WARNING: SOME EXPLICITLY SEXUAL CONTENT AS WELL AS INTENSE, NON-CONSENTUAL THEMES
Tara had waited days to have the dorm room to herself and she was making full use of this time. Her eyes were shut tight and her face flushed as she bit her lip and ran two fingertips over her wet panties. She lay naked under the blanket that covered her from head to toe, or almost to toe. One foot poked out, pink nails on a darkly bronzed, slender foot wiggling over the edge of the mattress. She imagined herself lying bare on a bed for a princess, twirling her fingers around in her light blond pussy hair and teasing a slave boy with her eyes. She pictures naked slave boys all around her bed, all standing and aching with lust, not allowed to touch her or even themselves, pre-cum appearing on the heads…she lost her train of thought for a moment as footsteps came and went by her door outside, in the dorm hallway. She slid in and out of herself, her hips rising and falling. Tara imagined them all longingly staring at her hard nipples, her firm tummy, the wet fingers pumping in and out of her. She would permit one of them to stroke himself, let him go faster and faster, then order him to stop it before he could finish. The idea of being watched and of teasing drove her crazy. She traced a circle around her clitoris. Her muscles tightened.
Another noise interrupted. The door was unlocking. She took her hand away, tried to steady her hips from their thrusting, to pretend to be napping as Meg came into the room. She wondered if her shaking was visible under the covers.
Meg tiptoed past her to her desk. Both freshmen, they had met the first day of school and been rooming together since January. The prettiest freshmen girls in the dorm, they had immediately formed a bond. Tara, with her curly, short blond hair, blue eyes and map of freckles that went from her nose to her chest bone and Meg, of Korean descent with hair down to her shoulder blades, had none of the same classes but all the same hobbies. They went running together, went to the same parties, and had been planning spring break together.
Meg was reading a book. When she was sure she had steadied her breath, Tara peaked her face out from under the covers and tried to sound groggy. “What’s up?”
“I got the tickets. Dominican Republic, baby.”
“Puerto Plata, baby.”
It was Tara who had come across the Internet ad and convinced Megan they should take the deal to pay for the vacation. Tickets and a three star hotel room for a week if they'd spend a half day as models in some erotic videos. Kinky stuff but no full nudity or sex. They had gone through a long checklist, selecting what they would and wouldn't do and writing a comment next to each NO. Sucking lolipops and/or dildos. YES. Bondage (no pain, just tied up). YES. Public peeing. YES (Tara) and NO ("sick" wrote Megan). To being tickled, they both checked NO. "Hate it" wrote Tara, "can't deal" wrote Megan. To tickling others, they both agreed.
They'd sent it their answers along with some jpegs and got their work offer a day later.
“I think there’s some kind of gas getting in here. Sir?” The driver didn’t seem to be listening. She was going to tap on the glass but was too dizzy.
When she woke up, the driver was gone. They weren’t in a car. The girls were in a large, windowless room with concrete walls. It was undecorated except for a toilet in the corner and one full-length mirror in the wall. They had been stripped to their cotton underwear, hands tied behind their backs and were lying on cots. They both sat up slowly and got to their feet. “What the fuck?”
“Tara, we’ve been kidnapped.”
They started screaming for help and Megan tried kicking at the door. It was thick and metal. In reply to the thudding of her feet, it unlocked and the driver came in with two other men. They wore ski masks and let him do the speaking.
“Feeling well rested from your nap?” he smiled.
“Let us the fuck out of here!”
“Calm, darling. You’ll need your energy today.”
“People are looking for us right now, asshole.”
“Maybe. I doubt it. Anybody who knows about your trip expects you to be gone for a week. And if they look at all, they’ll be looking in the Dominican Republic.” He laughed. “Yes, you’re well rested after LONG nap.” He looked to his colleagues, who nodded in agreement. “And now you’re ours.”
Tara tried to run for the door but there was little point. One of the men grabbed her by the hair, turned her around and held onto her wrist to steady her. Megan began to sob.
“Oh, poor darlings. Don’t be afraid. Nobody here wants to hurt you. And our employer will probably choose to have you returned to the Dominican Republic when – well, if and when he’s satisfied with your work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“But you already know. You’re here to make movies. Let’s go,” he said to the other men. The girls were easily picked up and carried, kicking futilely, into a hallway. They were brought a short ways to another door and carried into what looked like a sadist’s dream.
