The-Tickling-Master
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I do commissions. Please contact me at my deviantart profile: http://the-tickling-master.deviantart.com/
Up-and-coming Hollywood star and accomplished singer Becky G. heard the sounds of the steps down the corridor, and started crying.
It has been at least a week. She wasn’t really sure – In that place, with no sun, her time spent only resting and being tortured, time was a fleeting concept. All she knew is that she had been there for a long time, and her life had been nothing but hell.
There was more or less a routine established in that horrible dungeon, but even that was not set in stone. Since being captured, her life had been a cycle of undergoing tickling for some hours, being left to rest, then being fed, a little more rest, then tickling, then food and sleep. But not always – she had been awakened and immediately strapped to a torture instrument once. And, once, everyone vanished for so long that she was almost happy when they returned to torture her. She quickly regretted feeling like that after the session started, though. Food was usually pushed through a small passage in the lower end of the door. At start, she was defiantly, throwing the food away and screaming – but the Artist punished her and, after three hours, she was begging to be fed.
When left alone, all she could do was roam her little cell, empty of everything except her thoughts. It was almost as torturous as the tickling itself – but just almost. On the hands of the stunning red-headed femme fatale known as the Artist, she has known suffering in a way she never thought was possible. She had heard silly stories about tickling being used as punishment for the Chinese nobility in ancient times, and used to laugh at the notion. Tickling was playful, joyful, harmless!
She was not laughing anymore. Not when she could avoid it. She wondered if, after this ordeal was over, she would ever be able to laugh again. Behind this whole nightmare, was the man calling the shots – the carefree, pompous and sadistic man knows as the Boss, who was apparently both rich and influent in Hollywood, like an untouchable criminal mastermind. The man, from what she gathered, saw suffering, especially the suffering of beautiful women derived from tickling, to be some sort of art. Either that, or he was just a pervert. The point is – he loved watching, more than anything. It made her sick.
That doesn’t mean the Boss was completely against joining in his sick fun. Becky had been strapped to all sorts of bondage in the past days, and in one of them, there was one case in which there was an extra pair of handcuffs tied to the posts. While the Artists was torturing her, the Boss sneaked behind and captured her, tying her up as well, on top of Becky. The Artist had just chuckled and feigned resistance, and laughed when the Boss tickled her, a laugh that had a hint of sensual pleasure. Becky was not sure if that was genuine, of if it was an act she put up to better please her Boss. Nonetheless, the relationship was obviously quite old – they were partners in crime. Becky just didn’t know exactly how deep the Artist was into this game – if she was just selling her skill for what Becky was sure to be a gigantic sum of money, or if she, too, took some sort of deeper pleasure from all of this. She was cunning, manipulative, hard to figure out – especially because, well, Becky was cute, but not very bright.
There was only one session that was not as hard as the others – once again, the Boss pulled some sort of trick on the Artist, one she seemed to accept rather naturally, and had the Artist strapped to a standing X-Frame instead of Becky. Then, he handed Becky a feather, and ordered the roles to be reversed. Becky was quick to comply – one, because she was sure that resistance would only lead to more suffering, and two because she was not about to throw away her only chance at a modicum of revenge. She tickled the Artist furiously, but lacked technique. Still, the woman laughed a lot, and was especially ticklish on her armpits – which the Boss made Becky tickle with her hands, with the feather, and even with her tongue.
Becky was happy in her furious revenge when she was the one holding the feather – when the role was inevitably switched, the Artist made Becky scream so much that her throat stayed sore for days.
And, finally, another day was here, another torture session to slowly break her spirit, her mind and her will. The door opened, and in came the Twins, the two suited, muscular, tall thugs that handled her by force when she was defiant – which was only at the start. She had learned her place already. She was going to suffer anyways, but not fighting against it makes her suffer a tiny little bit less, and any reprieve she could get, she would embrace.
And thus, she walked obediently by their side as the two guided her through the corridors of that place. She tried, on the first days, running away in one of these moments of transit. She managed to outrun the twins, but she quickly got lost. It was almost a maze down there. She wondered how such a structure could exist in Hollywood’s underground without no one noticing – then again, the Boss would probably just bribe or eliminate anyone who could pose a threat.
She was guided until one of the tickling rooms. She looked around at the bondages and tickling instruments, wondering what would be used on her today, a devastated, hopeless look on her face. The Twins conducted her towards an vertical X-frame table. There was no need to strip her – she was already down to her undergarments, and never received new clothes. At least, and she was truly thankful for this, they never took it away either. She had, if nothing else, her dignity.
She also saw the cameras and other filming equipment, already set up. Filming was also a recurring occurrence. It was part of what the Boss called “Art” – that is, the tickling torture, and the suffering of Becky through it. She wondered if, after she was set free, if those would be used to blackmail her into staying silent about this whole thing. To be honest, it would not be needed – she would never risk pissing of the Boss and maybe ending up here again.
Finally, the Twins strapped her to the rack, smirking. They usually also helped out in the torture, but mostly being employed as helpers. They were not artists of torture, they were only an extra set of hands when needed. Still, they were good enough on that, and were awfully well-synchronized.
And then, she was locked. She was just thankful it wasn’t that infernal chair for the first time – the lack of mobility highlighted the torture so fucking much. Though she could see that this bondage would be quite uncomfortable – she was standing, her feet on the floor, and she was sure she would go tired quickly. Her ankles and wrists were locked to each extremity of the X, and, since she was so small, she ended up being stretched a bit, which limited her mobility. She was sure her arms would be hurting like hell soon. When someone thinks about tickling and tickle torture, one often overlooked aspect of the ordeal was how taxing it could be on one’s limbs. She learned this first-hand, and since she was always being tickled, her limbs haven’t really recovered properly, and she lived in constant aching.
Still, in a shitty situation, one must count one’s blessings. Becky was thankful for the simple bondage, that allowed her to struggle freely. She had learned the value of being allowed to vent her frustrations.
Finally, the Twins locked everything into place, and quietly left. She had to wait a few minutes alone, wondering what torments would be inflicted upon her today. The fact the Twins had left the room gave her a little hope – they usually stayed behind and took part in the torture. They weren’t nearly as skilled as the Artist, but they added another pair of hands to the torture, and sometimes that was devastating on its own. She would rather have both Twins tickle her than be under the clutches of the Artist, but having to deal only with the redheaded sadist was an improvement.
