He fell to his knees and began to transform under the full moon, golden fur sprouted from his arms and his boots felt too tight. With trembling hands, he reached for his frock coat’s inner pocket and almost dropped the small glass vial on the cobblestones as he took it out. He could already feel his canines lengthen. Like a man stranded in the desert seeing water for the first time, he popped the cork and gulped down the liquorous fluid to its last drop. It took effect immediately, the furry patches reduced in size until they vanished and his boots felt comfortable again. It would be a shame to rip those boots, dyed suede wasn’t cheap.
He took a deep breath and picked up his hat from the ground. The hard part was over, Gustav Johann Escher had averted his lycanthropic transformation once again. Glancing up at the moon, he whispered with a smirk: “Not today, old friend.” He kept walking.
When he arrived at the asylum he was greeted by the warden, a man in his mid-fifties wearing a simple blue jacket and matching trousers. The jacket’s left breast bore an insignia sporting the outline of a beastly hand bound in a manacle. They walked along a long hallway lit by oil lamps and heard a faraway echo of monstrous laughter. It got louder and louder until they arrived at its source. They looked through an observation window into the inside of a cell with a large wereshark tightly hogtied on the floor. Two young orderlies dressed in simple beige garments decorated with the asylum’s insignia tickled the creature’s feet with a variety of brushes.
“Still tickling them, are you?” asked Escher.
“Best way o’keeping ‘em under control, doc. At least ‘til you figure out how to turn ‘em back to their human forms before the full moon is over,” answered the warden, not taking his eyes off the wereshark. “This one nearly chomped off someone’s arm before we could get him under control, ‘few brushes on those feet and he’s docile as they come.”
Escher also found himself fixated on the creature, much of it hidden under a mess of leather belts with only its feet left unobstructed. They had three webbed toes each and the soles were pale and very smooth, judging by how easily the brushes seemed to glide on them. He pondered: Why tickling? The asylum housed lycanthropes who’s transformations could not be controlled like his own. Regular lycanthrope suppressant had no effect on them so why on Earth was tickling, of all things, so effective in sapping them of their strength?
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, doc,” said the warden as he turned on his heel. “Got other matters to attend to. I’ve instructed the staff to assist you so feel free to order the blokes around if you need. Good luck tonight!” And he was gone.
He decided to run some tests himself on a patient unoccupied with orderlies, so he searched until he found a cell with a solitary occupant. Inside of it sat a werehyena (or ‘gnoll’, by some folklore definitions) on an armless wooden chair reinforced with iron and bolted down to the floor. Its fur pattern resembled a regular spotted hyena complete with an orange tuft of hair between its parabolic ears. It was blindfolded, arms chained above its head and legs restrained in a pair of wooden stocks. This was Oscar Hill, an unlucky young man who used to work at a Gentlemen’s Club until one of the guests revealed himself to be a lycanthrope and bit him. Poor sod. He’d been in the asylum ever since.
“Hello, Oscar,” Escher said, quietly. The werehyena grumbled and sniffed at the air. “I’ve got a tasty drink for you!” He took out a vial of suppressant and put it to Oscar’s lips, pouring some of the liquid inside his muzzle which was promptly spat out with an annoyed growl. “Come on, it doesn’t taste that bad,” he remarked. Oscar wasn’t happy, he began thrashing against his bonds with an alarming amount of strength. Escher had no choice but to bring him under control the only way he knew how. He wasted no time in positioning himself in front of the thrashing werehyena’s feet and scratched the soft spot right under the toes and above the main paw-pad. The soles were incredibly soft and uncalloused. Oscar’s muzzle contorted from an angry snarl into a goofy, toothy grin in a matter of seconds.
“Temper control, Oscar. Keep yourself in check or else we’ll have to do it for you,” Escher asserted sternly as he raked his fingernails across the full height of the patient’s soles. In nature, hyenas ‘laugh’ when they are nervous or under distress. In hyena-based lycanthropes, the same can curiously be observed as Oscar’s high-pitched ‘laughter’ resembled the vocalizations of his feral counterparts closer than an actual human’s laughter. An interesting curiosity that Escher’s mind pondered as he tickled the patient’s feet on near autopilot. Oscar laughed up a storm indeed but his struggling had subsided greatly and he was sitting limp in his restraints, drained of spirit and strength. Merely surrendering to the titillating sensations forced upon his bare paws.