Cameras on tripods stood in each corner of the room and hung from the ceiling. In the center of the room were two cushioned tables, each with what appeared to be wooden stockades at each end. There were also hooks in the ceiling and ropes dangling down. Against the walls were wooden storage chests. And women. Four black women, all in tight jeans and white tank tops, in wearing clown makeup but looking very serious, arms folded over their chests. Lastly, there were two chairs. The men put the girls down on their feet in front of the chairs and one of the clown women ordered them to sit by pointing. When Megan shook her head, the women took her and Tara by the necks and shoved them down into the seats. The men went behind them, quickly unlocking and redoing their cuffs to fix them to their places. One of the clowns was getting something from a chest. It was tape.
Tara tried to scream for help again but didn’t have a chance to shout much before she and her friend were reduced to muffled whimpers. The men walked out.
“You can yell all you like,” said the tallest of the women in an accent that didn’t seem Spanish. “Nobody come here to help. Nobody hear you.”
The girls could only watch and wonder as their female captors removed things from the chests. One woman held a bottle of sunscreen, though it seemed unlikely that they would be going to the beach any time soon. Another waved an electric toothbrush with a grin.
“We’re ready,” said the tallest and the door opened again. The masked men were back and carrying another, also most likely a student.
She was a slender but curvy redhead. Naked and with tears in her eyes, she was limp in her guard’s arms and begged softly in a Scottish accent. “Please. I’ll do what you want. Please, no more,”
She was put into the table and her ankles locked into the stocks. Her hands were not put into the similar holes above her head but merely cuffed under the small of her back, causing her to arch upward, ribs straining against a thin frame and tummy taut. Tara, from where she sat, could see her outie belly button rise and fall with short, frightened breaths. “Please. I can’t take it.”
The leader of the clowns leaned close to Megan and sighed into her ear. “What should we do? Hmmm?” The American girl trembled with fear. “Don’t worry, little baby. You only watch now. We play later.”
And then it began. All three of the black women went to the red-haired girl and started to run long fingernails along her body. Two of them stood on either side and stroked her from elbow to armpit to the side of her breast, going slowly up and down as she spasmed and thrashed. The leader stood by her feet, watching and tapping her fingertips on the wooden stocks. She sputtered and choked for air as they petted her arms, laughed hard when they went into her pits or scratched at her small, firm breasts.
Tara’s mind was spinning. They were going to be tickled against their will for the cameras. She wouldn’t be able to stand it. She hadn’t been held down and tickled since she was twelve years old but she was still afraid of it. She tried to say something but could only grunt into the tape.
“Shhh,” said the leading clown, looking into her eyes. “Just wait,”
The women at the victim’s sides were concentrating on the ribs now, poking her with fingertips and kneading her with knuckles. She screamed each time they went to the floating ribs and the girls could see her toes clench and flex as her face flew from side to side.
“Will you be good?” asked the leader.
“I –HAHAHA! I’ll BE GOOD! Please!”
They kept on assaulting her ribs.
“Will you kiss our feet. You will lick the toes?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Will you kiss these pretty girls? You kiss the pussies?”
“YES! AAWH! AHAHAHAHA! PLEASE, STOP!”
One of the women bent down and blew sloppy raspberries into her stomach. The girl bounced hard on the table.
“Poor baby. Laugh for us.”
She did exactly as instructed, laughing harder and harder as the women took turns blowing fart noises on her tummy, squeezing her ribs and pinching skinny, freckled thighs just above the knees.
The leader waved her hand and her subordinates stopped, allowing their prisoner to catch her breath. Glistening with sweat, she sobbed and gasped for air. She was still giggling. “Please,” she gulped. “No,”
The tools that had been displayed before were now handed to the leader, who poured shining suntan lotion onto the redhead’s feet and massaged it all over her soles and toes. “What about you, Megan?” the clown asked. “Where are you ticklish?”
Megan shook her head as the leader turned on the toothbrush and pressed it lightly into the redhead’s left heel. She went crazy, thrashing about in desperation as circles were traced on the ball of her foot, up to the center and back. Again and again, the pattern was repeated and the victim shrieked.