And, indeed, a few moments later, the Artist arrived – alone. Becky almost cried in relief – it was a simple blessing, yes, but her week had been nothing but bad news.
- What’s up, Becky? Sad to see me? – The Artist teased.
Becky decided it was better to not reveal her feelings. Instead, she asked something that was indeed puzzling her.
- Where’s the Boss?
- He’ll come. He wanted me to warm you up first though. Said today would be special. The Grand Finale. His Magnum Opus.
Becky didn’t dare to hope. And yet, the hope build inside her. Grand Finale? Was she going to be set free? She was in for the most hellish torture yet, apparently, but if it was the last one, she would take it with pleasure.
The Artist laughed at the smile the young actress could not contain.
- Oh Becky, you really should not be as happy as you are. – She said, walking towards the girl sensually. Even as a straight woman, Becky could not help but to feel the sexual prowess that woman exhaled. In another context, she might even be willing to experiment with new things…
But not on this context. She hated the woman with a passion for everything she made her suffer, even if Becky knew it was under the orders of someone else. And the delight the Artist took in her craft was also hateful when you were the subject of the “art”.
Finally, the Artist arrived upon her, and leaned forward, staring seductively at her.
- You know, Becky, you’re so goddamn cute. Your laughter is also stupidly adorable. I could really fall for you. I wish I could keep you forever… - She said, placing her sharp fingernails on Becky’s biceps, making her giggle already. – But that’s not on me, right? This is on you… - She said, slowly, painfully slowly, bringing her nails down toward Becky’s hollows. She shuddered, hissing through her teeth. The slow, methodical tickling was also awfully effective oh her, Becky learned. Probably the most torturous day of this week was when they strapped them to the tight chair again, and tickled her lightly for hours. It was so maddening that she had actually started to hallucinate, and they only stopped because the Boss wanted to preserve her.
The Artist then started to lightly but quickly wriggle her fingers into Becky’s armpits, working skillfully as someone playing an harp. The Artist was, indeed, a connoisseur of ticklish suffering. She knew how to scratch, how to prode, how to touch and how to tease. Becky was almost started to get an appreciation for her skill – she never thought one could be good or bad at tickling, but the Artist had proven how wrong she was, how blissfully ignorant she was. The redheaded mistress was on a whole new level of skill, one that most people would never dream to achieve. With her hands, she could make one agree to anything, confess any secret, plead for any bargain – Becky knew it firsthand, and has done all of the three over the course of this week. And she could do it all without leaving a single trace, a single mark, or at least nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days.
Then, the Artist started going lower. Becky howled when the torturer scratched that area between the armpits and the breats. The Artist was very aware of how sensitive that spot was – she had days to get to know Becky’s sensitive spots, and how to exploit them. That spot, for example, responded better to the softest touches, which she quickly employed, making Becky wriggle furiously in her bonds. And yet, the Artist’s hands always followed without moving away from the spot – this was another incredible skill of hers, almost as if she knew exactly in which direction the skin would try to flee, and would always anticipate the movement, making sure that, wherever the victim tried to flee, her fingernails would be there to welcome.
And those FREAKING fingernails! The Artist shared with her once that they were cultivated for tickling, and explained the physics of pointy, sharp nails. Becky didn’t care, she just knew it did tickle like hell. They were long too, the Artist’s actual fingers barely touching her during the tickle torture.
The redheaded torturer spent a few minutes taking delight in exploring Becky’s armpits and upper ribs, alternating between a slow, calculating pace, and a quick, furious one, every once in a while. Every change of pace seemed to come at the precisely worst moment possible, just a second before she would start to get used to the sensation. The changes were frustrating, making her scream.
- NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH – She screamed, but she did not beg. She stopped wasting time with begging after it became clear the Artist would never hear her pleas.
After a few more minutes, the Artist went lower again, sliding through her sides, making Becky buckle, but she did not stop there as the actress feared she would. Instead, she went lower, kneeling before Becky and tickling her thighs with deep, hard squeezes. Becky howled with laughter, but was actually relieved – she knew she would be in a much harder spot if the Artist started tickling her unbearably ticklish midsection.
Though Becky was sure she would. There would be enough time. For now, however, she just leaned back and suffered as her also incredibly sensitive legs were ravaged by the kneeling sexy redheaded. After squeezing a bit, the Artist started to scratch her legs, all around and especially behind her knees, which Becky had learned to be an unbearably ticklish spot – in fact, this whole week had been a hellish experience of self-learning. Her legs wriggled around and she really wish she could kick the Artist in her pretty, sexy face, but the bonds prevented it.
This kept going for a few more minutes, and just as Becky was starting to get out of breath, the Artist stopped. Becky leaned forward, unwilling to make the muscular effort necessary to remain standing, letting her bonds keep her in place. She panted, but not heavily. She could feel the Artist was not going all in. She was building time. It made Becky wonder what exactly was in store for her. After everything she went through this week, could the Artist really make it that much worse for her?
And, finally, as she rested, another figure entered the room – the Boss, Finally, was here, but alone. No Twins. He did bring a chair though, which he placed in a good position and sat down. The Artist turned to him and bowed gracefully, before grinning.
- So, Boss, did you think about my proposal? – She asked, making Becky look at her, puzzled. Wathever it was, she doubted it would end up well for her.
- Hohoho, you have a lot of balls to ask me this. Metaphorically speaking, of course – He said, smirking. – But very well, I accept. I will give you two hours. Not a minute more.
- It’s more than enough. This girl can give what you have always wanted, Boss. Ultimate, absolute despair. I can extract this from her. But I will not do it for cheap. – She said, standing her ground, but with a smirk. The Boss laughed.
- Very well. Here’s how it will go, both of you – He said, picking up an alarm clock and putting it on the floor. – The Artist claims she can break you in two hours, Becky. For the first time you will have a safeword: Red. If you say Red, the game is over, the tickling stops, and you lose. If you go two hours without yelling Red, you win. Easy, huh? – He said, brushing with his shoulders. – Here’s the catch, however. Becky, if you win, you are free! If you lose, you are not. And you will never be. You will be my slave forever.
