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Cassady McClincy - Learning the Ropes (F/F)

ThePurpleQuill

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Joined
Jan 11, 2018
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A cool autumn breeze rustles the red-glazed foliage just outside her bedroom window, its subtle patter adding ambiance to this solemn Sunday night. Cassady McClincy, having been just confirmed as the new addition to The Walking Dead family, is seated just in front of her vanity mirror, coating her nails in a rich varnish of midnight blue. Immersed in a deep state of utter relaxation, she finds this process most enjoyable to round out a busy weekend, taking much-needed time to herself to dote on her appearance. Gently blowing across their freshly painted surface, she admires her careful handiwork, holding them up to the light as they sparkle in the pale glow basking the room.

However, such serenity can only be short-lived, for it is just as her eye catches the reflection in the mirror that, located just behind her right shoulder, she witnesses a shadowy figure looming in silence. A terse gasp escapes her gullet, her darkest fears coming to life as the shrouded intruder swiftly makes their way towards her before a muscle can move. A gloved hand places itself precariously atop her supple lips, silencing the actress not one moment before unleashing a blood-curdling scream.

“Best not make a sound love,” the figure tells her, a hauntingly soothing feminine voice drenched in a British accent. “You don’t want there to be any trouble, now do you?” Cassady is completely paralyzed, only having the wherewithal to place her hands atop the assailant’s velvet-lined arm without the strength to remove it. Gazing up into the crystalline eyes of her intruder, visible to her in the reflection of the mirror, she can only shake her head in confirmation much to the delight of her captor.

“That a girl,” she reassures the distraught young actress, tenderly guiding the hair on the left side of Cassady’s face back behind her ear as a mother would her own child. Glancing to her dresser, the starlet confirms the unfortunate placement of her phone, just out of reach for her to even leave it open for anyone to listen in and secure her help. Unbeknownst to her, the masked assailant catches her captive eyeballing towards her phone, something that she just won’t allow given the control she hold over her now. “Let’s go into the living room now, yeah?” One hand on her shoulder, the other in the middle of her back, the unknown figure guides young Cassady up out of her chair, directing her to the adjacent living room. Her bare feet shuffle silently across the carpet floors of her apartment, taking as much time as she can to allow her to think of some escape route in the meantime. Making her way out of the hallway, she is guided towards the plush surface of her living room couch, illuminated only by the pale sheen of a lowlight lamp placed precariously in the corner.

“Lie on your back dear,” the woman says, a command masquerading itself as merely a suggestion as far as Cassady is concerned. Placing herself lengthwise across the couch, her knees slightly bent to compensate for her stature, she watches carefully as the woman makes her way behind her head to the side of the couch. It is out of her line of sight that the woman, shuffling through her previously prepared duffle bag, removes several coils of neon green rope from its contents, uncoiling them as she watches several meters of rope begin to line the floor in front of her.

“Wrists,” the woman demands, holding out her hand as Cassady reluctantly lifts her arms towards her captor. Placing her wrists crossed over one another in front of her chest, the burglar laces the nylon rope around her wrists, making sure not to have it cut off any circulation while completely negating any hope of escape. Pulling her wrists over her head, she leans over out of view, securing the length of rope to the leg of the couch below. Clad in merely her tank top and pajama bottoms, the cool air from an adjacent window caresses the freshly exposed flesh of Cassady’s underarms, a detail which illuminates just from where the woman had entered.

Taking the second length of rope, the masked figure makes her way to the foot of the couch towards Cassady’s feet. She pulls at her ankles, placing them atop the arm of the sofa as she begins winding the next set of coils around her bare ankles, making sure to push her pajamas out of the way as not to leave any slack. Tugging at the rope, she stretches the young starlet taut across its length, binding the end of the rope to the back leg, securing her for good. Peering nervously down the length of her bound body, the reality of her situation slowly begins to sink in, understanding that she will have to find other means of salvation for herself.