“Do you girls want to be porno stars? You want that men watch you? They watch this girl,” The tall, dark clown scraped her captive from heel to big toe. She danced the brush over every inch of the foot. The redhead was in tears. “Our boss watches and he likes it. He will like to watch you, Tara.” The redhead’s laughter was hoarse.
One of the other women went to the right foot and bent over to suck on her toes, one by one. It looked like the redhead would break her own limbs trying to rip free. She was hysterical. Finally, she coughed, burped and fainted. The tickling stopped. He victim was out cold, her ribs still undulating as she gasped unconsciously for air.
“Your turn,” said the leader to Tara.
The men in ski masks were back before long to carry the redhead away and to bring in a new victim, a heavy-set woman, Indian or Pakistan by her looks though her accent proved her to be American. She screamed for help as they tied her to the same device, this time putting both hands and feet into the stocks. "No! No!" she cried before a ballgag was put into her mouth and taped into place. She thrashed in a panic as the men left the room. Tara and Megan, as always, sat immobile in their chairs.
Tara, terrified as she was, couldn't help the itch that was building between her legs. Even now, the idea that people were paying to watch her sit in her bra and panties, paying to watch her reactions, frustrated her. She blushed and hoped nobody would notice how her nipples throbbed against her bra.
The tormentors lost no time. Two of them used their mouths on their new victim's toes, lightly chewing and biting them, licking the tips. She laughed and groaned into her gag as their saliva spread their red clown lipstick in streaks down her toes onto the pads of her feet. Tara watched fingernails rake the pale bottoms of her brown feet, watched her helplessly wiggle and twitch and laugh. It went on for what seemed like forever. Tara wondered who was watching all this, who had put this torture game together. She felt her labia puff and moisten as she imagined the eyes on all of them and she shuddered with fear when she imagined her own turn on the table.
The plump, dark woman at the center of the torture game was crying with laughter. The third black woman, who had been merely relaxing, removed her ballgag. "Say. Say please," she whispered.
"Please!" screamed the prisoner and burst out in gut-wrenching laughs. The licking and nippling went on. The third woman tweeked her nipples and tapped delicately along her collar bones. "AAaah! Ohohoho!" she cackled.
"Time for you?" the leader asked Megan, who frantically shook her head. "No? I give you a choice. You laugh. Or you make her laugh. Hmm?"
Megan shouted something into her tape gag and the woman who had been playing with the victim's chest went to her, pulling the tape away. "Let us go!" Megan cried.
"Beg to help us," said the leader.
"Stop!" cried Megan. The victim was going ballistic. The creaking of the unmoving stocks filled the room.
"You or her," said the clown.
The other woman was undoing Megan cuffs. Megan, several inches shorter than her and not nearly as muscled, was held by one ear and forced to stand. She winced as she was led to the tickle victim's torso.
Tara shut her eyes and tried to ignore the sounds. She struggled to think of something else while they ordered her friend to join them. Megan was whimpering as they told her repeatedly to tickle the other woman’s feet. “No,” she said, barely audible. The black women laughed at her. Tara heard her break out in laughter and heard Megan’s petite body flop to the floor. Eyes open or closed, it didn’t matter. Tara knew just what was happening and could not get her mind away. Megan was yanked to her feet, ordered to take part in the torture. She held still and was tickled until she wiggled and writhed her way to the ground, then was pulled upright for more. Finally, to the laughter of the torturers, the plump Indian began to scream again. Tara opened her eyes. Megan was running pink fingernails over the captive’s arches and she wasn’t making any half-assed effort. She was moving briskly if short, irregular strokes, varying her angles and pace, forcing the woman to mad fits.
“Kitchy kitchy,” purred one of the black women, her face close to Megan’s ear. “Get her good. Kitchy koo,” She made soft noises with her tongue and teeth to imitate the sounds of a gentle, wet caress. The victim sobbed and begged desperately for help between laughing bursts.
Another of the women bent over the torso and sucked a nipple. She counted ribs, pinching each one quickly and muttering something into the nipple before going further down. Tara could hear the victim’s buttocks slapping on the table. She jerked helplessly. “NOOOOhohohhoho! Ahahaaaahaaahaa!”
“Get her, Megan,” said the leader. “Or we put you on the table,”
The prisoner laughed on as Megan and her keepers tickle tortured. It seemed to Tara (and surely to the woman on the table) that it had been going on for hours) when there came the wet, squirting sound. Tara saw the fluid drip from the table. The woman was crying. The clowns laughed and began to untie her. She had wet herself.
