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The Plume Room (A Christian Serratos Tickling Story)

ThePurpleQuill

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Joined
Jan 11, 2018
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The tempered glass doors slide open, a rush of cool air ejects out into the open, tossing her long umber hair over her shoulders. Not three steps in do they swiftly shut behind her, their tinted sheen keeping prying eyes out from what is meant only for an exclusive selection of patrons, herself now being one of them. Casually she slides her keycard into her back pocket, a sly smile visible on the right side of her lips, soon to be the envy of women around the world if only for one day. The soft soles of her moccasin slippers clasp gently against the linoleum flooring, her voluptuous figure swinging sensually underneath her pink t-shirt and black leggings, making her way to the large front desk roughly ten meters away. It is here that Christian Serratos, famed television starlet and vivacious vixen, is welcomed by an unknown woman, her marshal into the wondrous working of The Plume Room.

The hushed whispers and garish gossip echoed through every high-end nail salon and day spa throughout downtown Los Angeles: that a brand-new luxury complex is opening somewhere in the city limits, its sky-high membership price only justified by its renowned exclusivity. Popping up randomly all across the globe, The Plume Room, as it has been dubbed, is reputed for servicing some of the most distinguished clientele including Fortune 500 executives, heiresses, and royals from the United Kingdom to Dubai. It is said that only those who are personally invited by the owner, a clandestine figure whose gender isn’t even of public record, can enter its doors and indulge in its endless delights. How those who are chosen is not known, the qualifications for entering such an establishment under lock and key, even past patrons supposedly sworn to secrecy through an iron-clad confidentiality agreement. It is only assumed that a lottery is held, sifting together those worthy enough of a heavenly pampering rumored to wipe ten years off of any woman in the first ten minutes, and that a secret invitation is sent out to be received by those lucky enough. However, such details were only the concern for those outside the loop, for the moment Christian received that gold embroidered invitation one Wednesday morning, she had become part of that exclusive club even the Kardashian dolls would have to envy. Stepping out of her house this morning, received by a private limo to be ushered to the establishment, she feels herself to be on top of the world.

“Miss Serratos, it is a pleasure to welcome you to The Plume Room,” the woman says, shaking the starlet’s hand with a firm yet tender grip. She is a radiant beaming woman, her platinum blonde hair tied into a ponytail down the length of her back, seemingly making her broad toothy smile even more prominent. Her dress sleek and features severe, she is the antithesis of the holistic relaxation that was promised to Christian during her visit to The Plume Room. However, in Christian’s eyes she is rendered to be the pinnacle of professionalism, just the type of woman that would take every facet of her work as an extension of personal perfection. Little could she imagine that’s exactly who she would turn out to be.

“I’m surprised you knew it was me,” Christian answers, sliding her sunglasses off her face, inserting them into the crevice of her shirt collar.

“We keep detailed profiles of all our prospective clients,” she says, resting her hand on Christian’s upper back, leading her to the tall front desk. “It makes sure that, had your identification and invitation code been unfortunately stolen, it would be impossible for the thief to infiltrate this establishment.” Christian, her eyebrow curled with intrigue, brushes off the notion that being mugged wouldn’t be a concern of this woman so long as she kept her mugger from getting her pampering.

“You forgot if they had plastic surgery to look like me,” Christian jokes, her gleaming white smile adorning her tanned youthful face. “What then?”

“Your fingerprint Miss,” she answers, directing her to place her thumb atop the tablet protruding from the sleek material of the desk. Taking her delicate hand, Christian places her right thumb atop the screen, a blue panel scrawling across the surface three times. It is not a second later that her identity is confirmed, flashing green in confirmation.

“Name: Christian Marie Serratos,” a monotone voice dictates from its speakers, reading off her personal information stored in the computer system. “Age: 27. Shoe Size: 8 ½. Sensitivity Level: Unknown…” The woman swipes the tablet off the desk, deactivating it just as Christian’s interest is peaked.

“Sensitivity level?” she asks, her brow furled in a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “What other information do you have on me in there?”

