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Description
Hello everyone and happy belated Halloween! I've been hustling to get this piece done in time for Halloween but I just barely missed the deadline, so hope you guys enjoy this belated entry of the Giggle Farm featuring three sets of spooky, vampiric soles from Castlevania! As usual, my guy Backstep has provided us with some backstories for your reading pleasure, which I have posted below. Make sure to show him some love and give him a watch as well as check out his patreon page at patreon.com/Backstep.

Inmate: Lenore - Shoe Size: 10
The wealthy and powerful have a way of forgetting that their servants are living, breathing human beings with thoughts and feelings and personal lives of their own. The people who clean clothes, muck out stables and cook and serve food often become automatons to those who employ or enslave them. That can lead to verbal, physical, or sexual abuse, leading to lives of quiet desperation or outright misery.

But sometimes, the anonymity of servitude can be emboldening.

Such was the case of the vampire Lenore, after her imprisonment by Isaac. Two things were obvious as far as those in service were concerned: First, that justice was not being served as long as she lived without sufficient punishment, and second, that she was going to escape that punishment because she was determined to take her own life sooner or later, whether her lover/lapdog Hector was in her life or not. While essentially powerless, those servants and slaves were determined to take action.

Rumors had circulated in quiet corners about the Giggle Farm for years, though most dismissed it as a bizarre fever dream in the midst of a blood-soaked nightmare. It was nearly impossible to believe that salvation could be found in some strange nexus of alternate timelines, but a few that toiled under Isaac’s thumb and seethed with fury whenever they spied the pale, copper-haired immortal were determined to try and discover it. And so they did, thanks to a dusty roll of parchment in a forgotten corner.

Upon entering, their pleas were heard by the council who asked for a complete account of what had happened in central Europe, which the servants were only too happy to give. Disturbed by their stories, they agreed to punish Lenore for her role in what had happened, deciding that her apparent change of heart meant that a handful of years would be sufficient rather than an indefinite incarceration. And though they had an ulterior motive in bringing in another villain to test their newest invention, they also resolved to mete out severe consequences for any other bloodsucker from that universe, so horrific was their impact upon that world.

Disappointed, though still a bit relieved that some semblance of justice could be had, the servants set about luring Lenore, via a lady in waiting, at sunset when Lenore prepared to greet the day properly. It went so smoothly that the vampire disappeared into a portal without a single yelp to be heard and was quickly incarcerated in a cell in bondage.

There they swiftly removed her boots and fitted her with a devious contraption called the ‘Silly Shoes.’ An updated version of the invention that had tormented an African woman from a different reality, the device locked Lenore’s big toes and heels in place and secured her bare feet so that they were virtually immoble. With the bottoms removed, one could clearly see the cause of the suffering that the prisoner was experiencing.

Small brushes moved across the entire device on both feet, and each brush delivered a single drop of lubrication after each pass. Three round brushes moved side by side in random patterns along each of Lenore’s pink heels; hard and worn at the start, the spinning brushes and oils turned them soft and pliable over time. A pair of brushes wormed between quaking toes on each foot, searching for the most sensitive, soft spots where no one in her long, long life had ever probed. A single brush worked over the pads of the toes as well, making sure to freshen up the delicate skin. But the worst were the four brushes on each helpless bare foot that spun along Lenore’s soles. They each moved along the balls of her feet and down along her arches and then sideways and back, always spinning, always leaving a smooth, slippery trail for the other brushes to follow. At various intervals it would speed up or slow down or stop entirely, all the better to cause the victim to wonder when the torture would begin again.

Lenore screamed in hysterics, begging for mercy that never came. Tears ran from her ruby colored eyes and she drooled with ticklish anguish as her bare feet, deep pink and shining with slick oil, were tormented by spinning discs that moved like dancers. Her breath came in ragged, strangled gasps and sweat covered her body as she was tormented by the mechanical monstrosity that wouldn’t stop except to tease her with the knowledge it would begin again. Her world became a red haze of crazed laughter, and yet it was only a taste of the suffering she and her comrades had perpetrated against the people of her country. Even then, she couldn’t comprehend how the Giggle Farm could be so cruel to her as she wailed in ticklish anguish, the machine causing Lenore to sink into herself in humiliated, sweaty convulsions.