Becky’s heart skipped a beat. If she lost that sadistic game, she would never get her life back. She would forever be doomed to be a tickle toy, a thing to be tortured. She could not bear this. She could not allow this. She would win. She had to.
- And for you, Artist… - He said, looking at her. – If you win, you get what you want. Double payment, for this and all works. – The woman smiled, satisfied. – If you, lose, however, you will take Becky’s place. – He said, and her smile died for only a minute. Just for a moment, Becky saw her as a human woman, vulnerable and afraid. However, she quickly regained her composure.
- Sure, wathever. I’m going to win anyways. – Becky knew she was afraid, and almost felt bad. On the one occasion the tables were turned, the actress could see that the Artist was deathly ticklish, maybe even more than Becky herself. However, Becky’s solidarity quickly died as she remembered everything this woman made her go through, and also the fact she wanted to sell her freedom permanently only to earn more money.
Two hours. One week ago, two hours of tickling sounded like an unbearable amount. Now, it was a daily routine. She was sure the Artist would come with everything at her, but she was also sure she could handle it. She had to – she could not become a permanent slave. She would rather die. No matter what the Artist had in store for her, it couldn’t break her determination.
The Artist asked for a minute, and left the room. When she came back, she carried a big suitcase, which immediately intimidated Becky. The actress had seen the kind of tools the Artist had, and they were not good for her sanity.
The Artist gave the Boss a signal, and the blond man started the clock, initiating the game. The Artist, however, did not attack immediately; instead, she calmly opened the suitcase, which opened itself into three toolsets. It was an intricate design that Becky had little time to appreciate, as the Artist rose with two things – one feather, and a strange bag. The Artist walked to Becky, opened the bag, and dipped the feather inside. As the feather came out, Becky realized the bag contained some sort of powder.
- Here’s how this will work, Becky. I will only tickle you with this feather until you beg me to use my fingers, okay?
The young actress looked at her, confused. Becky would never beg for such a thing. What did her torturer had in mind.
True to her word, the Artist started to slide the powdered feather down her armpits, up her ribs, around her waists, making Becky squirm lightly and giggle. And yet, it was almost as if the Artist was doing nothing – after everything Becky went through, one feather lazily working her body might as well be no tickling at all. She looked puzzled at the Artist the whole time, expecting her to pull some new trick, to tickle her with some wild new technique, anything. And yet, all the Artist did was continue to use the feather, and Becky, in turn, continued to slightly twitch in place and giggle occasionally.
After just a few minutes, the Artist stopped, stepping away and giving Becky a break. Becky’s confusion only grew. She twitched lightly in her bonds, uncomfortable. This was not typical at all, and the uncertainty of the situation was driving her over the edge. Was that the intention? She squirmed again, unconsciously. The Artists’ grin grew wider, and her eyes flashed with malice. Seriously, what was goingon? Becky twitched again, strongly this time.
Wait, why was she squirming so much?
Instinctively, she tried to scratch an itch on her sides – but, obviously, the bonds prevented it. But that itch was… strange. She hadn’t felt this before – numbness was common, even some itching, but not that kind. It felt like some mosquito had stung her.
And then, it grew. It grew and spread, small focuses of itching appearing all over her body. Under her arms, along her legs, on pretty much each rib. Itching, infernal itching, never-ending, always-growing itching.
The realization hit her like a brick. Itching powder.
Oh god, no.
The Artist’s grin grew even larger, almost toring her mouth, and she chuckled. The sadistic woman stepped forward, dipping the feather into the powder again.
- NO, NO! GET AWAY!! – Becky complained, instinctively struggling to flee. Things were already bad right now. They would get much worse if she feathered her again.
And yet, there was nothing the young actress could do to stop it. She watched, in powerless horror, as the Artist once again started to tickle her lightly with the feather. And this time, it was much worse – the light touch of the feather teased the itchy regions, but did nothing to relieve the sensation. It was maddening just by itself, being tickled with a feather in this state, and things only grew worse when the new batch of powder hit her skin, intensifying twofold the itching. Becky squirmed violently now, not because of the tickling, but because of the itch. She bounced up and down as she tried to, instinctively, bring her arms down and scratch her entire body.
Over these weeks, she had grown used to the tickling, and her body had given up the will to fight against it. She was not, however, used to fight this new sensation. And thus, the struggle came back, her body desperately trying to do something. This time, however, she didn’t want to flee the sensation – her struggle was inwards, rather than outwards. She wanted to curl into a ball and scratch away. The artist could even keep feathering her if she wanted, she just needed to scratch it. All of it. Now!
But she could not, and the Artist kept feathering her, occasionally dipping the feather in the powder to intensify the torment anew. Becky cried – something she had done every day this week, in or out of the torture sessions – in torment and frustration. Not even her buttocks were spared, a place that had been barely touched this week – the Artist seemed to appreciate tickling for tickling sake, instead of sexual tickling.
Her thoughts were once again broken by the touch of the infernal feather around and into her bellybutton.
- Plehehaaahse stop!! – She begged, amidst gigglings.
- What’s up, Becky? You’re feeling itchy? Feeling twirly-twitchy-itchy? – She teased, with baby-voice. – I told you in the start, I can stop the feather anytime! Just ask me and I’ll switch to my hands! I’ll use my sharp nails all over you~…
So that was the game. Make Becky beg for more tickling.
She would. Anything to stop the itching.
- Plehahase use your hands! Please!
- Come on, you can do better than that… - The Artist teased, feathering her armpits, making Becky squeal and scream.
- Pleahhahsseheheh tickle me, tickle me with your fingers, please!! Tickle me!
In his chair, the Boss straightened himself up. That begging was absolutely sublime, and her expression! This was quickly becoming one of his favorite sessions. He looked at the clock. 20 minutes. There was a lot of time to go yet… But she doubted Becky would break with just itching powder and finger-tickling. The Artist must have something else up her sleeve…
And, as Becky begged, the Artist provided, tickling her hard, scratching her with vigor, squeezing deep into her flesh. And yet, amongst the laughter, another sound emerged.
A moan. Not of sexual pleasure, but of relief – the hands did a much better job of relieving the itching. Becky’s eyes rolled almost into her skull as the Artist scratched her armpits. But if her eyes showed pleasure, her mouth screamed and laughed in torment.