“Enough for today,” said the leader. As soon as she said it, the masked men stormed into the room. The victim dociley went to them and followed them out to the hall, still sniffling when the door shutting behind her.
"And now," grinned the leader, looking Tara up and down, "Now you earn your holiday."
When she woek up, Tara found the minutes following those words to be a haze. Someone, she couldn’t recall who had held a cloth to her nose. She had tried to hold her breath, or maybe she had planned on trying. She was in a new room now, though one of the same clown women was there, along with others.
Tara was on her knees, upright, her feet behind her and hands up as if she were under arrest.
“Our boss calls this machine roller coaster,” whispered the clown leader, languishing over her rolled r’s. “Like carnival. So much fun, eh?”
Tara’s head was still clearing and, as she looked around, she noticed that they had stripped her and dressed her in something new. She was in a tight, spandex outfit. In a body-length mirror on the far wall, she saw that it was a Supergirl outfit. It even came with a facemask, though that part of the outfit was hanging loosely around her neck.
“Listen, please. This is a mistake.”
The women around her laughed. One was walking behind, to her back. Another approached her head on, wiggling a long feather at her and she stepped closer. The leader spoke shortly in a language Tara knew wasn’t Spanish to the mirror-wall. And then they began.
While the leader watched, hands on her hips, the others stroked wickedly at their prisoner’s soles and underarms. Tara thrashed, her hair slapping at her ears as she yanked her face from side to side. There was no getting away. She started with involuntary squeaks, high-pitched little squeals and soon was laughing hard. It was bad all over but the feet were the worst. Fingernails dragged mercilessly over her ankles, heels and instep. They unpredictably danced across every part of her feet while she bucked and screamed. The woman with the feather alternated between armpits and biceps for a bit before tugging down the top of the costume, exposing Tara’s breasts. She leaned forward and gently seized a nipple in her teeth. It wouldn’t be so bad if Tara’s helpless wiggling didn’t mean that she was twisting the nipple around in her torturer’s mouth. “Stop!” she begged. “DON’T!”
The woman laughed so hard that Tara felt saliva drip out of her mouth and down the blond’s breast.
The tickling didn’t stop. She bounced, shook and sobbed while fingernails continued the attack.
Tara’s nipples were jutting forward, as if trying to escape the scene, when the woman in front of her let go and walked away. The foot tickler was still at work and Tara cackled, wishing she could concentrate on the room enough to think of ways to get out. There was only one thing, really, in her head. Hands. Fingers. The touching drove every other thought away. Her sides were tired but she kept laughing.
The woman who had played with her nipple had a roll of tape now and was coming back to her.
“No, please. Wait!” No use. Her mouth was tape-gagged. Her laughter kept coming, muffled, through sealed lips.
“Tell us, Supergirl, does it tickle? Do you like the tickles?”
Tara shook her head violently and tried to yell for it to stop.
“You say it does not tickle? You lie, little liar. We punish you now.”
The victim’s cries became even louder when she felt the knuckled poke into her ribcage, kneading and pinching up her sides.
“I like your ass,” said the woman behind her and the hands left her feet. But Tara barely had time to suck in some air before she felt something that made her jump. Teeth nibbled at her left buttock. She clenched, arched forward the little bit that she could and shrieked. As the bum-chew went on, she laughed and struggled so much that the “roller coaster” rocked in place, its creaking echoing through the room.
“Kitchy koo,” giggled the leader. “Are you ready to tell us what we want?”
Tara frantically nodded yes. The leader let the buttock probing go on another few minutes, long minutes. Then she waved her hand and the torture stopped. Tara’s gag was torn off and everyone stepped away. She burst out in tears of exhaustion, gasping and shaking. “No more!”
“You want that we stop?”
“Yes, YES!” she hollered and then, more quietly through her tears, “Please quit it,”
“Tell us, Supergirl. Where is your boyfriend’s hideout?”
“What? I don’t – what do you want me to say?”
“Tell us where Superman lives. Where do you go to fuck Superman? Tell, or we tickle all night with kryptonite feathers.”
“Please. Just tell me what to say,”
“Pretend you don’t know? As you like,”
A fresh piece of tape was slapped over her mouth. Tara screamed, tried to tell them to wait, tried to say anything. The North Pole, New York, anything. It was too late. Fingers were back on her soles.
