Short 2nd Person sketch of an unorthodox State of the Art Wellness Center
Entering the lobby, you are approached by a bubbly young woman in a tight pink suit and skirt with matching heels.
"Good morning!" The girl chirps cheerfully, "Welcome to Laughing Hills, I am assistant director Rebecca Roper! Let's show you around the facility!"
The petite brunette turns and totters down the hall at a brisk pace, her hot pink uniform a stark contrast to the clinical sterility of the lobby and corridors. You can't help but notice the slightest hint of white lace garters peeking out from under her skirt as she walks.
"Here at Laughing Hills we combine old-fashioned, time-tested therapies, with state of the art technologies. Like the Stimupodia X1 here," Ms. Roper explains, motioning to a wide glass window in the hallway.
Inside you see a bright white room with a giant, lustrous metallic contraption in the center. It resembles some multi-armed, sci-fi automaton covered in esoteric knobs and dials and displays. Four of the largest arms hold a very tall and extremely fit woman spread-eagle and slowly rotate her through every conceivable angle as the multitudinous lesser appendages, each tipped with weird, vibrating rubber nodules, buzzing brushes, or spastically flicking feathers, dart over her naked body. A tight, glittering ultramarine hood with a bar-code on its front covers her head. It's obvious from her straining muscles and violent convulsions that she is extremely ticklish!
"We've found this machine to be of extreme therapeutic value. Our friend here is an olympic athlete, I can't say who, of course; as I'm sure has been explained to you, anonymity of our clientele is of the utmost importance."
You notice the sweat-soaked woman in the machine has been waxed smooth over the entirety of her body, and her well-tanned frame bears the tell-tale tan-lines of a competitive racerback swimsuit. Several spinning rubber nodules dance over her small, firm breasts, and while she appears to be throwing her head back and screaming in laughter, the glass seems to be sound-proof.
"This patient's coach sends several of her team here rather often. We believe it helps immensely to clear the athlete's mind of needless distraction and relieve tension before competitions," Rebecca says, smiling proudly.
A pair of brush-tipped arms begin mercilessly attacking the athlete's large feet, while a large oscillating wand slides between her legs, sending her into paroxysms of violent laughter. Her body seems wracked with confusion while her hips alternately pump and shudder.
"Sometimes, of course," says Ms. Roper, continuing down the corridor, "there's just no substitute for the human touch."
She thumbs a wall display and a panel opens revealing another wide picture window. In the room beyond, a naked man is stretched vertically onto a white, padded vinyl rack with thick white straps over his wrists, arms, torso, legs, and ankles, holding him tightly in place. Several electrodes dot his chest and a handful of wires spill out of the tight, glittering pink, bar-coded hood that covers his head.
Two "therapists" in skin-tight white bodysuits, one a tall young woman with high cheek-bones, a huge smile, and midnight-dark skin, rakes long pink nails lightly up and down the patient's exposed underarms, while the other, a full-figured blonde, stoically teases the man's throbbing erection with a vibrating wand while keeping an eye on a nearby monitor.
"This gentleman is one of the youngest and hottest managers in the nation's second largest investment firm. His monthly sessions help to clear his mind and the cutting-edge gratification delay therapy strengthens the patience he needs to acquire and retain difficult clients."
You notice a green bar on the monitor grows into yellow and then increasingly reddish bands while the man thrusts feebly toward the therapist's wand. But she quickly pulls it away and begins instead attacking the soles of his feet with her well-manicured, glossy fingernails. The bar slowly recedes back to the yellow and green bands while the man convulses violently, shaking his head from side to side in the apparent throes of ticklish delirium. The other therapist turns her attention to the man's ribs and nipples.
"This can go on for anywhere from 90 to 120 minutes," Rebecca explains. "Safety, of course, is a big concern with these more extreme therapies, so we keep several emergency medical technicians on-call. We haven't lost a single client yet," Ms. Roper says with a wink, and continues down the hall.
"And we maintain the very highest standards concerning our on-site therapists, nurses, and technicians," she says, leading you through a door into a room filled with screaming laughter.
Inside a young woman dotted freckles and wearing chin-length red hair is nude, bound face-down to a sort-of massage table. Three thick leather straps pinion her wrists out above her head, bind her waist, and anchor her ankles. A dark-haired older woman methodically tickles the restrained girl's sides and underarms with a look of satisfaction.
The red head screams and bucks and laughs and Rebecca Roper is forced to shout over her.
"This new hire neglected to lock up one of the residence wings and we very narrowly averted a very serious security breach."
"Ha ha ha ha, please! Ms. Ro-rowah ha ha, Roper!" The restrained red head pleads between bursts of uncontrolled laughter, "I'maha ha ha ha! I"m s-s-ha ha ha, s-sorry! It won't ha-ha ha ha ha, ha-happen again! Ahhhhhh, ha ha ha!"