The itching threw her off balance. The introduction of a new sensation had taken her focus out of the tickling – and now the tickling was back in full force, and she was starting to remind how horrible if was. She cackled with laughter, struggling violently, especially when the Artist’s fingers explored her midsection.
Blasted sadistic bitch! Becky could handle the finger-tickling. She knew she could. But now… She was not so sure. However, she made an effort to collect her thoughts back. She needed to focus on the endgame: Freedom. If she gave up, she would never go back to her life, and the tickling would never stop.
She could not say Red. But she could beg. It would at least provide some relief.
- STTOHOHOHOHOHOHOPPP!!!
And, to her surprise, the Artist did.
- Oh, had enough? You want the feather again? No problem, sweetie! Anything for you.
Becky screamed as she once again picked up the feather, applied the powder, and went to work.
This torture went on for a long time. Becky had no idea how much, but the Boss did – one entire hour. During all this time, the Artist went back and forth, using the feather until Becky begged for her to switch – and then going back to the harsher tickling with her hands, until Becky accidently or purposefully told her to stop. Anytime Becky used “stop”, “please” or anything of the like, the Artist would switch, no matter if it was accidental begging or Becky’s intention. It kept Becky on edge, and repeatedly frustrated the young actress.
Her hour-long ordeal was over abruptly, with the Artist stepping out with a worried face. She went behind Becky, leaving Becky’s field of vision, and dropped the act, grinning again.
- How much time left? – She asked, with fake worriment in the voice. With her hands, she gestured a “10” for the Boss. He chuckled, and joined the act.
- Only 10 minutes to go! The clock is ticking, Artist… Honestly I’m looking forward to torturing you. I’ll have the Twins work your armpits for a few hours. I’ll even let Becky join the fun again if she wants to.
Behind Becky, the Artist emitted a fake gasp and hurried forward to her suitcase.
- Very well. I’ll have to go hard then. I will not become the victim! – The performance was Oscar-worthy. Becky would normally be able to spot the acting – after all, acting was her life – but she was still recovering from the tickles.
Finally, the Artist approached again, with some strange devices Becky never say before. They were a small metallic rectangle, compact and strange. Becky looked at it, too weak to resist or complain, still twitching lightly from some residual itching powder. She was almost broken, but was filled with hope upon hearing she only had 10 minutes to endure.
She didn’t know what that strange apparatus was, but she would endure it. It was just ten minutes. 600 seconds. She started counting, trying to focus.
Meanwhile, the Artist used a strange gel to attach the metallic pads to her armpits, midsection and legs. 500 seconds to go. She could do this.
The Artist grabbed a controller, and pressed a button, the act dropped, her grin back.
Becky howled like never before.
The pads… It was hard to describe. They… Activated, she guessed? It was hard to describe and it was also hard to think – they were vibrating at an absurd, unimaginable, unbearable rate. It tickled like nothing she had ever felt. It felt as if her nerves themselves were being set on fire. She buckled back and forth in her bonds, screaming so hard her voice failed, laughing so hard her throat hurt.
She tried to focus on the count. 400? Or was it 450? 380? Oh god this tickles so much. But she had to endure. Just 10 minutes. If she lost, she would lose her freedom. She could not give up. She could not scream Red. She had to endure. She had to win. She needed her life back. Nothing could tickle that out of her.
Then, another click on the controller, and the pads on her legs activated too. She started dancing in place, trying to shake off the pads, wriggling violently left and right, struggling as someone who was being electrocuted. She wished she was. Pain was quick. No one could be stabbed or burned for 10 minutes or one hour or many many hours as she had been tickled this week.
And, above all else, no burn, cut, stab or shock would ever feel as utterly terrible as this.
- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! KKKYAYAYAYAYAHAHAHAHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!!
By now, she gave up counting. Maintaining her sanity was already hard enough. She needed something to retreat to. Some sort of mental fortress. Oh my god my armpits. Someone help me! This is unbearable!
And then, the pads on her midsection were activated.
The entire room was filled with a bone-chilling scream, the most primal sound of torment and agony a being could emit. The Boss rose from his chair, marveled, clapping at the presentation in front of him. And then…
- REHEHEHEHEEHEHDD!! RHEHEHEHEHEHDDD!! REEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEDDDDD!!!!
Becky screamed without thinking, and without realizing. Her body took control over her mind when a threshold was crossed. It refused to withstand torture any longer, and would do anything to stop it.
But it didn’t. The pads didn’t stop, leaving Becky as a crying, laughing, screaming, broken mess, convulsing dangerously in the X-fame. The shell of a woman, the perfect picture of despair, of suffering, of humiliation. The Artist stepped forward and pulled back Becky’s hair, forcing her to face The Boss. Then, the Artist whispered into her ear.
- You lost… And now you are all mine.
It was only then that the rational part of Becky’s mind realized what happened. The horror of the realization, coupled with the horror of the unbearable tickling still being inflicted upon her, created a scream of terror, of suffering, of sadness. She started weeping profoundly, and yet, she was forced to laugh. The dichotomy frustrated her. The fact she wasn’t allowed anything anymore, not even to cry and despair, destroyed her. She stayed there, a mixture of sadness and hilarity, all while struggling against her bonds, always trying to escape the horrible tickling of the pads.
The Boss applauded. That was everything he always wanted! A woman truly broken, truly hopeless, beyond despair, pushed beyond all her limits.
- Bravo, Bravo! You are worth every penny, Artist! Forget double – you get triple the payment!
The Artist bowed gracefully, and then walked seductively towards the Boss. She leaned on him, sexily, her hand sliding slowly down his chest.
- Oh my, thank you so much! Now… why don’t we go have some fun somewhere else? You seemed very excited at the prospect of tickling me…
The Boss grinned, and took her by the arm, the two leaving like lovers, in a bizarre mixture of professional and personal relationship.
And Becky was left behind, still trapped, still tickled with the horrible pads. She wanted to scream for mercy, for them to remember her and stop the torture, but she could not.