Tara had waited days to have the dorm room to herself and she was making full use of this time. Her eyes were shut tight and her face flushed as she bit her lip and ran two fingertips over her wet panties. She lay naked under the blanket that covered her from head to toe, or almost to toe. One foot poked out, pink nails on a darkly bronzed, slender foot wiggling over the edge of the mattress. She imagined herself lying bare on a bed for a princess, twirling her fingers around in her light blond pussy hair and teasing a slave boy with her eyes. She pictures naked slave boys all around her bed, all standing and aching with lust, not allowed to touch her or even themselves, pre-cum appearing on the heads…she lost her train of thought for a moment as footsteps came and went by her door outside, in the dorm hallway. She slid in and out of herself, her hips rising and falling. Tara imagined them all longingly staring at her hard nipples, her firm tummy, the wet fingers pumping in and out of her. She would permit one of them to stroke himself, let him go faster and faster, then order him to stop it before he could finish. The idea of being watched and of teasing drove her crazy. She traced a circle around her clitoris. Her muscles tightened.
Another noise interrupted. The door was unlocking. She took her hand away, tried to steady her hips from their thrusting, to pretend to be napping as Meg came into the room. She wondered if her shaking was visible under the covers.
Meg tiptoed past her to her desk. Both freshmen, they had met the first day of school and been rooming together since January. The prettiest freshmen girls in the dorm, they had immediately formed a bond. Tara, with her curly, short blond hair, blue eyes and map of freckles that went from her nose to her chest bone and Meg, of Korean descent with hair down to her shoulder blades, had none of the same classes but all the same hobbies. They went running together, went to the same parties, and had been planning spring break together.
Meg was reading a book. When she was sure she had steadied her breath, Tara peaked her face out from under the covers and tried to sound groggy. “What’s up?”
“I got the tickets. Dominican Republic, baby.”
“Puerto Plata, baby.”
It was Tara who had come across the Internet ad and convinced Megan they should take the deal to pay for the vacation. Tickets and a three star hotel room for a week if they'd spend a half day as models in some erotic videos. Kinky stuff but no full nudity or sex. They had gone through a long checklist, selecting what they would and wouldn't do and writing a comment next to each NO. Sucking lolipops and/or dildos. YES. Bondage (no pain, just tied up). YES. Public peeing. YES (Tara) and NO ("sick" wrote Megan). To being tickled, they both checked NO. "Hate it" wrote Tara, "can't deal" wrote Megan. To tickling others, they both agreed.
They'd sent it their answers along with some jpegs and got their work offer a day later.
“I think there’s some kind of gas getting in here. Sir?” The driver didn’t seem to be listening. She was going to tap on the glass but was too dizzy.
When she woke up, the driver was gone. They weren’t in a car. The girls were in a large, windowless room with concrete walls. It was undecorated except for a toilet in the corner and one full-length mirror in the wall. They had been stripped to their cotton underwear, hands tied behind their backs and were lying on cots. They both sat up slowly and got to their feet. “What the fuck?”
“Tara, we’ve been kidnapped.”
They started screaming for help and Megan tried kicking at the door. It was thick and metal. In reply to the thudding of her feet, it unlocked and the driver came in with two other men. They wore ski masks and let him do the speaking.
“Feeling well rested from your nap?” he smiled.
“Let us the fuck out of here!”
“Calm, darling. You’ll need your energy today.”
“People are looking for us right now, asshole.”
“Maybe. I doubt it. Anybody who knows about your trip expects you to be gone for a week. And if they look at all, they’ll be looking in the Dominican Republic.” He laughed. “Yes, you’re well rested after LONG nap.” He looked to his colleagues, who nodded in agreement. “And now you’re ours.”
Tara tried to run for the door but there was little point. One of the men grabbed her by the hair, turned her around and held onto her wrist to steady her. Megan began to sob.
“Oh, poor darlings. Don’t be afraid. Nobody here wants to hurt you. And our employer will probably choose to have you returned to the Dominican Republic when – well, if and when he’s satisfied with your work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“But you already know. You’re here to make movies. Let’s go,” he said to the other men. The girls were easily picked up and carried, kicking futilely, into a hallway. They were brought a short ways to another door and carried into what looked like a sadist’s dream.