“Curiosity killed the cat my dear,” she answers, Christian’s jaw dropping open, a slight chuckle understanding it as a poorly executed joke. “If you’ll just follow me over here, we’ll get your procedure going.” Taking the girl by the arm, the woman leads her to a large doorway, its thick wooden panels catching Christian’s eye as she walked in. The woman, taking her right hand, places it on an intersection of the doorway, revealing a hidden screen camouflaged by the grey surface. The large panels open inward, revealing a space that takes Christian’s breath away.

A large room, the size of a small cathedral, lays in front of her dazzled eyes. Its walls sleek, its ceiling high, it is the pinnacle of modern architecture. A large circular skylight floods the room with soft natural light, illuminating every detail that would have most likely cost a king’s ransom. The floor is adorned with ornate tiling, its neutral colors highlighting the glossy texture of its content. Plush red leather lines each of these high-end salon chairs, the sheen of chrome echoing throughout the expansive interior. As she is led step by step through the space, Christian can only picture herself as a young Charlie Bucket, traveling through the fantastical chocolate factory of Willy Wonka, immersing herself in the tantalizing sight only a select few individuals are fortunate enough to experience. If only all stories were so sweet.

“You’re going to sit right here,” she directs her to the chair to her left, taking Christian’s hand as she slowly leads her bum into the chair. Its material soft, the usual chafe when sitting in new leather is surprisingly subdued, not giving away one sound no matter how much Christian shuffles herself into place. “Your beautician will be with you shortly, most likely preparing the most thorough treatment we have in store for you. As you wait, we insist you begin cleansing your pores with our special mint cucumber water, as hydration is the key to everlasting beauty.” Reaching into a cupboard adjacent, she hands Christian a tall perspiring glass, fragments of mint leaves and cucumber floating amongst the large ice cubes. Patting her on the shoulder, the woman exits through a darkened corridor, a surprise given the significance of light placed within this space. However, nothing could distract Christian from the thought of some well-needed TLC.

She takes a large slip from the straw, the hot summer day leaving her throat bone dry, the limo she had been given curiously void of anything to drink. As the cool liquid caresses the inside of her throat, the euphoric sensation of relief is slowly overtaken by that of a different kind. Her mood suddenly uplifted, she is hit with a slow-encroaching lightheadedness, as though she is slowly feeling herself lift into the clouds above. She thinks nothing of it, immersing herself in its relaxing properties, but as the feeling slowly overtakes her, she falls into a sound sleep, her head resting atop the plush headrest as her eyelids slowly peel to a close...

She wakes up, shaking off the abrupt nap that had overtaken her without warning. Groaning loudly into the open, she makes known that she is awake, and in turn her bonds make themselves known. As she stirs in the padded leather chair, she is struck with their presence: her wrists are bound with thick leather cuffs, latched onto small notches protruding from the sides of the armrests. A wide leather strap has been woven around her midsection, keeping her back nearly glued vertical to the chair. She peers forward, her legs looped through the adjacent chair, locked sternly into place by its mechanisms, keeping her legs straight and immobile. Stripped of her moccasins, she is left barefoot, her heels hovering over the space outside the leather.

A wave of concern washes over her, the euphoric effects of the sedative gradually beginning to wear off as panic usurps her. Believing herself to be in a safe place, Christian is overcome with a sensation of betrayal, opening her mouth to vocalize a blood-curdling scream for help. Suddenly, just as a tiny shriek barely escapes her lips, an eerie sound pierces through the silence, the mechanistic scraping sending a chill down her spine. She can hear wheels across the tile flooring, their ungreased surface chafing unbearably against itself. It is then she remembers that she is not alone in this place, for as she looks down into the corridor from which the unknown woman made her exit, she once again spots her, a rolling cabinet in her hands, and a wicked smile scrawled across her face.

“Just in time!” she gleefully states, pushing the cart until it is just a foot away from Christian’s dangling bare feet. Locking the bottom wheel into place, she turns to the bound starlet who, through a mixture of shock and anger, has the look of someone who is about to vomit in disgust.