She would have a lot of time to think about the despair of her situation, before her sanity left completely, leaving behind a cute, hot, broken tickle toy. She would learn, over the years, to become fully obedient, completely mindless, stripped of herself. Who knows, she might even grow to enjoy it…
Up-and-coming Hollywood star and accomplished singer Becky G. heard the sounds of the steps down the corridor, and started crying.
It has been at least a week. She wasn’t really sure – In that place, with no sun, her time spent only resting and being tortured, time was a fleeting concept. All she knew is that she had been there for a long time, and her life had been nothing but hell.
There was more or less a routine established in that horrible dungeon, but even that was not set in stone. Since being captured, her life had been a cycle of undergoing tickling for some hours, being left to rest, then being fed, a little more rest, then tickling, then food and sleep. But not always – she had been awakened and immediately strapped to a torture instrument once. And, once, everyone vanished for so long that she was almost happy when they returned to torture her. She quickly regretted feeling like that after the session started, though. Food was usually pushed through a small passage in the lower end of the door. At start, she was defiantly, throwing the food away and screaming – but the Artist punished her and, after three hours, she was begging to be fed.
When left alone, all she could do was roam her little cell, empty of everything except her thoughts. It was almost as torturous as the tickling itself – but just almost. On the hands of the stunning red-headed femme fatale known as the Artist, she has known suffering in a way she never thought was possible. She had heard silly stories about tickling being used as punishment for the Chinese nobility in ancient times, and used to laugh at the notion. Tickling was playful, joyful, harmless!
She was not laughing anymore. Not when she could avoid it. She wondered if, after this ordeal was over, she would ever be able to laugh again. Behind this whole nightmare, was the man calling the shots – the carefree, pompous and sadistic man knows as the Boss, who was apparently both rich and influent in Hollywood, like an untouchable criminal mastermind. The man, from what she gathered, saw suffering, especially the suffering of beautiful women derived from tickling, to be some sort of art. Either that, or he was just a pervert. The point is – he loved watching, more than anything. It made her sick.
That doesn’t mean the Boss was completely against joining in his sick fun. Becky had been strapped to all sorts of bondage in the past days, and in one of them, there was one case in which there was an extra pair of handcuffs tied to the posts. While the Artists was torturing her, the Boss sneaked behind and captured her, tying her up as well, on top of Becky. The Artist had just chuckled and feigned resistance, and laughed when the Boss tickled her, a laugh that had a hint of sensual pleasure. Becky was not sure if that was genuine, of if it was an act she put up to better please her Boss. Nonetheless, the relationship was obviously quite old – they were partners in crime. Becky just didn’t know exactly how deep the Artist was into this game – if she was just selling her skill for what Becky was sure to be a gigantic sum of money, or if she, too, took some sort of deeper pleasure from all of this. She was cunning, manipulative, hard to figure out – especially because, well, Becky was cute, but not very bright.
There was only one session that was not as hard as the others – once again, the Boss pulled some sort of trick on the Artist, one she seemed to accept rather naturally, and had the Artist strapped to a standing X-Frame instead of Becky. Then, he handed Becky a feather, and ordered the roles to be reversed. Becky was quick to comply – one, because she was sure that resistance would only lead to more suffering, and two because she was not about to throw away her only chance at a modicum of revenge. She tickled the Artist furiously, but lacked technique. Still, the woman laughed a lot, and was especially ticklish on her armpits – which the Boss made Becky tickle with her hands, with the feather, and even with her tongue.
Becky was happy in her furious revenge when she was the one holding the feather – when the role was inevitably switched, the Artist made Becky scream so much that her throat stayed sore for days.
And, finally, another day was here, another torture session to slowly break her spirit, her mind and her will. The door opened, and in came the Twins, the two suited, muscular, tall thugs that handled her by force when she was defiant – which was only at the start. She had learned her place already. She was going to suffer anyways, but not fighting against it makes her suffer a tiny little bit less, and any reprieve she could get, she would embrace.
And thus, she walked obediently by their side as the two guided her through the corridors of that place. She tried, on the first days, running away in one of these moments of transit. She managed to outrun the twins, but she quickly got lost. It was almost a maze down there. She wondered how such a structure could exist in Hollywood’s underground without no one noticing – then again, the Boss would probably just bribe or eliminate anyone who could pose a threat.
She was guided until one of the tickling rooms. She looked around at the bondages and tickling instruments, wondering what would be used on her today, a devastated, hopeless look on her face. The Twins conducted her towards an vertical X-frame table. There was no need to strip her – she was already down to her undergarments, and never received new clothes. At least, and she was truly thankful for this, they never took it away either. She had, if nothing else, her dignity.
She also saw the cameras and other filming equipment, already set up. Filming was also a recurring occurrence. It was part of what the Boss called “Art” – that is, the tickling torture, and the suffering of Becky through it. She wondered if, after she was set free, if those would be used to blackmail her into staying silent about this whole thing. To be honest, it would not be needed – she would never risk pissing of the Boss and maybe ending up here again.
Finally, the Twins strapped her to the rack, smirking. They usually also helped out in the torture, but mostly being employed as helpers. They were not artists of torture, they were only an extra set of hands when needed. Still, they were good enough on that, and were awfully well-synchronized.
And then, she was locked. She was just thankful it wasn’t that infernal chair for the first time – the lack of mobility highlighted the torture so fucking much. Though she could see that this bondage would be quite uncomfortable – she was standing, her feet on the floor, and she was sure she would go tired quickly. Her ankles and wrists were locked to each extremity of the X, and, since she was so small, she ended up being stretched a bit, which limited her mobility. She was sure her arms would be hurting like hell soon. When someone thinks about tickling and tickle torture, one often overlooked aspect of the ordeal was how taxing it could be on one’s limbs. She learned this first-hand, and since she was always being tickled, her limbs haven’t really recovered properly, and she lived in constant aching.
Still, in a shitty situation, one must count one’s blessings. Becky was thankful for the simple bondage, that allowed her to struggle freely. She had learned the value of being allowed to vent her frustrations.
Finally, the Twins locked everything into place, and quietly left. She had to wait a few minutes alone, wondering what torments would be inflicted upon her today. The fact the Twins had left the room gave her a little hope – they usually stayed behind and took part in the torture. They weren’t nearly as skilled as the Artist, but they added another pair of hands to the torture, and sometimes that was devastating on its own. She would rather have both Twins tickle her than be under the clutches of the Artist, but having to deal only with the redheaded sadist was an improvement.