“Ah, now isn’t that lovely?” the woman admires her handiwork, tugging at both ends of her binds to test just how inescapable she already knows them to be. Gazing upon her captive, she watches Cassady bite the side of her lip, a nervous reaction to her predicament. Given that the woman has left her mouth unmuzzled, it appears as though the only way out of this mess is to talk to her, tapping into those universal bonds all women share with one another in some form. However, just as she is about to open her mouth, the woman cuts her off by getting straight to business.

“Now you listen up now dearie, because I’m only going to say this once, right?” her tone of voice changes, a stern more commanding presence right in front of Cassady’s eyes as she clamps her mouth tightly shut. “Now I don’t be wanting to break into young lady’s houses, but the money is quite right on this one: one of my clients, a loaded young bloke from south of Wales, would be most obliged to have a look into what you got in your personal devices, especially that computer you’ve got stashed underneath your bed. Now I can’t get into any of them myself, so you’re going to give up their passwords, so I can get out right quick, you understand me?” Cassady is floored: not only has she been taken captive in the dead of night by a clandestine woman right in her own home, but that the same woman would reveal who had hacked into her email three weeks prior. The FBI were useless tracking down the suspect responsible for cracking her now-defunct email address, publishing a collection of her private photos online. However, best her luck they were PG-13 at best, for little did he understand the motherload being transferred to her new laptop at that very moment, a personal collection of salacious photos amassed over years of long-distance relationships that were never to see the light of day. That, along with the several risqué text conversations she has with several people other than her significant other left standing on her phone, are those which would surely derail her promising career if they were ever revealed.

“Come on love: spill it.” She is shaken out of her trance, looking the woman right in the eye for a long three seconds as she tries to contemplate her options under such pressure. “Will you give them up, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?” Cassady is stunned: not only has she been rendered helpless into the hands of her masked assailant, but now she is being spoon-fed classic Hollywood clichés at this very moment. Stunned but not broken, she has the gall to shake her head back and forth denying the woman’s request.

Had she only been able to see the wicked smile hidden underneath the mask, she would most certainly have given in to the demand.

“You know, it’s a cryin’ shame you lovely ladies pamper yourselves like this,” she teases her, tracing a gloved finger down the length of Cassady’s left leg, moving ever so slowly to her immobilized feet. “Little do you know the dangers that lurk behind every corner, with these fancy pedicures and all: makes it that much easier to get my way out of you little tenderfoots.” A sudden shiver rolls down Cassady’s spine, dropping her jaw down to her chest as she puts two and two together, knowing full well what she is getting at. The woman gazes lustfully over her captive, lifting up her gloved hands as she slowly pinches them off one finger at a time. Just as she swallows a nervous gulp, she is confronted by the sight of her assailant nails glistening in the pale light: their lengthened design sharpened to intimidating points, each and every one of them a dagger waiting to make their mark.

“If only you were more cooperative, then we wouldn’t have to go through this,” she says, curling her fingers menacingly towards Cassady’s haplessly bound feet, gazing upon them as they shuffle back and forth in a desperate attempt to avoid such a fate. Watching the agonizing terror build in her captive’s eyes, the sadistic woman can barely hold herself back from indulging in such delectable feet lying in front of her. “Here we go love.” She thought the anticipation would surely be the worst of it but, oh so unfortunately, she was proven dead wrong: a jolt of lightning shoots though her body the moment they make contact, jerking against her restraints as her entire body is a conductive rod to her tickles.