“What the fuck is all this?!” Christian bellows, attempting to wrench her wrists from her bonds to no avail. Such a stalwart design, one tiny little loop keeping her wrists from ultimate freedom, makes her realize this is no ordinary day spa she has been ensnared by.

“Well, as you will soon find out, this is all for your own good,” the woman dictates, clasping her hands in front of her as though addressing a young child. “We at The Plume Room are well aware of the normal physiological response to our unorthodox methods, and thus have remedied any unfortunate movement or resistance with the restraints you see before you. It’s all to make sure you maximize the benefits of our treatment, how considerate of us!”

“So you drugged me?!” Christian shouts, a subtle crack in her voice, knowing for sure that such an impromptu slumber couldn’t have possibly resulted from natural means.

“Oh you noticed! Good for you!” the woman exclaims, not one inch of that dastardly toothy grin removed from her face as she speaks. “It’s not every day you get to experience the full package from the outside in: think of that as the mark of someone truly special to us. I’m sure once the procedure has begun, you will understand just how thorough our methods can be.” Christian can barely comprehend what foolishness she is hearing: being drugged unbeknownst to her, bound in this contraption with straps she once found nestled in her best friend’s sock drawer, all for the sake of this seemingly renowned treatment she is about to receive.

“Well now that you’re fully alert, I suppose it’s time to begin your treatment.” Bending down into the opened cabinet, she shuffles her way through what appears to be a myriad of implements at her disposal. “Perfect!” Taking her hands out, nestled between her two fingers is a small Q-tip, its unremarkable presence making Christian that much more uneasy. Placing herself right in front of Christian’s captive feet, she carefully guides the soft end of the Q-tip towards her supple flesh.

“Tell me: how does this feel?” she asks, caressing the ball of Christian’s right foot ever so gently with the soft side of the Q-tip. Christian’s lower extremities twitch, shocked at such a sensation that she never feels down at her lowliest of appendages. Such an abrupt reaction elicits stifled laughter, trying to suppress it given the helpless state she finds herself in.

“Pfhfhfhfhfhahahahaha! What are you doing?” Christian asks, such a tender sensation different from the vigorous scrubbings she had most aligned with her bimonthly pedicures. Attempting to shield her right foot with her left, Christian is met with the same sensation on the other, such a skilled practitioner not missing a beat. “Ehehehehehehehe! Stop it!”

“I’m just doing the preliminary testing,” the woman says, not bothering to look up to her client, too consumed in the intricacies of her work. “Tell me: what does it feel like?”

“Ihihihiht ticklesahahahahaha!” Christian says, her speech dissolving into cascades of suppressed giggles and throaty laughter. She can only watch helplessly as the dreaded device is run all across her feet, from the fleshy pads of her heels all the way up to her tender little toes. If she could read her mind, Christian would be distraught to find the woman consumed in her work, taking mental notes of all the regions that elicit the most prominent responses, calculating the right maneuvers to extract the most ghastly of reactions in the near future. Unfortunately, Christian is trying to convince herself this is all part of the process.

“There, that’s the spot,” the woman mutters to herself, having confirmed the sides of Christian’s feet to be an especially sensitive spot.

“Ahahahahahaha! What do you wantahahahaha?!” Christian spurts out, coming up on positively breathless despite the ordeal lasting not ten minutes.

“Just making sure where you’re most sensitive my darling,” she responds, lifting the ticklish implement from Christian’s left pinky toe, a sigh of relief excreted from her captive starlet. “It’s important we get all of those pinned down before the real procedure begins.” She doesn’t know what it was inside of Christian that said it would all get better. Maybe she thought, the effects of the drug still affecting the lucidity of her mind, she was merely making sure of the spots she should avoid during the procedure.

“Now, let’s get started,” was the last thing that made her think otherwise, as the woman begins digging her nails into the flesh of Christian’s supple soles.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOOOOOOOOOOO DON’T!!” Christian yells out, the sudden sensation of acrylic nails scraping across her tender soles throwing her into a panic. Her body jerks mightily against her bonds, holding fast despite such a tone figure underneath. Frantically the woman scribbles her nails over the poor girl’s feet, from the bottoms of her heels all the way up to the tips of her toes. How Christian thrashes about, the pitiful sight of a desperate woman in the throes of surgical tickle torture, not able to relieve herself for one moment.