“If only you could speak in this form…” Escher mumbled. “Or remember any of this when your transformation ends, you could maybe clue me in as to why tickling makes you so tame. Do you like it, somehow? Or is it something else, some sort of instinct, perhaps?” Oscar, of course, only kept laughing his hyena laughter in response, tears running from below his blindfold. Escher took out a small ivory toothbrush and spread the patient’s toes with his free hand; they were too weak to even curl. Methodically, he ran that toothbrush in between each and every pair of the werehyena’s bulbous padded digits, stimulating the raw nerves there. The creature howled like a wolf before once again cackling like a hyena, a very distressed hyena. His feet were completely defenseless and at the mercy of Escher’s toothbrush. If Oscar kept any of his mental faculties while transformed, he would no doubt feel humiliated to be brought to submission by such a simple, tiny object as that toothbrush running between his toes, the common kind of toothbrush you could buy at any chemist.
The giggles became hoarse and the breathing more labored. Escher noticed this and decided the lad had had enough. The creature was visibly exhausted, sweaty and a lot less aggressive.
“See what happens when you lose your temper, Oscar? Keep it in check next time, will you?” reprimanded the doctor, as if the monster could understand him. Still, he wasn’t a cruel man, and these were still people. Gently, he poured some water from a bottle into the exhausted werehyena’s lips which he drank happily this time before slumping back in his chair. “There’s a good lad!” He praised, scratching Oscar’s chin. “Now sit tight until the full moon is over, and don’t give the orderlies any trouble, or else I’ll come tickle you again.” With that, he left the cell.
As he walked the lamplit corridors once again, Escher mumbled to himself. “Tickling drains the lycanthropes’ strength and they all seem incredibly sensitive, regardless of whatever species they’re based on… Normally, sensitivity lessens over the course of one’s life due to simple exposure to the elements, but for them it’s always at its highest no matter what. Could it be because, with every transformation, newborn skin tissue is created over their human skin? Skin that is yet to lose any sensitivity?”
As he pondered this, he came across another cell with an observation window. Inside he saw not one but two lycanthropes unaccompanied by any orderlies. Only one of them, a werecrocodile, was bound by a set of medical restraints to a bed while the other, a weregoat, was left free to do whatever he liked. Unfortunately for the werecroc, the goat seemed to like licking and tickling his large feet! The werecroc had his sizable snout muzzled, likely to prevent any accidents. Most curious of all was that the weregoat was sporting rather a shameless erection between his naked thighs. Escher recalled the warden saying something about some patients displaying an insatiable lust for tickling during their transformation instead of the regular aggressiveness, usually but not limited to the ones based on prey animals like the goat. These patients were deemed lower-risk and given ‘playmates’ to satisfy their lust as well as to free up some orderlies. A win-win if there ever was one! And despite his muffled screams of hilarity, surprisingly, the gator was at full mast too.
Escher thought that perhaps this apparent connection between tickling and sexuality could hold the answer to reverting the lycanthrope’s transformation, so he found an orderly and requested the asylum’s standard pacification kit. It consisted of a simple raffia bag adorned with the asylum’s insignia which contained an assortment of tools meant to tickle even the toughest of patients into submission. He’d need that kit for the beast he was about to visit.
Per Sven Vallquist was a former circus strongman. As luck would have it, one of the bears in his circus happened to be a man cursed with a rare form of permanent lycanthropy. Per found out about it in the worst way possible and was sent to the asylum shortly after…. As a human, Per’s physique was already as magnificent as his trade demanded. Becoming a werebear only served to amplify his strength to herculean levels that bondage had to match. The gargantuan grizzly lay atop an elevated table in the middle of his cell, almost fully encased in a thick suit of cast iron. Not a lot of the creature was exposed, save for half of his snout for breathing and his massive footpaws for tickling, each taller and wider than Escher’s torso. The bondage suit had smaller plates in the neck, armpit, belly and crotch areas that could be easily removed to further expose Per’s ticklish spots.