And, indeed, a few moments later, the Artist arrived – alone. Becky almost cried in relief – it was a simple blessing, yes, but her week had been nothing but bad news.
- What’s up, Becky? Sad to see me? – The Artist teased.
Becky decided it was better to not reveal her feelings. Instead, she asked something that was indeed puzzling her.
- Where’s the Boss?
- He’ll come. He wanted me to warm you up first though. Said today would be special. The Grand Finale. His Magnum Opus.
Becky didn’t dare to hope. And yet, the hope build inside her. Grand Finale? Was she going to be set free? She was in for the most hellish torture yet, apparently, but if it was the last one, she would take it with pleasure.
The Artist laughed at the smile the young actress could not contain.
- Oh Becky, you really should not be as happy as you are. – She said, walking towards the girl sensually. Even as a straight woman, Becky could not help but to feel the sexual prowess that woman exhaled. In another context, she might even be willing to experiment with new things…
But not on this context. She hated the woman with a passion for everything she made her suffer, even if Becky knew it was under the orders of someone else. And the delight the Artist took in her craft was also hateful when you were the subject of the “art”.
Finally, the Artist arrived upon her, and leaned forward, staring seductively at her.
- You know, Becky, you’re so goddamn cute. Your laughter is also stupidly adorable. I could really fall for you. I wish I could keep you forever… - She said, placing her sharp fingernails on Becky’s biceps, making her giggle already. – But that’s not on me, right? This is on you… - She said, slowly, painfully slowly, bringing her nails down toward Becky’s hollows. She shuddered, hissing through her teeth. The slow, methodical tickling was also awfully effective oh her, Becky learned. Probably the most torturous day of this week was when they strapped them to the tight chair again, and tickled her lightly for hours. It was so maddening that she had actually started to hallucinate, and they only stopped because the Boss wanted to preserve her.
The Artist then started to lightly but quickly wriggle her fingers into Becky’s armpits, working skillfully as someone playing an harp. The Artist was, indeed, a connoisseur of ticklish suffering. She knew how to scratch, how to prode, how to touch and how to tease. Becky was almost started to get an appreciation for her skill – she never thought one could be good or bad at tickling, but the Artist had proven how wrong she was, how blissfully ignorant she was. The redheaded mistress was on a whole new level of skill, one that most people would never dream to achieve. With her hands, she could make one agree to anything, confess any secret, plead for any bargain – Becky knew it firsthand, and has done all of the three over the course of this week. And she could do it all without leaving a single trace, a single mark, or at least nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days.
Then, the Artist started going lower. Becky howled when the torturer scratched that area between the armpits and the breats. The Artist was very aware of how sensitive that spot was – she had days to get to know Becky’s sensitive spots, and how to exploit them. That spot, for example, responded better to the softest touches, which she quickly employed, making Becky wriggle furiously in her bonds. And yet, the Artist’s hands always followed without moving away from the spot – this was another incredible skill of hers, almost as if she knew exactly in which direction the skin would try to flee, and would always anticipate the movement, making sure that, wherever the victim tried to flee, her fingernails would be there to welcome.
And those FREAKING fingernails! The Artist shared with her once that they were cultivated for tickling, and explained the physics of pointy, sharp nails. Becky didn’t care, she just knew it did tickle like hell. They were long too, the Artist’s actual fingers barely touching her during the tickle torture.
The redheaded torturer spent a few minutes taking delight in exploring Becky’s armpits and upper ribs, alternating between a slow, calculating pace, and a quick, furious one, every once in a while. Every change of pace seemed to come at the precisely worst moment possible, just a second before she would start to get used to the sensation. The changes were frustrating, making her scream.
- NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH – She screamed, but she did not beg. She stopped wasting time with begging after it became clear the Artist would never hear her pleas.
After a few more minutes, the Artist went lower again, sliding through her sides, making Becky buckle, but she did not stop there as the actress feared she would. Instead, she went lower, kneeling before Becky and tickling her thighs with deep, hard squeezes. Becky howled with laughter, but was actually relieved – she knew she would be in a much harder spot if the Artist started tickling her unbearably ticklish midsection.
Though Becky was sure she would. There would be enough time. For now, however, she just leaned back and suffered as her also incredibly sensitive legs were ravaged by the kneeling sexy redheaded. After squeezing a bit, the Artist started to scratch her legs, all around and especially behind her knees, which Becky had learned to be an unbearably ticklish spot – in fact, this whole week had been a hellish experience of self-learning. Her legs wriggled around and she really wish she could kick the Artist in her pretty, sexy face, but the bonds prevented it.
This kept going for a few more minutes, and just as Becky was starting to get out of breath, the Artist stopped. Becky leaned forward, unwilling to make the muscular effort necessary to remain standing, letting her bonds keep her in place. She panted, but not heavily. She could feel the Artist was not going all in. She was building time. It made Becky wonder what exactly was in store for her. After everything she went through this week, could the Artist really make it that much worse for her?
And, finally, as she rested, another figure entered the room – the Boss, Finally, was here, but alone. No Twins. He did bring a chair though, which he placed in a good position and sat down. The Artist turned to him and bowed gracefully, before grinning.
- So, Boss, did you think about my proposal? – She asked, making Becky look at her, puzzled. Wathever it was, she doubted it would end up well for her.
- Hohoho, you have a lot of balls to ask me this. Metaphorically speaking, of course – He said, smirking. – But very well, I accept. I will give you two hours. Not a minute more.
- It’s more than enough. This girl can give what you have always wanted, Boss. Ultimate, absolute despair. I can extract this from her. But I will not do it for cheap. – She said, standing her ground, but with a smirk. The Boss laughed.
- Very well. Here’s how it will go, both of you – He said, picking up an alarm clock and putting it on the floor. – The Artist claims she can break you in two hours, Becky. For the first time you will have a safeword: Red. If you say Red, the game is over, the tickling stops, and you lose. If you go two hours without yelling Red, you win. Easy, huh? – He said, brushing with his shoulders. – Here’s the catch, however. Becky, if you win, you are free! If you lose, you are not. And you will never be. You will be my slave forever.