But the servants could have told her if she was willing to listen.

Inmates: Striga & Morana - Shoe Size: 14 & 11
When half-frozen desperate gypsies had fled into his hamlet deep in the Pyrenees, east of Navarre, where they wouldn’t have otherwise dared venture, Father Pierre already feared that something had settled into the nearby mountain passes like an infected wound. He didn’t know all of the atrocities Morana and Striga had committed in central Europe, nor would he honestly have given it much thought if he had. All he knew was that the disjointed stories coming from the haunted, anguished faces in the pre-dawn light of his last day alive told of bloodsucking monsters who saw people as little more than sheep to be herded to slaughter.

Rome had warned him of the dangers of vampires some years before, as it had done for its churches across Europe, but it had always been a distant, remote threat, and of no consequence to a small town of several hundred on the keen edge of the French border. The sudden appearance of beasts that loomed in the shadows of the frigid peaks to the east caused Pierre to suspect that their small village was in the way of a march westward towards Pamplona to take advantage of the chaos of their civil war, which was indeed the case. Burdened by the responsibility of protecting his own people as well as the beleaguered city which housed the only bishop within two weeks’ journey, he threw himself into the task of digging through the meager archive in the church, looking for something, anything to turn back the threat. The sun trekked across the sky as he searched, promising widespread death if he failed.

As noon approached, to his surprise, he discovered a tiny scrap of paper rolled up in the town charter relaying an incident from a few decades after the first settlers came to the valley. It spoke of a troublemaker that had sought refuge there after being pursued by strange forces. They had come for her, but the people, rather than hiding the traveler, gave her up to be taken away to face justice. In thanks, instructions were left on how to call upon them in the town’s hour of need, and despite his misgivings, Pierre followed them, feeling he had no other choice.

The portal he summoned was meager, barely open wide enough for him to squeeze through, but it was enough. Upon his arrival, he was brought before the council of the Giggle Farm to plead his case. Though they would have welcomed a pair of new prisoners in any case, they knew more of what had transpired in Austria than Pierre ever would and agreed to take away and punish the women indefinitely. They instructed Pierre on making a portal that could save them, though as he listened, he knew that it would require a bold sacrifice and that time would be of the essence. He returned with a plan.

Ringing the church bell a few scant hours before sunset over and over, Pierre summoned most of the people to jam together into the miniscule town square, including the gypsies who had parked what remained of their caravan among the western hills. Standing upon a hastily assembled platform, he gave directions and asked for volunteers for a mission that few would survive, if any, including himself. Those who accepted were all elderly or sick, with little life left to give. Afterwards, he hastily prepared for their unwanted guests and spent what little leftover time there was to pray alone and to have a last glass of wine for courage.

At sundown, the vampires invaded the town from the west as a series of violent shadows, pouncing on anyone they could find to feed. Morana and Striga had let down their guard after so many years of wandering west across Europe, one principality or kingdom to another with little to no resistance to their forces when taking up mercenary commissions. They walked slowly into the town before it was secured, arm in arm in a romantic embrace, watching their forces swarm, listening to the occasional splintering of wood or aborted scream. They had a brief, if passionate, kiss as the stench of evisceration wafted over them and then continued to stroll together, kicking up dust until the familiar clack of bootheel on cobblestone began. It was only then, when they entered the town center where a lone unarmed priest in his finest cloak was kneeling in prayer, waiting for them, that they suspected something was amiss.