"I'm certain it won't, Ms. Waite!" Replied Rebecca Roper with a smile. The dark-haired tickler moved down the woman's convulsing body, digging her nails teasingly into the creases of her violently jiggling, bright white butt cheeks.
"Our methodologies can be easily adapted to therapies and conditioning exercises, as you can see," said Rebecca Roper. "We've found three hours to be the ideal conditioning duration to discourage future infractions for first strikes. The conditioning for employees accruing a second strike is far more ... involved. And I'm happy to say, in my six years with the facility, I've yet to see any of our personnel get three strikes."
The dark-haired woman relented a moment and retrieved a bottle from below the table, drizzling its contents, a thick shimmering liquid, onto the panting Ms. Waite's helpless feet.
"No, please! Not my feet! No more on my feet, I'll lose my mind! Please! Anywhere else!" Ms. Waite bucked and shouted, as the liquid coated her soles.
Continuing with her duty, the dark-haired woman attacked the girl's soles feverishly, sending her into shrieks of squealing laughter.
Rebecca Roper looked on proudly for a moment, before continuing through a door on the opposite side of the room.
"And this is the west residence wing," explained Ms. Roper, opening a door on a long corridor dotted with stark, white cells. "As you have seen, we take our work very seriously here and I can say with total confidence that this is the premier, state-of-the-art sense therapy facility in the nation. Your benefactor's must care for your health and well-being a great deal; our world-renowned, open-ended in-patient treatment is not an inexpensive package."
"And this will be your room," Rebecca says, opening a door into a small, immaculately white cell with a horizontal, white vinyl bed, and a single, circular window. The stout orderly wheels the hand-truck onto which your naked body has been strapped into the room where a smiling blonde in a white therapist's uniform is waiting near the bed with a glittering teal hood in her hands.
"Tsk, there's no need to make a fuss," chides Rebecca Roper, "you're going to have an amazing and healthful stay! Ms. Bloom will outfit you with your hood and give you a quick 20 minute relaxation session and then we'll continue the tour before your group plein air therapy begins in the courtyard."
Ms. Roper concludes with a smile and leaves your room as the orderly straps you, spread-eagle, to the cold vinyl bed. The smiling blond therapist slides the tight hood over your head, slightly muffling your desperate pleading and bargaining that you know will do you no good.
The room is eerily silent for a moment, until you feel the fingernails on the soles of your feet ...
Entering the lobby, you are approached by a bubbly young woman in a tight pink suit and skirt with matching heels.
"Good morning!" The girl chirps cheerfully, "Welcome to Laughing Hills, I am assistant director Rebecca Roper! Let's show you around the facility!"
The petite brunette turns and totters down the hall at a brisk pace, her hot pink uniform a stark contrast to the clinical sterility of the lobby and corridors. You can't help but notice the slightest hint of white lace garters peeking out from under her skirt as she walks.
"Here at Laughing Hills we combine old-fashioned, time-tested therapies, with state of the art technologies. Like the Stimupodia X1 here," Ms. Roper explains, motioning to a wide glass window in the hallway.
Inside you see a bright white room with a giant, lustrous metallic contraption in the center. It resembles some multi-armed, sci-fi automaton covered in esoteric knobs and dials and displays. Four of the largest arms hold a very tall and extremely fit woman spread-eagle and slowly rotate her through every conceivable angle as the multitudinous lesser appendages, each tipped with weird, vibrating rubber nodules, buzzing brushes, or spastically flicking feathers, dart over her naked body. A tight, glittering ultramarine hood with a bar-code on its front covers her head. It's obvious from her straining muscles and violent convulsions that she is extremely ticklish!
"We've found this machine to be of extreme therapeutic value. Our friend here is an olympic athlete, I can't say who, of course; as I'm sure has been explained to you, anonymity of our clientele is of the utmost importance."
You notice the sweat-soaked woman in the machine has been waxed smooth over the entirety of her body, and her well-tanned frame bears the tell-tale tan-lines of a competitive racerback swimsuit. Several spinning rubber nodules dance over her small, firm breasts, and while she appears to be throwing her head back and screaming in laughter, the glass seems to be sound-proof.
"This patient's coach sends several of her team here rather often. We believe it helps immensely to clear the athlete's mind of needless distraction and relieve tension before competitions," Rebecca says, smiling proudly.
A pair of brush-tipped arms begin mercilessly attacking the athlete's large feet, while a large oscillating wand slides between her legs, sending her into paroxysms of violent laughter. Her body seems wracked with confusion while her hips alternately pump and shudder.
"Sometimes, of course," says Ms. Roper, continuing down the corridor, "there's just no substitute for the human touch."