Becky’s heart skipped a beat. If she lost that sadistic game, she would never get her life back. She would forever be doomed to be a tickle toy, a thing to be tortured. She could not bear this. She could not allow this. She would win. She had to.
- And for you, Artist… - He said, looking at her. – If you win, you get what you want. Double payment, for this and all works. – The woman smiled, satisfied. – If you, lose, however, you will take Becky’s place. – He said, and her smile died for only a minute. Just for a moment, Becky saw her as a human woman, vulnerable and afraid. However, she quickly regained her composure.
- Sure, wathever. I’m going to win anyways. – Becky knew she was afraid, and almost felt bad. On the one occasion the tables were turned, the actress could see that the Artist was deathly ticklish, maybe even more than Becky herself. However, Becky’s solidarity quickly died as she remembered everything this woman made her go through, and also the fact she wanted to sell her freedom permanently only to earn more money.
Two hours. One week ago, two hours of tickling sounded like an unbearable amount. Now, it was a daily routine. She was sure the Artist would come with everything at her, but she was also sure she could handle it. She had to – she could not become a permanent slave. She would rather die. No matter what the Artist had in store for her, it couldn’t break her determination.
The Artist asked for a minute, and left the room. When she came back, she carried a big suitcase, which immediately intimidated Becky. The actress had seen the kind of tools the Artist had, and they were not good for her sanity.
The Artist gave the Boss a signal, and the blond man started the clock, initiating the game. The Artist, however, did not attack immediately; instead, she calmly opened the suitcase, which opened itself into three toolsets. It was an intricate design that Becky had little time to appreciate, as the Artist rose with two things – one feather, and a strange bag. The Artist walked to Becky, opened the bag, and dipped the feather inside. As the feather came out, Becky realized the bag contained some sort of powder.
- Here’s how this will work, Becky. I will only tickle you with this feather until you beg me to use my fingers, okay?
The young actress looked at her, confused. Becky would never beg for such a thing. What did her torturer had in mind.
True to her word, the Artist started to slide the powdered feather down her armpits, up her ribs, around her waists, making Becky squirm lightly and giggle. And yet, it was almost as if the Artist was doing nothing – after everything Becky went through, one feather lazily working her body might as well be no tickling at all. She looked puzzled at the Artist the whole time, expecting her to pull some new trick, to tickle her with some wild new technique, anything. And yet, all the Artist did was continue to use the feather, and Becky, in turn, continued to slightly twitch in place and giggle occasionally.
After just a few minutes, the Artist stopped, stepping away and giving Becky a break. Becky’s confusion only grew. She twitched lightly in her bonds, uncomfortable. This was not typical at all, and the uncertainty of the situation was driving her over the edge. Was that the intention? She squirmed again, unconsciously. The Artists’ grin grew wider, and her eyes flashed with malice. Seriously, what was goingon? Becky twitched again, strongly this time.
Wait, why was she squirming so much?
Instinctively, she tried to scratch an itch on her sides – but, obviously, the bonds prevented it. But that itch was… strange. She hadn’t felt this before – numbness was common, even some itching, but not that kind. It felt like some mosquito had stung her.
And then, it grew. It grew and spread, small focuses of itching appearing all over her body. Under her arms, along her legs, on pretty much each rib. Itching, infernal itching, never-ending, always-growing itching.
The realization hit her like a brick. Itching powder.
Oh god, no.
The Artist’s grin grew even larger, almost toring her mouth, and she chuckled. The sadistic woman stepped forward, dipping the feather into the powder again.
- NO, NO! GET AWAY!! – Becky complained, instinctively struggling to flee. Things were already bad right now. They would get much worse if she feathered her again.
And yet, there was nothing the young actress could do to stop it. She watched, in powerless horror, as the Artist once again started to tickle her lightly with the feather. And this time, it was much worse – the light touch of the feather teased the itchy regions, but did nothing to relieve the sensation. It was maddening just by itself, being tickled with a feather in this state, and things only grew worse when the new batch of powder hit her skin, intensifying twofold the itching. Becky squirmed violently now, not because of the tickling, but because of the itch. She bounced up and down as she tried to, instinctively, bring her arms down and scratch her entire body.
Over these weeks, she had grown used to the tickling, and her body had given up the will to fight against it. She was not, however, used to fight this new sensation. And thus, the struggle came back, her body desperately trying to do something. This time, however, she didn’t want to flee the sensation – her struggle was inwards, rather than outwards. She wanted to curl into a ball and scratch away. The artist could even keep feathering her if she wanted, she just needed to scratch it. All of it. Now!
But she could not, and the Artist kept feathering her, occasionally dipping the feather in the powder to intensify the torment anew. Becky cried – something she had done every day this week, in or out of the torture sessions – in torment and frustration. Not even her buttocks were spared, a place that had been barely touched this week – the Artist seemed to appreciate tickling for tickling sake, instead of sexual tickling.
Her thoughts were once again broken by the touch of the infernal feather around and into her bellybutton.
- Plehehaaahse stop!! – She begged, amidst gigglings.
- What’s up, Becky? You’re feeling itchy? Feeling twirly-twitchy-itchy? – She teased, with baby-voice. – I told you in the start, I can stop the feather anytime! Just ask me and I’ll switch to my hands! I’ll use my sharp nails all over you~…
So that was the game. Make Becky beg for more tickling.
She would. Anything to stop the itching.
- Plehahase use your hands! Please!
- Come on, you can do better than that… - The Artist teased, feathering her armpits, making Becky squeal and scream.
- Pleahhahsseheheh tickle me, tickle me with your fingers, please!! Tickle me!
In his chair, the Boss straightened himself up. That begging was absolutely sublime, and her expression! This was quickly becoming one of his favorite sessions. He looked at the clock. 20 minutes. There was a lot of time to go yet… But she doubted Becky would break with just itching powder and finger-tickling. The Artist must have something else up her sleeve…
And, as Becky begged, the Artist provided, tickling her hard, scratching her with vigor, squeezing deep into her flesh. And yet, amongst the laughter, another sound emerged.
A moan. Not of sexual pleasure, but of relief – the hands did a much better job of relieving the itching. Becky’s eyes rolled almost into her skull as the Artist scratched her armpits. But if her eyes showed pleasure, her mouth screamed and laughed in torment.