Cameras on tripods stood in each corner of the room and hung from the ceiling. In the center of the room were two cushioned tables, each with what appeared to be wooden stockades at each end. There were also hooks in the ceiling and ropes dangling down. Against the walls were wooden storage chests. And women. Four black women, all in tight jeans and white tank tops, in wearing clown makeup but looking very serious, arms folded over their chests. Lastly, there were two chairs. The men put the girls down on their feet in front of the chairs and one of the clown women ordered them to sit by pointing. When Megan shook her head, the women took her and Tara by the necks and shoved them down into the seats. The men went behind them, quickly unlocking and redoing their cuffs to fix them to their places. One of the clowns was getting something from a chest. It was tape.
Tara tried to scream for help again but didn’t have a chance to shout much before she and her friend were reduced to muffled whimpers. The men walked out.
“You can yell all you like,” said the tallest of the women in an accent that didn’t seem Spanish. “Nobody come here to help. Nobody hear you.”
The girls could only watch and wonder as their female captors removed things from the chests. One woman held a bottle of sunscreen, though it seemed unlikely that they would be going to the beach any time soon. Another waved an electric toothbrush with a grin.
“We’re ready,” said the tallest and the door opened again. The masked men were back and carrying another, also most likely a student.
She was a slender but curvy redhead. Naked and with tears in her eyes, she was limp in her guard’s arms and begged softly in a Scottish accent. “Please. I’ll do what you want. Please, no more,”
She was put into the table and her ankles locked into the stocks. Her hands were not put into the similar holes above her head but merely cuffed under the small of her back, causing her to arch upward, ribs straining against a thin frame and tummy taut. Tara, from where she sat, could see her outie belly button rise and fall with short, frightened breaths. “Please. I can’t take it.”
The leader of the clowns leaned close to Megan and sighed into her ear. “What should we do? Hmmm?” The American girl trembled with fear. “Don’t worry, little baby. You only watch now. We play later.”
And then it began. All three of the black women went to the red-haired girl and started to run long fingernails along her body. Two of them stood on either side and stroked her from elbow to armpit to the side of her breast, going slowly up and down as she spasmed and thrashed. The leader stood by her feet, watching and tapping her fingertips on the wooden stocks. She sputtered and choked for air as they petted her arms, laughed hard when they went into her pits or scratched at her small, firm breasts.
Tara’s mind was spinning. They were going to be tickled against their will for the cameras. She wouldn’t be able to stand it. She hadn’t been held down and tickled since she was twelve years old but she was still afraid of it. She tried to say something but could only grunt into the tape.
“Shhh,” said the leading clown, looking into her eyes. “Just wait,”
The women at the victim’s sides were concentrating on the ribs now, poking her with fingertips and kneading her with knuckles. She screamed each time they went to the floating ribs and the girls could see her toes clench and flex as her face flew from side to side.
“Will you be good?” asked the leader.
“I –HAHAHA! I’ll BE GOOD! Please!”
They kept on assaulting her ribs.
“Will you kiss our feet. You will lick the toes?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Will you kiss these pretty girls? You kiss the pussies?”
“YES! AAWH! AHAHAHAHA! PLEASE, STOP!”
One of the women bent down and blew sloppy raspberries into her stomach. The girl bounced hard on the table.
“Poor baby. Laugh for us.”
She did exactly as instructed, laughing harder and harder as the women took turns blowing fart noises on her tummy, squeezing her ribs and pinching skinny, freckled thighs just above the knees.
The leader waved her hand and her subordinates stopped, allowing their prisoner to catch her breath. Glistening with sweat, she sobbed and gasped for air. She was still giggling. “Please,” she gulped. “No,”
The tools that had been displayed before were now handed to the leader, who poured shining suntan lotion onto the redhead’s feet and massaged it all over her soles and toes. “What about you, Megan?” the clown asked. “Where are you ticklish?”
Megan shook her head as the leader turned on the toothbrush and pressed it lightly into the redhead’s left heel. She went crazy, thrashing about in desperation as circles were traced on the ball of her foot, up to the center and back. Again and again, the pattern was repeated and the victim shrieked.
“Do you girls want to be porno stars? You want that men watch you? They watch this girl,” The tall, dark clown scraped her captive from heel to big toe. She danced the brush over every inch of the foot. The redhead was in tears. “Our boss watches and he likes it. He will like to watch you, Tara.” The redhead’s laughter was hoarse.