“Hi, Per,” Escher said, as he approached the bound bear. “Apologies for disturbing you but I need to test a theory. You won’t mind.” He removed the plate at the creature’s crotch, exposing the sizable cock underneath and earning a hostile grumble from Per, in response. Irrational as he was in this form, his mind still knew added exposure could only mean one thing. Sure enough, Escher took a wide brush from the raffia bag and ran it up and down one the beast’s gigantic fully padded feet. Per broke out in peals of deep growly laughter, partially suppressed by the suit’s integrated muzzle. His toes curled, causing the soft skin on his sole pad to wrinkle. This, of course, was a mere nervous reflex and did nothing to lessen the electric sensations caused by the densely packed bristles of the doctor’s brush. Covering the sole from top to bottom required a genuine physical effort on Esher’s part, as if painting a wall from floor to ceiling. All werecreatures tended to be a fair bit larger than humans and so were their feet, but as far the doctor was aware, Per was the asylum’s largest-footed resident, by far.
“You’re awfully sensitive for such a big boy, ain’tcha?” The doctor prided himself on his professionalism but even he couldn’t avoid succumbing to the sadistic pleasure that came with having such a gargantuan beast completely vulnerable to his every whim. Tamed by foot tickling, no less. The effects were already showing as Per’s initial struggle died down, giving way to limp acceptance.
“This might feel a bit chilly,” Escher warned before he poured an entire bottle of massage oil over Per’s toes. He watched the liquid drip down to his heels before massaging it over the entire sole with both hands. He repeated the process with the other stomper and stood back to admire the oiled soles, shimmering in the light of the oil lamps. He observed the beast’s member was still soft. “Now let’s see if I can wake up your little friend there.” Escher attacked the paws with a brush on each and the cell was filled with roaring laughter. He used wide circular motions to cover the entire surface of the vast soles, occasionally paying extra attention to their shallow arches, which seemed to garner more intense reactions from Per. When the beast’s energy was sapped so that not even his toes curled anymore, Escher took the opportunity to run the brushes over the toe pads, forcing the werebear’s laughter to jump an octave. He kept torturing the creature’s oiled paws until he got his desired result: the once flaccid bear cock now stood up in all its girthy glory. It was huge to the point where copulation with a human would no doubt result in permanent injury. Escher had other plans for it, though. He abandoned Per’s feet and swapped the broad brushes for a smaller, more delicate brush, akin to what an artist might use to draw on canvas.
“I don’t believe I’ve tickled a lycanthrope’s penis before. You get to be my first, Per. Lucky you!” Escher’s aforementioned professionalism ebbed away the longer his experiment went on, giving way to sadistic curiosity. Regardless of the motivator, the procedure stayed the same so Escher began running the brush around Per’s cockhead to screaming results. The beast didn’t holler quite as much as when his feet were tickled, but it let out stifled moans in between cackles. Escher drove the brush up and down the length, over the head and around the balls, never staying in one spot too long to keep Per guessing where the next attack would come from. Soon enough, the werebear’s mast spurted fresh pre-cum. Escher decided he learned everything he wanted to and stopped teasing the member.
“Fascinating…” he grinned, looking at the exhausted werebear. “Not only is your sensitivity abnormally high, but there is also an intrinsic connection between tickling and sexual pleasure… I wonder…” He uncorked another glass vial and poured suppressant over Per’s lips, just barely accessible through the bondage suit’s headpiece. The beast had no strength to fight back so he simply swallowed the liquid. Escher stared eagerly at the werebear, scanning for any sign of the transformation being reverted… There was none. Per Sven Vallquist was still a hulking, ticklish, grizzly werebear. What a disappointment.
Suddenly, Per let out a monstrous roar and began struggling wildly. Escher could see the cast iron of the bondage start to give. Startled, he hurried out of the cell and called for orderlies. The last thing he saw before leaving was half a dozen men in beige uniforms opening every compartment in the werebear’s suit before beginning an intense, full-body tickling session to bring the beast under control. Escher guessed it’d be a few hours before he could visit Per again. He needed another patient.
