace dangling precariously from her chin. "Whatever. Get me down. Now." She sniffled and fanned herself with her hands.

Just as the artist was about to comply, the Boy Scout jumped up and down and pointed to a flashing box--to Falco's Telegraph message. The artist raised an eyebrow. "Hmmmm. I think I made a small mistake. Your feet are supposed to be slightly lighter than your hands."

"WHAT?!" Heather's heart dropped to the bottom of the ocean.

"Yes," said the artist, narrowing his eyes. "I just need to change one letter of the color's hex code and paint it on again."

"Wait, wait, wait!" said Heather, smiling triumphantly. "Fill it in! Like with the paint bucket thing! You already painted it the other color!"

"Paint bucket?"

"I don't know what it's called, all right? I'm a poet, not a visual artist!"

"Oh, Heather," he said. "What fun would that be?" He gestured at a small icon in the lower right corner of his screen. It was OBS Studio. And it was recording. "Falco asked me to send a live WIP."

"NO!" she rasped. "You cannot be freaking serious! I hate-HAHAHAHAHAHAH!" Heather, again, was overcome with helpless laughter as the artist painstakingly, with his tongue sticking out, colored in the soles of the helpless girl's feet.

"There," he said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Heather, still hanging upside down, groaned. "My stomach hurts. You gonna let me down now?" Her eyes swiveled like a security camera, following the Boy Scout as he ran around the canvas.

DING!

"Lemme check this Telegraph message first." After a few seconds, he spoke. "I guess we're going to be here a while, Heather."

Her eyes widened. "Why do you say that?" She craned her neck. Her Thor's hammer swung back and forth. "Who is it?"

"It's Falco. He just sent me a Wikipawdia page." He tutted.

"What Wikipawdia page? Will you just tell me what's going on?" Recently painted raccoon toes curled in sheer dread.

"Cootchie-cootchie-coo!" squeaked the Boy Scout--his first words.

"Heather. It's the _Shades of gray_article." The artist looked at her in the eyes. "And there's thirty-four shades."