One of the other women went to the right foot and bent over to suck on her toes, one by one. It looked like the redhead would break her own limbs trying to rip free. She was hysterical. Finally, she coughed, burped and fainted. The tickling stopped. He victim was out cold, her ribs still undulating as she gasped unconsciously for air.
“Your turn,” said the leader to Tara.
The men in ski masks were back before long to carry the redhead away and to bring in a new victim, a heavy-set woman, Indian or Pakistan by her looks though her accent proved her to be American. She screamed for help as they tied her to the same device, this time putting both hands and feet into the stocks. "No! No!" she cried before a ballgag was put into her mouth and taped into place. She thrashed in a panic as the men left the room. Tara and Megan, as always, sat immobile in their chairs.
Tara, terrified as she was, couldn't help the itch that was building between her legs. Even now, the idea that people were paying to watch her sit in her bra and panties, paying to watch her reactions, frustrated her. She blushed and hoped nobody would notice how her nipples throbbed against her bra.
The tormentors lost no time. Two of them used their mouths on their new victim's toes, lightly chewing and biting them, licking the tips. She laughed and groaned into her gag as their saliva spread their red clown lipstick in streaks down her toes onto the pads of her feet. Tara watched fingernails rake the pale bottoms of her brown feet, watched her helplessly wiggle and twitch and laugh. It went on for what seemed like forever. Tara wondered who was watching all this, who had put this torture game together. She felt her labia puff and moisten as she imagined the eyes on all of them and she shuddered with fear when she imagined her own turn on the table.
The plump, dark woman at the center of the torture game was crying with laughter. The third black woman, who had been merely relaxing, removed her ballgag. "Say. Say please," she whispered.
"Please!" screamed the prisoner and burst out in gut-wrenching laughs. The licking and nippling went on. The third woman tweeked her nipples and tapped delicately along her collar bones. "AAaah! Ohohoho!" she cackled.
"Time for you?" the leader asked Megan, who frantically shook her head. "No? I give you a choice. You laugh. Or you make her laugh. Hmm?"
Megan shouted something into her tape gag and the woman who had been playing with the victim's chest went to her, pulling the tape away. "Let us go!" Megan cried.
"Beg to help us," said the leader.
"Stop!" cried Megan. The victim was going ballistic. The creaking of the unmoving stocks filled the room.
"You or her," said the clown.
The other woman was undoing Megan cuffs. Megan, several inches shorter than her and not nearly as muscled, was held by one ear and forced to stand. She winced as she was led to the tickle victim's torso.
Tara shut her eyes and tried to ignore the sounds. She struggled to think of something else while they ordered her friend to join them. Megan was whimpering as they told her repeatedly to tickle the other woman’s feet. “No,” she said, barely audible. The black women laughed at her. Tara heard her break out in laughter and heard Megan’s petite body flop to the floor. Eyes open or closed, it didn’t matter. Tara knew just what was happening and could not get her mind away. Megan was yanked to her feet, ordered to take part in the torture. She held still and was tickled until she wiggled and writhed her way to the ground, then was pulled upright for more. Finally, to the laughter of the torturers, the plump Indian began to scream again. Tara opened her eyes. Megan was running pink fingernails over the captive’s arches and she wasn’t making any half-assed effort. She was moving briskly if short, irregular strokes, varying her angles and pace, forcing the woman to mad fits.
“Kitchy kitchy,” purred one of the black women, her face close to Megan’s ear. “Get her good. Kitchy koo,” She made soft noises with her tongue and teeth to imitate the sounds of a gentle, wet caress. The victim sobbed and begged desperately for help between laughing bursts.
Another of the women bent over the torso and sucked a nipple. She counted ribs, pinching each one quickly and muttering something into the nipple before going further down. Tara could hear the victim’s buttocks slapping on the table. She jerked helplessly. “NOOOOhohohhoho! Ahahaaaahaaahaa!”
“Get her, Megan,” said the leader. “Or we put you on the table,”
The prisoner laughed on as Megan and her keepers tickle tortured. It seemed to Tara (and surely to the woman on the table) that it had been going on for hours) when there came the wet, squirting sound. Tara saw the fluid drip from the table. The woman was crying. The clowns laughed and began to untie her. She had wet herself.