He paced about aimlessly, thinking.
“It doesn’t make any sense… I must have tickled him for an hour straight. How did he have the strength to break his restraints after that? Was it because… I didn’t finish him? Did I frustrate him?”
Escher came across another observation window. Through it, he saw a werefox, a bit on the smaller side, strapped to a wooden chair. With him was a single orderly, operating a pedal-activated feather roller that spun under the bottoms of his feet. This freed the orderly’s hands to operate a different machine, one that looked like a small cylindrical brass chamber with a hand crank mounted on its side. The device was strapped to the werefox’s genitals with a set of pelvic straps and his cock was fitted through the cylindrical chamber. As the orderly spun the crank, the leather-textured internals moved linearly up and down against the trapped member. This was the asylum’s specially designed mechanical stimulator, but the staff simply called it ‘the milker’.
Escher observed the werefox’s ordeal voyeuristically, watching as the lycanthrope giggled helplessly in response to the combination of treatment. The milker had an open top from which the red tip of the creature’s penis could be seen, leaking precum just like the werebear had been. The only difference was that the orderly didn’t stop before the werefox could orgasm, and Escher watched as ropes of milky ejaculate shot up high into the air and landed on the milker, the floor, and the patient’s lap in equal measure. But the orderly didn’t stop there, he kept cranking the milker and pumping the pedal. In fact, he redoubled his efforts! The milker caressed the oversensitive meat while the roller swiped its many feathers over the werefox’s criminally smooth paw-pads and in between his wiggling toes. Escher almost felt sorry for the creature as it was put through intense tickling and milking torture during a period of post-orgasmic sensitivity. It hollered a disjointed cacophony of panicked yips and terrified screams. It was painful to watch… and yet he couldn’t look away. He stared for long enough that the lycanthrope eventually passed out from sheer overstimulation. Watching the whole affair gave Escher an idea. When the orderly left the cell, he requested to borrow the milker, which the man allowed after cleaning and disinfecting the contraption. With yet another tool in his arsenal, the doctor marched towards a cell he’d visited many times before. One that housed a patient he dared to call his friend.
The asylum kept detailed records on each patient’s identity, medical history and anything else that might help better shape their treatments and containment procedures. But not Isaac. Isaac was different. In his human form he was a young pale man no older than twenty with no recollection of his past. When the full moon was out, Isaac was a werewolf, tall and lanky with a coat of carrot-colored fur, darkening towards his hands, feet, and nose. His doctors theorized his variant of lycanthropy resembled a maned wolf. The abnormalities didn’t stop with Isaac’s appearance as he was far more docile than his peers and even seemed to understand human language while transformed! All of this had afforded the young werewolf certain luxuries within the facility, like a more comfortable bondage setup. Isaac sat naked on a padded recliner bound by his wrists and ankles. The footrest was elevated to grant full access to his soles. They were long, in proportion to Isaac’s height, had four toes each but no paw pads, oddly enough for a canine.
“Hi, Isaac! How are you, mate?” greeted Escher, entering the cell. In response, the werewolf let out a happy bark. “Good, good. I’m good, too. See, I’m running an experiment that I think you could help me with. What do you say? Fair warning, though: It’ll tickle quite a lot.” Isaac barked excitedly and wagged his tail, toes curling in anticipation. “Good lad!” praised the doctor while scratching the werewolf behind the ear.
Hew’d come to Isaac because he wanted a measure of cooperation for the next experiment, and the young amnesiac was by far the most willing to play ball. He started by lathering Isaac’s feet in massage oil before kneading it past the thin fur and into the skin with his hands. The werewolf relaxed back into the recliner and hung out his tongue. The abnormal sensitivity brought on by lycanthropy was a double edged sword, just as it could be used to subdue and punish via harsh tickling, it could also be made enjoyable by a gentler touch. Escher took no pleasure in tormenting the one patient he was friendly with, and considering what he was about to put him through, he made sure this initial oily massage felt as relaxing as his unskilled hands could muster. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy playing with the werewolf’s long paws. Maybe it was part of his own lycanthropy, but he saw a certain playful nature in Isaac’s smooth, long soles and splaying toes, almost as if they were childishly asking to be tickled and played with. Knowing Isaac, that could actually be somewhat accurate.