“Tell me Miss Serratos: this tickle more?” the woman asks before thrusting her nails into the undersides of Christian’s toes, forcing the girl to toss her head back in ticklish terror.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NO WAIT!! WAAAAAAAAAAIT!!” the force of her pleas is just too much, straining against her womanly vocal chords, contorting into the primal reactions of a captured animal in peril. Her brow caked in sweat, the luscious strands of her hair begin matting themselves against her forehead, hiding the collecting tears at the sides of her eyelids.

“I can’t hear you young lady!” the tickle crazed woman goads, such a patronizing tone given the perilous state she is putting Christian in at this moment. “It doesn’t tickle does it?”

“YAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAS!! CAN’T YOU TELL?!” Christian shouts over her hapless laughter, overwhelmed by such ravenous sensations pulsating across her tender flesh. Such may not have been the best choice of words, taunting the person that holds ultimate power over her for the time being but, given the helpless situation she has been rendered to, such snippiness could be an understandable response.

“Somebody has a sassy mouth today!” she says, relinquishing Christian from the horrendous tickle torture from the time being. Sighing a heavy breath of relief, she slumps down into her chair, or at least as much as she is able to given her bondage. Obviously there had been a huge dereliction on her part: accepting such an invitation, leaving herself vulnerable to being captured and tickle tortured as she is. Surely the renowned institution couldn’t be a tickling spa, where the most regal of the upper echelons of society have their feet ravaged by a deranged lunatic all in the name of pampering, right?

“Oh Miss Serratos, you can’t imagine how long I’ve been waiting for a client like yourself,” she spouts, reaching back into the cabinet, sifting her way through her treasure trove of ticklish delights. “Your responses to my methods are just music to the ears.”

“Wha…wha…” Christian attempts to respond, only having the heaving chest barely able to vocalize one syllable.

“Let’s move into the aria, shall we?” she says, revealing the atrocious sight two combs, one in either hand, slowly directing them to the red-tinted surface of Christian’s feet. The starlet’s grimacing face denotes her impending agony, knowing for sure the next phase of her torments will only be even more unbearable than the last. However, not even she could possibly foresee the true extent of her suffering for the duration of her stay.

The woman grabs her big toes, choking them in between her thumb and index finger, keeping them still as she guides the large comb into Christian’s heels. It is then a hapless wail escapes Christian’s gullet, dissolving into anguished cackles the likes of which Hell has no familiarity with.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!! NAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!! NOOOOOOOOO!!” The woman’s comb plunges into the padded surface, tearing through any resistance the poor girl may have, delving deep into the very heart of her ticklish reaction. Christian’s nails dig their way into the plush surface of the chair, the tips of her fingers turning white from exerting so much force. Frantically she shakes her head from side to side, hoping to wake herself from what could only amount to a horrible nightmare.

“That’s it! That’s the right spot!” the woman gleefully states, laughing in tandem to the forced chuckles her hapless prisoner is enduring. Little could Christian fathom the capacity for tickling a simple comb could have: with its rigid design, not one tooth bending despite such force, its length and girth covering both of her feet as it slowly ascends to every inch of her size eight soles. She can only take solace in being temporarily robbed of her ability to witness her torments, the flood of tears streaming down her cheeks making it impossible to consistently gawk at her tenderized feet. It was only in this state that, through the shock of another comb inserting itself in between her toes, that her eyes would jettison open, her mouth agape in forced mirth.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! GET IT OUT!! WAAAAAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she screams like a banshee, her renewed energy to the surprise of this devious woman. “PLEASE!! MERCYAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!”
She could only imagine the lines of other victims that have fallen in her grasp, hearing their cackling cries, primal shrieks of agony echoing off these walls just as hers. Just as she is immersed in her suffering, so too is the woman indulging in theirs at this very moment: the delight of the same implement extracting a tone palette of sonic and visual delights from her clients is giving her immeasurable pleasure, but there is something truly special about Christian that may prompt a second, if not third, visit soon.