“Enough for today,” said the leader. As soon as she said it, the masked men stormed into the room. The victim dociley went to them and followed them out to the hall, still sniffling when the door shutting behind her.
"And now," grinned the leader, looking Tara up and down, "Now you earn your holiday."
When she woek up, Tara found the minutes following those words to be a haze. Someone, she couldn’t recall who had held a cloth to her nose. She had tried to hold her breath, or maybe she had planned on trying. She was in a new room now, though one of the same clown women was there, along with others.
Tara was on her knees, upright, her feet behind her and hands up as if she were under arrest.
“Our boss calls this machine roller coaster,” whispered the clown leader, languishing over her rolled r’s. “Like carnival. So much fun, eh?”
Tara’s head was still clearing and, as she looked around, she noticed that they had stripped her and dressed her in something new. She was in a tight, spandex outfit. In a body-length mirror on the far wall, she saw that it was a Supergirl outfit. It even came with a facemask, though that part of the outfit was hanging loosely around her neck.
“Listen, please. This is a mistake.”
The women around her laughed. One was walking behind, to her back. Another approached her head on, wiggling a long feather at her and she stepped closer. The leader spoke shortly in a language Tara knew wasn’t Spanish to the mirror-wall. And then they began.
While the leader watched, hands on her hips, the others stroked wickedly at their prisoner’s soles and underarms. Tara thrashed, her hair slapping at her ears as she yanked her face from side to side. There was no getting away. She started with involuntary squeaks, high-pitched little squeals and soon was laughing hard. It was bad all over but the feet were the worst. Fingernails dragged mercilessly over her ankles, heels and instep. They unpredictably danced across every part of her feet while she bucked and screamed. The woman with the feather alternated between armpits and biceps for a bit before tugging down the top of the costume, exposing Tara’s breasts. She leaned forward and gently seized a nipple in her teeth. It wouldn’t be so bad if Tara’s helpless wiggling didn’t mean that she was twisting the nipple around in her torturer’s mouth. “Stop!” she begged. “DON’T!”
The woman laughed so hard that Tara felt saliva drip out of her mouth and down the blond’s breast.
The tickling didn’t stop. She bounced, shook and sobbed while fingernails continued the attack.
Tara’s nipples were jutting forward, as if trying to escape the scene, when the woman in front of her let go and walked away. The foot tickler was still at work and Tara cackled, wishing she could concentrate on the room enough to think of ways to get out. There was only one thing, really, in her head. Hands. Fingers. The touching drove every other thought away. Her sides were tired but she kept laughing.
The woman who had played with her nipple had a roll of tape now and was coming back to her.
“No, please. Wait!” No use. Her mouth was tape-gagged. Her laughter kept coming, muffled, through sealed lips.
“Tell us, Supergirl, does it tickle? Do you like the tickles?”
Tara shook her head violently and tried to yell for it to stop.
“You say it does not tickle? You lie, little liar. We punish you now.”
The victim’s cries became even louder when she felt the knuckled poke into her ribcage, kneading and pinching up her sides.
“I like your ass,” said the woman behind her and the hands left her feet. But Tara barely had time to suck in some air before she felt something that made her jump. Teeth nibbled at her left buttock. She clenched, arched forward the little bit that she could and shrieked. As the bum-chew went on, she laughed and struggled so much that the “roller coaster” rocked in place, its creaking echoing through the room.
“Kitchy koo,” giggled the leader. “Are you ready to tell us what we want?”
Tara frantically nodded yes. The leader let the buttock probing go on another few minutes, long minutes. Then she waved her hand and the torture stopped. Tara’s gag was torn off and everyone stepped away. She burst out in tears of exhaustion, gasping and shaking. “No more!”
“You want that we stop?”
“Yes, YES!” she hollered and then, more quietly through her tears, “Please quit it,”
“Tell us, Supergirl. Where is your boyfriend’s hideout?”
“What? I don’t – what do you want me to say?”
“Tell us where Superman lives. Where do you go to fuck Superman? Tell, or we tickle all night with kryptonite feathers.”
“Please. Just tell me what to say,”
“Pretend you don’t know? As you like,”
A fresh piece of tape was slapped over her mouth. Tara screamed, tried to tell them to wait, tried to say anything. The North Pole, New York, anything. It was too late. Fingers were back on her soles.