He started with his fingernails, teasingly dragging them upwards from the heels until they reached the toes. Once there, he jammed his fingers underneath those digits and wiggled them in place for a few seconds before swiping them down and starting all over again. They glided through oiled, brown fur frictionless, sending ticklish jolts up Isaac’s long legs and into his brain, forcing him into manic struggles and barking laughter.
“Good boy, Isaac, laugh for me! My, how sensitive you are on these big puppy paws!”
Verbal teasing was proven to enhance sensitivity on recipients of tickle-torture as it was thought the added humiliation compounded the normal nervous response.
”I hope you can take a lot more than this because I’ve only just begun! I’ll tickle, tickle, tickle your feet until you can’t take it anymore and then I’ll keep going! Cootchie cootchie coo!~”
…Okay, maybe that was going a bit overboard, but he couldn’t help it! He’d spend the night tickling half-feral beasts into submission and here was the first and, so far, only one that was actually friendly to him! Not only that but he also seemed to openly like being tickled, how was it possible not to have a bit of fun? Still, he couldn’t forget why he was there, he had a hypothesis to test and Isaac’s penis was still hidden inside its sheath. Clearly he needed to go harder to get results. From the pacification kit, he pulled a pair of gloves with palms coated in stiff bristles like wearable brush.
“You seemed to enjoy that massage earlier,” Escher said as he slipped on the gloves. “Let me give you another.”
He slapped Isaac’s soles with the gloves on, resulting in a surprised bark that diluted into cascading laughter as he rubbed them like he rubbed a dog’s belly. The gloves were flexible enough that Escher could mimic the same movements he did in the massage moments prior, except now they sent the werewolf into crazed hysterics. Oftentimes he focused on a single paw and subjected it to both gloves at the same time, alternating between scrubbing at random and flossing his bristle-lined fingers underneath and in-between the flailing toes. At one point, he held the toes back with one hand while ravaging the whole surface of the sole with the other.
After several minutes of brushing, the poor werewolf exhibited the intended effects of the treatment. He laid near-motionless in his comfortable recliner, condemned to accept as much tickling as his tormenter seemed suitable. Additionally, his fleshy canine cock stood pulsating out of its sheath, knot and all. Escher strapped the milker to Isaac’s genitals.
“You’re doing a bang up job so far. It’s gonna get a little rough now but I know you can do it. I need you to let it all out, alright? Don’t hold back!”
Poor Isaac could barely nod in response, but he did so anyway.
Escher kneeled by the lycanthrope’s long legs, from there he could just barely reach both the patient’s feet and the milker’s crank. Isaac’s paws were close enough together that Escher could tickle them both with one hand while cranking the milker with the other. Barking hysterics broke out as Isaac was put through an intense bout of sensory overstimulation. For a brief moment, the werewolf was lively again, muscles contracting in a full-body spasm of protest before the tickling sapped them weak once again, leaving him docile and vulnerable to further treatment. His face was red beneath the fur and tears of forced laughter rolled down his cheeks. As much as Escher enjoyed teasing his friend a few moments prior, he did wonder if he wasn’t going too far with the treatment, even as Isaac had consented to it. The least he could do is make it feel as good as possible under the circumstances so he cranked the milker faster. The inside of the device had a lubricated leather membrane which rose and fell to simulate penetration. It was the result of an effort to quell the patients’ sexual urges when no playmate was available or they had been deemed too dangerous for one. The membrane squeezed and stroked Isaac’s phallus from top to bottom, resulting in penile contractions and moaning intermingled with helpless laughter. Isaac slipped out of his limpness once more and his whole body tensed up. He howled painfully loud and shot an abnormally strong jet of semen that managed to stain the cell’s ceiling, then another, and another, and another… each shooting lower than the previous but all of them landing back somewhere on the werewolf’s torso. He was nearly lulled into a relaxing post-orgasmic nap but then his eyes shot open. Escher wasn’t stopping! He kept tickling his oversensitive feet and milking his spent cock. Isaac screamed.