She thumbs a wall display and a panel opens revealing another wide picture window. In the room beyond, a naked man is stretched vertically onto a white, padded vinyl rack with thick white straps over his wrists, arms, torso, legs, and ankles, holding him tightly in place. Several electrodes dot his chest and a handful of wires spill out of the tight, glittering pink, bar-coded hood that covers his head.
Two "therapists" in skin-tight white bodysuits, one a tall young woman with high cheek-bones, a huge smile, and midnight-dark skin, rakes long pink nails lightly up and down the patient's exposed underarms, while the other, a full-figured blonde, stoically teases the man's throbbing erection with a vibrating wand while keeping an eye on a nearby monitor.
"This gentleman is one of the youngest and hottest managers in the nation's second largest investment firm. His monthly sessions help to clear his mind and the cutting-edge gratification delay therapy strengthens the patience he needs to acquire and retain difficult clients."
You notice a green bar on the monitor grows into yellow and then increasingly reddish bands while the man thrusts feebly toward the therapist's wand. But she quickly pulls it away and begins instead attacking the soles of his feet with her well-manicured, glossy fingernails. The bar slowly recedes back to the yellow and green bands while the man convulses violently, shaking his head from side to side in the apparent throes of ticklish delirium. The other therapist turns her attention to the man's ribs and nipples.
"This can go on for anywhere from 90 to 120 minutes," Rebecca explains. "Safety, of course, is a big concern with these more extreme therapies, so we keep several emergency medical technicians on-call. We haven't lost a single client yet," Ms. Roper says with a wink, and continues down the hall.
"And we maintain the very highest standards concerning our on-site therapists, nurses, and technicians," she says, leading you through a door into a room filled with screaming laughter.
Inside a young woman dotted freckles and wearing chin-length red hair is nude, bound face-down to a sort-of massage table. Three thick leather straps pinion her wrists out above her head, bind her waist, and anchor her ankles. A dark-haired older woman methodically tickles the restrained girl's sides and underarms with a look of satisfaction.
The red head screams and bucks and laughs and Rebecca Roper is forced to shout over her.
"This new hire neglected to lock up one of the residence wings and we very narrowly averted a very serious security breach."
"Ha ha ha ha, please! Ms. Ro-rowah ha ha, Roper!" The restrained red head pleads between bursts of uncontrolled laughter, "I'maha ha ha ha! I"m s-s-ha ha ha, s-sorry! It won't ha-ha ha ha ha, ha-happen again! Ahhhhhh, ha ha ha!"
"I'm certain it won't, Ms. Waite!" Replied Rebecca Roper with a smile. The dark-haired tickler moved down the woman's convulsing body, digging her nails teasingly into the creases of her violently jiggling, bright white butt cheeks.
"Our methodologies can be easily adapted to therapies and conditioning exercises, as you can see," said Rebecca Roper. "We've found three hours to be the ideal conditioning duration to discourage future infractions for first strikes. The conditioning for employees accruing a second strike is far more ... involved. And I'm happy to say, in my six years with the facility, I've yet to see any of our personnel get three strikes."
The dark-haired woman relented a moment and retrieved a bottle from below the table, drizzling its contents, a thick shimmering liquid, onto the panting Ms. Waite's helpless feet.
"No, please! Not my feet! No more on my feet, I'll lose my mind! Please! Anywhere else!" Ms. Waite bucked and shouted, as the liquid coated her soles.
Continuing with her duty, the dark-haired woman attacked the girl's soles feverishly, sending her into shrieks of squealing laughter.
Rebecca Roper looked on proudly for a moment, before continuing through a door on the opposite side of the room.
"And this is the west residence wing," explained Ms. Roper, opening a door on a long corridor dotted with stark, white cells. "As you have seen, we take our work very seriously here and I can say with total confidence that this is the premier, state-of-the-art sense therapy facility in the nation. Your benefactor's must care for your health and well-being a great deal; our world-renowned, open-ended in-patient treatment is not an inexpensive package."
"And this will be your room," Rebecca says, opening a door into a small, immaculately white cell with a horizontal, white vinyl bed, and a single, circular window. The stout orderly wheels the hand-truck onto which your naked body has been strapped into the room where a smiling blonde in a white therapist's uniform is waiting near the bed with a glittering teal hood in her hands.
"Tsk, there's no need to make a fuss," chides Rebecca Roper, "you're going to have an amazing and healthful stay! Ms. Bloom will outfit you with your hood and give you a quick 20 minute relaxation session and then we'll continue the tour before your group plein air therapy begins in the courtyard."
Ms. Roper concludes with a smile and leaves your room as the orderly straps you, spread-eagle, to the cold vinyl bed. The smiling blond therapist slides the tight hood over your head, slightly muffling your desperate pleading and bargaining that you know will do you no good.
The room is eerily silent for a moment, until you feel the fingernails on the soles of your feet ...