The haggard survivors were too few in number for a town of that size. They all stumbled on creaking legs towards Pierre in the center, the pursuing forces too hungry and preoccupied with their feed to realize they had been lured. Striga’s arrogance had momentarily blinded her, but she took her lover by the wrist and turned to run, realizing that a trap had been planned. Though she couldn’t have imagined the blood chattel grazing in their pathetic rickety wood buildings could stop them, she hadn’t lived so long by being so careless. Not until that moment. They were both caught at the edge of a yawning whirlpool that encompassed the town center just as the last of their forces entered, pouncing on the remaining townspeople, spilling their blood in a wave across the disappearing cobblestones.

Pierre smiled in triumph at the pair of ancient vampires who were screaming and clawing uselessly at the edge of the trap even though his throat had just been slashed. As he sank into the abyss, he looked up at the hundreds of his flock hiding in the western hills hiding along with the gypsies, all of whom had been spared by the sacrifice of a few dozen. As the blood soaked through his frock and his world crashed into darkness, his last thought was that he had been a good servant that would be rewarded in heaven.

Upon their arrival at the Giggle Farm, the council, who had been well-prepared for the group of visitors, had their guards dispatch most of the vampires straight away, ending their lives as swiftly, bloodily, and brutally as their targets had perpetrated against others for so many decades. But Morana and Striga were not so fortunate. Rather than put them in their own cells, it was decided to keep them together, side by side in their bonds so as to lend each other comfort and emotional strength, the reason being that it would take far longer for them to break.

Morana’s toes were tied back and a single delicate flower genetically engineered by the Giggle Farm was planted in a shallow dish of earth between her heels. Known as the “Footweed”, its soft tendrils extended upwards and probed the bare feet for moisture to nourish it. The plant found what it was looking for between the spasming toes causing her to burst into wails of helpless laughter. Rubbing the balls of her heels together to escape, she caused a bit more sweat for the plant to enjoy, and so it traced the contours of her soles looking for more. Each tendril traced the crinkles that Morana managed to form through what tiny movements her feet could make in their bondage and the flower’s head keened to and fro against the slightly rough heels, searching for sustenance.

They left Striga alone for a while so that she could listen to her lover’s screams of laughter and see tears bloom in her cobalt eyes, and wonder when her own feet would suffer a similar fate. Striga watched Morana’s mouth frozen open in wails, seeing more of her fangs trembling behind ruddy lips than she had witnessed in a century of bloodletting. Despite their comparative lack of use, the veins stuck out on Morana’s neck as she threw her head back, and Striga felt a mixture of tingles of both hunger and desire.

Striga’s horrified reverie was finally interrupted when they brought out the dhlzindri and explained what the strange, squirming little creature was before subjecting her to its machinations. A strange group of beings called the Chozo in an alternate reality in the multiverse had discovered and then selectively bred the one-eyed, multi-tentacled creatures when they were primarily a warrior race, long before they became observant peacekeepers. Their tough hides and physical abilities were so great that alternate methods had to be used to get captives to crack under pressure, and so the small monsters had been employed.

The once-proud vampire was reduced to begging to no avail as the dhlzindri was placed around her large feet, embracing them in its oppressive grip. Their tentacles were flexible and strong, and as they explored Striga’s writhing soles, her humiliation and despair fed the creatures, and they showed their pleasure with the excretion of a thin oil that added to the lubricity of the appendages. Striga’s toes flexed wildly until they were restrained and the sharp-toothed creature cooed and gunted happily at the woman’s torture. Her arches glistened with the slime of their pleasure, her reddening heels dripping with their satisfaction.

Striga’s pale lips split in hysterical laughter, her long hair whipping all around her as she struggled against the torment. Both women were now howling, their bare feet being stroked and brushed, their eyes dribbling tears as they suffered in a way that they had never contemplated as possible. Their chests burned with exertion despite being undead. As their endless laughter sounded around their cell, their arms were bound so that they couldn’t even hold one another for comfort or try and use their passion to distract from the maddening tickles. Their only respite was when their torturers rested from being fed.

When both vampires wailed into the darkness that they wished for death, it was the first time in centuries of life that they could truly understand what their victims had gone through, though their penance could never be enough to satisfy their crimes.