“Sorry, lad! It’s for your own good, I promise,” Escher said apologetically as he tortured his patient. The creature barked, roared, screamed and imitated the word ‘stop’ as best as he could with his canine lips. His eyes darted around wildly around the room searching for any possible escape from the torture, his every muscle was jolted awake and fought harder than ever to break free from the comfortable recliner. His fingers and toes curled and splayed animalistically trying to claw at anything in range. Soon he was feral, snarling and biting at the empty air. When Escher brushed under his toes again, his maw flung open to let out a howl of panic.
Now! Swiftly, Escher poured the suppressant down Isaac’s throat, careful not to get bit in the process; he didn’t want to find out what double lycanthropy was like. Then he watched… and watched… Ha! Isaac’s snout started receding! And his hands and feet shrunk! The transformation was reverting right before Escher’s eyes! It lasted but a moment before it stopped and Isaac still kept his cursed werewolf form but it didn’t matter, this proved Escher’s theory!
“Eureka! I’ve done it!” Escher beamed, laughing in a fit of pure elation. He hugged the puzzled canine still in his bondage. “I’ve solved it! I know how to turn you back! I can turn you all back!” Poor Isaac didn’t seem entirely sure of what the doctor was so happy about but his wagging tail revealed he partook in the enjoyment anyway. That and he was probably glad the torture was over.
“The patients have to drink the suppressant while undergoing uninterrupted tickling and milking,” explained Escher to a pair of orderlies. ”It has to drive them out of their minds! If they get a grip on themselves even for a second then the process doesn’t work and it has to be repeated. Understood?”
“Aye, doctor,” they answered in unison.
With the orderlies in tow, Escher searched for a new patient to test the procedure to completion. He didn’t want to put poor Isaac through the ringer again, not tonight. They passed by several cells, all of them occupied by one or more patients undergoing some form of tickle torture administered by an orderly or a fellow patient. There was a weretiger getting his feet licked by a pair of wererats, a were-eagle undergoing a severe talon-feathering (with his own plumes, no less) and weredeer subjected to milking while the soft parts of his hoof-like feet were treated to a backscratcher. Finally, at the end of a long hallway, nested far away from all other cells was the door to a maximum-security chamber.
“Who’s in there?” asked Escher.
“Warden didn’t tell you?” replied an orderly.
“I don’t believe he did.”
The orderlies shared a worried glance.
“That’s Edward Carter in there.”
“…Oh.”
Edward Carter. Escher knew who he was. Everyone did. He was not a good man. A feared pirate who spent his life murdering and stealing for his own gain. Well… ex-pirate, anyway. Sometime ago he had been captured and sentenced to life in prison. Shortly after, he manifested his first signs of lycanthropy and was shipped off to the asylum.
Perfect, Escher thought. He would feel no remorse at all about torturing this criminal. Best case scenario, he would perform the first ever successful transformation reversal on a patient afflicted with this kind of lycanthropy. Worst case scenario… Well, it wasn’t like Carter was undeserving of being tortured to complete insanity.
They had to pass through three doors before they reached the inside of Carter’s cell. The pirate took the form of a naked black werepanther, presently strapped down spread eagle to a cross-shaped table with multiple leather belts securing his arms, legs and torso. He wore a custom-made leather hood with the vague silhouette of his feline head to blind and deafen him, it had a zipper in the mouth area so he could still be fed. Despite the restrictive bondage covering his body, his sensitive spots still lay exposed. It wasn’t uncommon for the staff at the asylum to torture him out of pure spite.
“Alright, you boys do his feet, don’t forget the oil. I’ll excite him,” Escher instructed. Obediently, the two orderlies oiled up Carter’s feet which had all the usual characteristics of feline lycanthrope paws: They were firm and nimble but with extremely sensitive cream paw-pads. Already the werepanther was starting to stir, maybe anticipating this to be yet another arbitrary tickling session or some orderlies venting out frustration with no moral repercussions. He jumped at the sensation of a soft feather twirling around his balls. It must’ve been odd for him, as the staff rarely touched his privates.
