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Message in a Bottle (Part 1?)

PianoTickler2

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Apr 24, 2018
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[[[I haven't written a story in a long time, tickling-related or otherwise. I got off work today with a general idea in my head and thought I'd actually sit down and start it. I'm usually a lurker, so if anyone has the urge to write the next part, please go ahead. It'll probably be a while before I get back to this. Thanks for reading.]]]

Hello. My name is Taylor Robinson. My friends here call me Bins. They censor most outgoing communication here, but there are small cracks; if you find my little message in a bottle here on this forum, please, we need help.
To avoid any personal bias, I’m going to tell this story as objectively as I can, with as many details as I can remember. This is the story of my day yesterday. But it starts about a month ago with a conversation I overheard between Counselor Poretella and someone whose voice I didn’t recognize.

Poretella: “Think of it like organic electroshock therapy.”
Voice: “Why the hell would EST be better?”
The unknown voice was male. There aren’t many of them here.
Poretella: “It’s not. Not from external sources. But our studies show that the excess of electricity the brain generates on it’s own can be very beneficial to the overall well being of those in need of treatment. Without overloading the system, so to speak. Not to mention all the studies that show the benefits of laught-”
Voice: “And what about ‘all the studies’ that show how high stress negatively effects mental health?”
Poretella: “Our control group is doing very well so far, as we expected. It will take longer for the other groups to show signs of progress, but this was also expected. Our study isn’t complete yet.”
Voice: “You dodged my question.”
Poretella: “The brain is a powerful force, sir. You and I both know that with time, anything can become normal.”

That was as long as I was willing to eavesdrop. I didn’t stay longer or tell anyone or do anything, fearing repercussions, but I wrote down everything I could remember and hid the paper in a hole near the foot of my mattress. It’s not much, but it’s where this all started. It's when I learned I was part of the control group.

“FUCK!”
The first thing I hear every morning.
It’s my roommate, Torch. Ha. Roommate. She’s my cellmate, Rebecca Wood. She’s in her early twenties, I think; a slight build, about 5’8”. When she got here, she had purple hair, but it now forms a line around her temples where her natural brunette roots have been growing in. She always hears the whirring before I do.
The whirring sound comes from 176 spinning brushes that lower from the ceiling over each of our beds. Eight by Twenty-two. They aren’t covered at night. I’ve spent many lying awake, studying each one, looking for a weakness. I’ve given up on that, but I do have a strategy. If you push one of the brushes up, it slowly lowers again, but if you push a lot of them up, you have enough time to reorient to cover as much of yourself as you can. Not everyone has the wherewithal for this strategy.
“NO! NO! NononononohohohohahahahaHAHAHAHAHAAAA!”
My room- cellmate’s body gets hit with the wall of brushes at the same time I am. I too, struggle with the wall of sensation that hits me before I am even really awake. It’s unfortunate that I can only sleep on my back.
Spinning bristles like this feel like millions of tiny fingers, with just enough randomness that you can never desensitize, and a maddening level of consistency throughout your entire body. I mean it, everywhere that can be reached from above. My sides, stomach, thighs, breasts, nipples, pits, arms, hands, clit, ankles, my fucking shins, the tops of my toes – I involuntarily throw my head back in laughter, and the spinning brush previously focused on fruitlessly trying to attack my eyeballs lowers itself onto my neck. Everywhere in my body is begging me to make it stop, and doing its best at flailing away with or without my permission.
Torch’s laughter usually reaches a peak around this point. We’re now fully awake and fully aware of every. single. tiny bristle finding it’s way in to every vulnerable place.
“HAHAHAhahaBIHIHIHIHINNS!” And she coughs, briefly interrupting her cries. “HEEHEEHEEHEEHEHELP MEHEEHEEHEE!”
She’s beyond help now.
It’s difficult to think clearly through this kind of assault, but it’s almost muscle memory for me now. I muster up all the strength I can and use my outstretched limbs to push my torso up. I can’t stress enough how hard it is to will yourself to go towards the source of your own torture. The added pressure makes it all the more horrible, and I squeal loudly every time as I leave my underarms exposed to thrust my stomach, sides, and hips deeper into the problem.
But the bristles retract as far as I’ve pushed, and as they lower again I flip myself onto my stomach. As the bristles reach my back, rear, calves, and bottoms of my feet, I am almost soothed by the routine. Step one complete. I explode into another round of laughter despite myself.
“PLEAHEEHEEHEHEEHEASE! PleasepleaseplHEEHEEHEEHEASE STOP! JUST FUCKING STOP! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO! I’M AWAYHAYHAYHAYKE! I’m-” She lets out a piercing scream. “HAHAHAHAHA I’m- HAHAHANOOOO I’M FUCKING AWAKE!”
She’s no longer talking to me, but she still makes it hard to focus.
Now I push my back up as far as I can to make a small amount of space. Enough to act. I bring my knees up to my breasts and lie on them, and my arms can now reach and cover my exposed feet. The bristles return to my back, neck, ass, and arms, but my worst spots are now protected, for the most part. Now all I have to do is ride it out and try not to piss myself laughing.
“Ahahahahahahaha,” Torch gasps, then dissolves into helpless, silent cackles.
My laughter is more or less constant. I try my best not to move, not to react, but every once in a while a brush finds its way between my fingers onto my feet or works its way too low down between my legs and my squirming laughter is renewed. I’ve tried to count how long this morning wake up call lasts, but I can never stay focused long enough.

This is every morning. This is my life- this is our lives. They need help.

But I don't need help. Poretella was right. This is my normal now. And I love it.
 
Interesting short story, though I have to say I don't quite get the gist of what's going on, I would highly like to see a next part. It could draw out a clearer picture too since very little details are given. The tickling scenes were hot and well written!!!

PS: What is 'Eight by Twenty-two' supposed to mean? I cannot make any sense of this sentence. I assume 'They need help.' refers to her other companions in captivity, we do not see.
 
Thanks for the feedback! Yeah I just kinda meant for this scene to be an intro/hook before introducing the characters and setting, and kinda got away from me. Probably should have written more before posting, but I'm working on the next part now. Ha I guess you can almost think of this as a teaser trailer.

And 8x22 are the dimensions of the 176 brushes. 22 rows of 8 brushes.
 
While short, I have to say, it's an interesting premise and I look forward to seeing what comes next. Just curious, but what type of tickling shall we see In this series?
 
Lots of F/f and */f. Some F/m and */m, though those probably won't be heavily featured in this story.
 
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