Description
Hello everyone and happy belated Halloween! I've been hustling to get this piece done in time for Halloween but I just barely missed the deadline, so hope you guys enjoy this belated entry of the Giggle Farm featuring three sets of spooky, vampiric soles from Castlevania! As usual, my guy Backstep has provided us with some backstories for your reading pleasure, which I have posted below. Make sure to show him some love and give him a watch as well as check out his patreon page at patreon.com/Backstep.

Inmate: Lenore - Shoe Size: 10
The wealthy and powerful have a way of forgetting that their servants are living, breathing human beings with thoughts and feelings and personal lives of their own. The people who clean clothes, muck out stables and cook and serve food often become automatons to those who employ or enslave them. That can lead to verbal, physical, or sexual abuse, leading to lives of quiet desperation or outright misery.

But sometimes, the anonymity of servitude can be emboldening.

Such was the case of the vampire Lenore, after her imprisonment by Isaac. Two things were obvious as far as those in service were concerned: First, that justice was not being served as long as she lived without sufficient punishment, and second, that she was going to escape that punishment because she was determined to take her own life sooner or later, whether her lover/lapdog Hector was in her life or not. While essentially powerless, those servants and slaves were determined to take action.

Rumors had circulated in quiet corners about the Giggle Farm for years, though most dismissed it as a bizarre fever dream in the midst of a blood-soaked nightmare. It was nearly impossible to believe that salvation could be found in some strange nexus of alternate timelines, but a few that toiled under Isaac’s thumb and seethed with fury whenever they spied the pale, copper-haired immortal were determined to try and discover it. And so they did, thanks to a dusty roll of parchment in a forgotten corner.

Upon entering, their pleas were heard by the council who asked for a complete account of what had happened in central Europe, which the servants were only too happy to give. Disturbed by their stories, they agreed to punish Lenore for her role in what had happened, deciding that her apparent change of heart meant that a handful of years would be sufficient rather than an indefinite incarceration. And though they had an ulterior motive in bringing in another villain to test their newest invention, they also resolved to mete out severe consequences for any other bloodsucker from that universe, so horrific was their impact upon that world.

Disappointed, though still a bit relieved that some semblance of justice could be had, the servants set about luring Lenore, via a lady in waiting, at sunset when Lenore prepared to greet the day properly. It went so smoothly that the vampire disappeared into a portal without a single yelp to be heard and was quickly incarcerated in a cell in bondage.

There they swiftly removed her boots and fitted her with a devious contraption called the ‘Silly Shoes.’ An updated version of the invention that had tormented an African woman from a different reality, the device locked Lenore’s big toes and heels in place and secured her bare feet so that they were virtually immoble. With the bottoms removed, one could clearly see the cause of the suffering that the prisoner was experiencing.

Small brushes moved across the entire device on both feet, and each brush delivered a single drop of lubrication after each pass. Three round brushes moved side by side in random patterns along each of Lenore’s pink heels; hard and worn at the start, the spinning brushes and oils turned them soft and pliable over time. A pair of brushes wormed between quaking toes on each foot, searching for the most sensitive, soft spots where no one in her long, long life had ever probed. A single brush worked over the pads of the toes as well, making sure to freshen up the delicate skin. But the worst were the four brushes on each helpless bare foot that spun along Lenore’s soles. They each moved along the balls of her feet and down along her arches and then sideways and back, always spinning, always leaving a smooth, slippery trail for the other brushes to follow. At various intervals it would speed up or slow down or stop entirely, all the better to cause the victim to wonder when the torture would begin again.

Lenore screamed in hysterics, begging for mercy that never came. Tears ran from her ruby colored eyes and she drooled with ticklish anguish as her bare feet, deep pink and shining with slick oil, were tormented by spinning discs that moved like dancers. Her breath came in ragged, strangled gasps and sweat covered her body as she was tormented by the mechanical monstrosity that wouldn’t stop except to tease her with the knowledge it would begin again. Her world became a red haze of crazed laughter, and yet it was only a taste of the suffering she and her comrades had perpetrated against the people of her country. Even then, she couldn’t comprehend how the Giggle Farm could be so cruel to her as she wailed in ticklish anguish, the machine causing Lenore to sink into herself in humiliated, sweaty convulsions.