“Eat shit, pirate,” blurted one of the orderlies before ravaging his assigned foot with glove brushes. His colleague followed suit, running a pair of metallic pinwheels over the impossibly soft pads in front of him. The initial fit of struggling made the leather belts creak under the pressure but they held fast. Muffled guffaws emanated from underneath Carter’s hood. Escher had to admit it felt somewhat cathartic to punish a criminal while advancing his theory at the same time. It was the exact antithesis of what he felt with Isaac. While he minded the werewolf’s well-being when tickling him, he had no such concerns when it came to tormenting the werepanther. The beginnings of an erection were already apparent so Escher wasted no time in pulling back the patient’s foreskin to feather the freshly bared glans underneath. Carter jumped in his bonds, proving the method’s effectiveness. Grinning ear-to-ear, Escher swiped the feather round and round the flaring cockhead, forcing a muffled yell out of the pirate each time he touched the frenulum. At any other time, his larynx was congested with tortured cackles brought on by the orderlies’ unrelenting torture of his feet. Escher fashioned himself an expert in the art of tickling but he was nothing compared to the orderlies’ almost anatomical study of the patient’s paws. They struck specific nerve groups with near-surgical precision and stimulated them for just the right amount of time before jumping to another spot, ensuring maximum receptiveness is maintained throughout the whole foot. A machine could not have done a better job than these orderlies.
Soon, Carter stopped struggling and was sporting a full erection, signaling to Escher that it was time to move on to the next stage. He tightened the milker over the pirate’s penis and started cranking. The orderlies had switched out their tools, too. They used a combination of hairbrushes and backscratchers on the feline’s paws. Just like every other lycanthrope, Carter could not resist the combined stimulation of foot tickling and cock milking so he was quickly brought to the edge of orgasm. His back arched and his toes curled in preparation for the oncoming release, but it didn’t come. Escher stopped cranking the milker and had instead gone back to feathering the pirate’s cockhead, denying him his release. He was furious, yelling desperately from underneath the hood. Humping the milker to get off on his own wasn’t an option on account of the straps holding his pelvis in place. He would cum only when Escher decided so.
After some more tickling had been administered to subside the orgasm, the milking began anew only to stop again as Carter neared climax. This happened several times, maybe more than was necessary, before Escher granted Carter his release. The pirate sobbed amidst laughter by then, wordlessly pleading to cum. His orgasm was powerful and draining. After such gratuitous amounts of edging, a regular human might’ve passed out, but not a werepanther, a werepanther was left ten times as sensitive as before. Escher didn’t need to tell the orderlies to keep tickling Carter’s feet. They knew the deal. His arm was sore from the constantly cranking the milker but he had to go through with it. There was no turning back at this point.
The werepanther was a screaming, cackling, sobbing mess. His mind checked out sometime after the fourth orgasm and left the body to suffer on its own, reduced to its most basic instincts. Escher unzipped part of the hood’s muzzle zipper and poured a vialful of suppressant down the side of Carter’s mouth through his grinning teeth, then immediately went back to milking his cock.
“Now or never, lads! Give it your all!” he exclaimed, powering through his sore arm and cranking that milker like his life depended on it. The orderlies mirrored his enthusiasm in their foot tickling. The screaming werepanther was driven to the edge of madness, pushed over, fished out of the hole and then pushed back in again. It started with the arms this time, the jet black fur receding into patches of pale skin, untouched by the sun. “Keep going, it’s working,” shouted Escher. The orderlies gave it their all and then some. The furless patches spread out over the pirate’s body until all of the fuzz was gone. Eventually, Carter went silent and stopped moving entirely. “That’s enough, boys. Good work. Now let’s see the results.” Escher’s heart raced. Gingerly, he undid the straps on Carter’s hood and peeled it back. Never before in his life had he felt such joy at seeing the face of a criminal.
The warden was aghast to learn of the night’s discoveries and promised to implement the new treatment procedure throughout the whole facility before nightfall tomorrow. Escher left the asylum while the full moon still shone in the sky, knowing that now the patients could be turned back to their human forms on demand.
He would return tomorrow to oversee the procedures, but first he had to find a suitable apology gift for Isaac.