She looks up at the helpless creature: her head drooping, nothing but the teetering giggles falling from her lips. It is then she feels time to initiate the third and final phase of the program.

“Oh Miss Serratos, it has just been a real pleasure!” the woman exclaims, taking off the dreaded combs from her feet. Out of sight of her victim, muttering to herself as she attempts to find some way to plead for relief from the relentless tickle torture, the woman reaches once more into the compartment, revealing a small bottle of heated baby oil. “You have waited so patiently, but now I must tell you that your patience will finally be rewarded!”

Dabbing a small puddle into her hands, she begins to massage the viscous substance into Christian’s feet. Its surface warm and foreign, Christian bites her lower lip, unable to marry the sensation of peril and pleasure that is swarming her inundated brain. She can only savor these few moments of rest, her chest heaving up and down securing a few precious ounces of oxygen before the inevitable will strike. The moment her hands leave her feet, reaching again into the compartment where all hellish torments lie, Christian knows in the back of her mind it may all be coming to an end.

“Now Miss Serratos,” the woman says, slowly revealing a large hairbrush from her arsenal. Just as it comes into view, she can hear the slight whimpers coming from Christian, knowing full well the horror that will soon befall her precious feet against her will. “I would like to cordially welcome you back to the Plume Room anytime you like. Now remember, the moment you signed that confidentiality agreement with your fingerprint, you made a contracted promise to never disclose anything that occurred on these premises, no matter what the reason. Failure to abide by these terms will leave you open to extensive litigation.”

“We hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in the Plume Room,” she says, clicking a hidden switch at the bottom of the brush. The bristles of the device vibrating at ultrasonic speeds, the whirring sound fills Christian’s ears with dread, inciting a free flow of tears cascading down upon her drenched collar. “Thank you and come again.”

She pressed it into her soles, eliciting a scream beyond all measure.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Her energies renewed, she thrashes once again against her bonds, hoping with all her might she at least loosened one of them. No use: as the vibrating brush ravages her heels, making their way up the sides of her feet, Christian’s tumultuous screams turn silent, not one ounce of energy left to even beg for relief. To Christian, this is her life now: fallen prey to a crazed tickler, having her helpless feet wasted again and again, turning her into a helpless pile of ticklish reactions much to her dismay. Pulsating up to her toes, the balls of these excited strands caressing in between her supple pads, Christian’s mind is inundated with her relentless suffering, the vigorous yet well-executed tickle torture denoting the work of a true professional who ultimately seeks perfection in everything she does. Christian lets out one strained scream before falling unconscious, the mixture of oxygen deprivation and a fragile psyche besieged too much for her frantic synapses in her brain to handle…


Christian Serratos, famed actress now on the list for entrance into The Plume Room, returns to her daily life. Despite wishing to tell the world about her torments three months ago, her lips have been sealed: the nondisclosure agreement she has been bound to keeping her completely mute over her ordeal. From its immediate aftershock, such a gag order proved maddeningly for her, wishing only to sit in a courtroom adjacent to that vile woman as she is sentenced to life in prison for torture, false imprisonment, and crimes against the pedicure arts. However, a career suddenly on its uptick, she resolved to put it all past her for the benefit of her career, and it seems to be for the better.

Articles began noting her radiance, an insatiable energy that permeated from her person with every meeting she had. Casting directors began complementing her on an internal magnetism, an ability to connect with them unbeknownst to even herself. Her face and body began adorning magazine covers, billboards, television commercials, everywhere she went she found herself drawing the eye of the general public. There was only one reason for this:

The treatment had actually worked, and as far as she’s concerned, for the good of her career, she must experience it again.

She calls their unlisted number, routing to the same familiar voice on the other line. Christian begs them to squeeze her in, a starring role in the Titanic sequel the imperative reason for needing their rejuvenating procedure.

Lucky for her, they just had enough cancellations this month to squeeze her in for an even longer session.

The End
 
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