But the servants could have told her if she was willing to listen.

Inmates: Striga & Morana - Shoe Size: 14 & 11
When half-frozen desperate gypsies had fled into his hamlet deep in the Pyrenees, east of Navarre, where they wouldn’t have otherwise dared venture, Father Pierre already feared that something had settled into the nearby mountain passes like an infected wound. He didn’t know all of the atrocities Morana and Striga had committed in central Europe, nor would he honestly have given it much thought if he had. All he knew was that the disjointed stories coming from the haunted, anguished faces in the pre-dawn light of his last day alive told of bloodsucking monsters who saw people as little more than sheep to be herded to slaughter.

Rome had warned him of the dangers of vampires some years before, as it had done for its churches across Europe, but it had always been a distant, remote threat, and of no consequence to a small town of several hundred on the keen edge of the French border. The sudden appearance of beasts that loomed in the shadows of the frigid peaks to the east caused Pierre to suspect that their small village was in the way of a march westward towards Pamplona to take advantage of the chaos of their civil war, which was indeed the case. Burdened by the responsibility of protecting his own people as well as the beleaguered city which housed the only bishop within two weeks’ journey, he threw himself into the task of digging through the meager archive in the church, looking for something, anything to turn back the threat. The sun trekked across the sky as he searched, promising widespread death if he failed.

As noon approached, to his surprise, he discovered a tiny scrap of paper rolled up in the town charter relaying an incident from a few decades after the first settlers came to the valley. It spoke of a troublemaker that had sought refuge there after being pursued by strange forces. They had come for her, but the people, rather than hiding the traveler, gave her up to be taken away to face justice. In thanks, instructions were left on how to call upon them in the town’s hour of need, and despite his misgivings, Pierre followed them, feeling he had no other choice.

The portal he summoned was meager, barely open wide enough for him to squeeze through, but it was enough. Upon his arrival, he was brought before the council of the Giggle Farm to plead his case. Though they would have welcomed a pair of new prisoners in any case, they knew more of what had transpired in Austria than Pierre ever would and agreed to take away and punish the women indefinitely. They instructed Pierre on making a portal that could save them, though as he listened, he knew that it would require a bold sacrifice and that time would be of the essence. He returned with a plan.

Ringing the church bell a few scant hours before sunset over and over, Pierre summoned most of the people to jam together into the miniscule town square, including the gypsies who had parked what remained of their caravan among the western hills. Standing upon a hastily assembled platform, he gave directions and asked for volunteers for a mission that few would survive, if any, including himself. Those who accepted were all elderly or sick, with little life left to give. Afterwards, he hastily prepared for their unwanted guests and spent what little leftover time there was to pray alone and to have a last glass of wine for courage.

At sundown, the vampires invaded the town from the west as a series of violent shadows, pouncing on anyone they could find to feed. Morana and Striga had let down their guard after so many years of wandering west across Europe, one principality or kingdom to another with little to no resistance to their forces when taking up mercenary commissions. They walked slowly into the town before it was secured, arm in arm in a romantic embrace, watching their forces swarm, listening to the occasional splintering of wood or aborted scream. They had a brief, if passionate, kiss as the stench of evisceration wafted over them and then continued to stroll together, kicking up dust until the familiar clack of bootheel on cobblestone began. It was only then, when they entered the town center where a lone unarmed priest in his finest cloak was kneeling in prayer, waiting for them, that they suspected something was amiss.