The itching threw her off balance. The introduction of a new sensation had taken her focus out of the tickling – and now the tickling was back in full force, and she was starting to remind how horrible if was. She cackled with laughter, struggling violently, especially when the Artist’s fingers explored her midsection.
Blasted sadistic bitch! Becky could handle the finger-tickling. She knew she could. But now… She was not so sure. However, she made an effort to collect her thoughts back. She needed to focus on the endgame: Freedom. If she gave up, she would never go back to her life, and the tickling would never stop.
She could not say Red. But she could beg. It would at least provide some relief.
- STTOHOHOHOHOHOHOPPP!!!
And, to her surprise, the Artist did.
- Oh, had enough? You want the feather again? No problem, sweetie! Anything for you.
Becky screamed as she once again picked up the feather, applied the powder, and went to work.
This torture went on for a long time. Becky had no idea how much, but the Boss did – one entire hour. During all this time, the Artist went back and forth, using the feather until Becky begged for her to switch – and then going back to the harsher tickling with her hands, until Becky accidently or purposefully told her to stop. Anytime Becky used “stop”, “please” or anything of the like, the Artist would switch, no matter if it was accidental begging or Becky’s intention. It kept Becky on edge, and repeatedly frustrated the young actress.
Her hour-long ordeal was over abruptly, with the Artist stepping out with a worried face. She went behind Becky, leaving Becky’s field of vision, and dropped the act, grinning again.
- How much time left? – She asked, with fake worriment in the voice. With her hands, she gestured a “10” for the Boss. He chuckled, and joined the act.
- Only 10 minutes to go! The clock is ticking, Artist… Honestly I’m looking forward to torturing you. I’ll have the Twins work your armpits for a few hours. I’ll even let Becky join the fun again if she wants to.
Behind Becky, the Artist emitted a fake gasp and hurried forward to her suitcase.
- Very well. I’ll have to go hard then. I will not become the victim! – The performance was Oscar-worthy. Becky would normally be able to spot the acting – after all, acting was her life – but she was still recovering from the tickles.
Finally, the Artist approached again, with some strange devices Becky never say before. They were a small metallic rectangle, compact and strange. Becky looked at it, too weak to resist or complain, still twitching lightly from some residual itching powder. She was almost broken, but was filled with hope upon hearing she only had 10 minutes to endure.
She didn’t know what that strange apparatus was, but she would endure it. It was just ten minutes. 600 seconds. She started counting, trying to focus.
Meanwhile, the Artist used a strange gel to attach the metallic pads to her armpits, midsection and legs. 500 seconds to go. She could do this.
The Artist grabbed a controller, and pressed a button, the act dropped, her grin back.
Becky howled like never before.
The pads… It was hard to describe. They… Activated, she guessed? It was hard to describe and it was also hard to think – they were vibrating at an absurd, unimaginable, unbearable rate. It tickled like nothing she had ever felt. It felt as if her nerves themselves were being set on fire. She buckled back and forth in her bonds, screaming so hard her voice failed, laughing so hard her throat hurt.
She tried to focus on the count. 400? Or was it 450? 380? Oh god this tickles so much. But she had to endure. Just 10 minutes. If she lost, she would lose her freedom. She could not give up. She could not scream Red. She had to endure. She had to win. She needed her life back. Nothing could tickle that out of her.
Then, another click on the controller, and the pads on her legs activated too. She started dancing in place, trying to shake off the pads, wriggling violently left and right, struggling as someone who was being electrocuted. She wished she was. Pain was quick. No one could be stabbed or burned for 10 minutes or one hour or many many hours as she had been tickled this week.
And, above all else, no burn, cut, stab or shock would ever feel as utterly terrible as this.
- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! KKKYAYAYAYAYAHAHAHAHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!!
By now, she gave up counting. Maintaining her sanity was already hard enough. She needed something to retreat to. Some sort of mental fortress. Oh my god my armpits. Someone help me! This is unbearable!
And then, the pads on her midsection were activated.
The entire room was filled with a bone-chilling scream, the most primal sound of torment and agony a being could emit. The Boss rose from his chair, marveled, clapping at the presentation in front of him. And then…
- REHEHEHEHEEHEHDD!! RHEHEHEHEHEHDDD!! REEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEDDDDD!!!!
Becky screamed without thinking, and without realizing. Her body took control over her mind when a threshold was crossed. It refused to withstand torture any longer, and would do anything to stop it.
But it didn’t. The pads didn’t stop, leaving Becky as a crying, laughing, screaming, broken mess, convulsing dangerously in the X-fame. The shell of a woman, the perfect picture of despair, of suffering, of humiliation. The Artist stepped forward and pulled back Becky’s hair, forcing her to face The Boss. Then, the Artist whispered into her ear.
- You lost… And now you are all mine.
It was only then that the rational part of Becky’s mind realized what happened. The horror of the realization, coupled with the horror of the unbearable tickling still being inflicted upon her, created a scream of terror, of suffering, of sadness. She started weeping profoundly, and yet, she was forced to laugh. The dichotomy frustrated her. The fact she wasn’t allowed anything anymore, not even to cry and despair, destroyed her. She stayed there, a mixture of sadness and hilarity, all while struggling against her bonds, always trying to escape the horrible tickling of the pads.
The Boss applauded. That was everything he always wanted! A woman truly broken, truly hopeless, beyond despair, pushed beyond all her limits.
- Bravo, Bravo! You are worth every penny, Artist! Forget double – you get triple the payment!
The Artist bowed gracefully, and then walked seductively towards the Boss. She leaned on him, sexily, her hand sliding slowly down his chest.
- Oh my, thank you so much! Now… why don’t we go have some fun somewhere else? You seemed very excited at the prospect of tickling me…
The Boss grinned, and took her by the arm, the two leaving like lovers, in a bizarre mixture of professional and personal relationship.
And Becky was left behind, still trapped, still tickled with the horrible pads. She wanted to scream for mercy, for them to remember her and stop the torture, but she could not.
She would have a lot of time to think about the despair of her situation, before her sanity left completely, leaving behind a cute, hot, broken tickle toy. She would learn, over the years, to become fully obedient, completely mindless, stripped of herself. Who knows, she might even grow to enjoy it…