The haggard survivors were too few in number for a town of that size. They all stumbled on creaking legs towards Pierre in the center, the pursuing forces too hungry and preoccupied with their feed to realize they had been lured. Striga’s arrogance had momentarily blinded her, but she took her lover by the wrist and turned to run, realizing that a trap had been planned. Though she couldn’t have imagined the blood chattel grazing in their pathetic rickety wood buildings could stop them, she hadn’t lived so long by being so careless. Not until that moment. They were both caught at the edge of a yawning whirlpool that encompassed the town center just as the last of their forces entered, pouncing on the remaining townspeople, spilling their blood in a wave across the disappearing cobblestones.

Pierre smiled in triumph at the pair of ancient vampires who were screaming and clawing uselessly at the edge of the trap even though his throat had just been slashed. As he sank into the abyss, he looked up at the hundreds of his flock hiding in the western hills hiding along with the gypsies, all of whom had been spared by the sacrifice of a few dozen. As the blood soaked through his frock and his world crashed into darkness, his last thought was that he had been a good servant that would be rewarded in heaven.

Upon their arrival at the Giggle Farm, the council, who had been well-prepared for the group of visitors, had their guards dispatch most of the vampires straight away, ending their lives as swiftly, bloodily, and brutally as their targets had perpetrated against others for so many decades. But Morana and Striga were not so fortunate. Rather than put them in their own cells, it was decided to keep them together, side by side in their bonds so as to lend each other comfort and emotional strength, the reason being that it would take far longer for them to break.

Morana’s toes were tied back and a single delicate flower genetically engineered by the Giggle Farm was planted in a shallow dish of earth between her heels. Known as the “Footweed”, its soft tendrils extended upwards and probed the bare feet for moisture to nourish it. The plant found what it was looking for between the spasming toes causing her to burst into wails of helpless laughter. Rubbing the balls of her heels together to escape, she caused a bit more sweat for the plant to enjoy, and so it traced the contours of her soles looking for more. Each tendril traced the crinkles that Morana managed to form through what tiny movements her feet could make in their bondage and the flower’s head keened to and fro against the slightly rough heels, searching for sustenance.

They left Striga alone for a while so that she could listen to her lover’s screams of laughter and see tears bloom in her cobalt eyes, and wonder when her own feet would suffer a similar fate. Striga watched Morana’s mouth frozen open in wails, seeing more of her fangs trembling behind ruddy lips than she had witnessed in a century of bloodletting. Despite their comparative lack of use, the veins stuck out on Morana’s neck as she threw her head back, and Striga felt a mixture of tingles of both hunger and desire.

Striga’s horrified reverie was finally interrupted when they brought out the dhlzindri and explained what the strange, squirming little creature was before subjecting her to its machinations. A strange group of beings called the Chozo in an alternate reality in the multiverse had discovered and then selectively bred the one-eyed, multi-tentacled creatures when they were primarily a warrior race, long before they became observant peacekeepers. Their tough hides and physical abilities were so great that alternate methods had to be used to get captives to crack under pressure, and so the small monsters had been employed.

The once-proud vampire was reduced to begging to no avail as the dhlzindri was placed around her large feet, embracing them in its oppressive grip. Their tentacles were flexible and strong, and as they explored Striga’s writhing soles, her humiliation and despair fed the creatures, and they showed their pleasure with the excretion of a thin oil that added to the lubricity of the appendages. Striga’s toes flexed wildly until they were restrained and the sharp-toothed creature cooed and gunted happily at the woman’s torture. Her arches glistened with the slime of their pleasure, her reddening heels dripping with their satisfaction.

Striga’s pale lips split in hysterical laughter, her long hair whipping all around her as she struggled against the torment. Both women were now howling, their bare feet being stroked and brushed, their eyes dribbling tears as they suffered in a way that they had never contemplated as possible. Their chests burned with exertion despite being undead. As their endless laughter sounded around their cell, their arms were bound so that they couldn’t even hold one another for comfort or try and use their passion to distract from the maddening tickles. Their only respite was when their torturers rested from being fed.

When both vampires wailed into the darkness that they wished for death, it was the first time in centuries of life that they could truly understand what their victims had gone through, though their penance could never be enough to satisfy their crimes.