“Ppppppppppppppphfhfhfhfhfhfhfhf!” she sputters, clamping her eyes and mouth shut to try and not betray her hidden weakness that is oh so not very hidden anymore. As her pursed lips slowly peel back, revealing a toothy grin of forced mirth, her stifled laughter slowly morphs into girlish giggles. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehehehehehehaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Ah, the little lady is ticklish, isn’t she now?” the madwoman goads her, skittering her nails across the tender flesh of Cassady’s soles with gleeful whimsy, indulging in the myriad of high-pitched squeals and torrents of laughter she can extract from the tanned beauty.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!” Cassady wails, feeling the sharpened implements caress the balls of her feet, throwing her head back in shock as she attempts to balance such foreign sensations to no avail. Her weekly pedicures were bad enough, a haphazard mixture of incidental brushes that drive her mad every time they scrub her soles clean. But this was different: concentrated, unyielding, an endless torrent of focused tickling only the most depraved of souls would inflict upon someone so innocent. “No wait! Waiheheheheheheheheheheheheeeeeeeeeeeet!”

“Ah, there is no waiting for you, naughty girl!” she shoots back, scraping deep into her captive’s tender heels, punishing her for even considering the power she has relinquished the moment she went against her captor’s influence.

“Not the heels!” she screams, such a comical response to her captor, knowing full well her victim’s guard is slowly crumbling from underneath her. “Anything but the heels!”

“I’m sorry dear, what did you say?” she playfully asks her distraught captive, teasingly cupping her hand up to her ear as though she were hard of hearing. “I don’t think I quite caught that!” Catching Cassady off-guard, the woman lunges her sharpened talons underneath the poor girl’s flailing toes, sending her shrieks up another twenty decibels.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she wails desperately, bucking against the coils of ropes wrapped around her trapped ankles.

“That’s what I thought you said!” she confirms, raking her nails atop the supple flesh of that which goes chronically unscathed. “I didn’t hear any combination numbers, now did I?” No amount of scrunching can keep her invasive fingers out, as Cassady can only search for some way to avoid her torturous methods until she can think of something else. But there is no use: the longer she is held in this dastardly woman’s clutches, the greater control she wields over her, cornering her mind through relentless tickle torture for what will surely be the longest night of her pretty little life.

Her hands, clenched into unbreakable fists under such duress, glow a slight tint of red, pulling and tugging against the binds that give her not one inch of slack to move with. Rocking back and forth, eyes clamped shut only to jettison open in indignant horror, she can only bear witness to the onslaught of merciless tickle torture befalling her at this very moment. How terrible it is to be at the hands of one so unfeeling, so indifferent to her rampant suffering, all for the sake of a quick payment. Had she only the decency to give into her assailant’s demands the moment they were uttered, then she could have avoided this fate entirely.

“STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!!” she screams at the top of her lungs, descending into a cascade of forced laughter as her dastardly nails scrape their way up the sides of her tenderized feet. Clawing at thin air behind her, hoping to at least grasp something to keep her sanity in check, she is left hopelessly alone.

“What did the little dearie say?” she calls out, reveling in the suffering her captive is being put through, indulging herself in the smorgasbord of ticklish delights she has laid out in front of her. “I could do this all night, don’t you know?”

Obviously, given her insatiable cruelty, she had been hired as the right woman for such stalwart resistance placed in front of her. However, there was something about her that Cassady just couldn’t put her finger on: some expertise in this field that goes above and beyond the typical gun for hire. Beyond the niche dominatrix, no one but a true tickle sadist could be trained in such a clinical art of tickle torture as she, a note escaping Cassady at the moment as her toes once again receive an extra helping of ticklish torments. Had her captor’s face been revealed to her, she would have beheld a look of intense satisfaction beyond that of a simple job, confirming that which she had suspected.

“OKAYYYYYYYYHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEEEE!!” she shrieks forth, finally succumbing to such horrendous influence befalling her tenderized feet without a moment to spare.

“What was that dearie?” the woman answers, unconvinced that this will be the time, but that she is only vying for a much-desired break. “No breaks until you give it up!”

“I WILLHEHEHEHEHEHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she screams, not even given one breath as she spurts out the combination to her phone as fast as she can. “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!! I SWEAR IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!!” The woman pauses, lifting her skittering nails from her quivering flesh, now a heavy hue of burgundy given such intimate attention. Not having a moment to lose, Cassady takes in a large gulp of air, filling her lungs with the precious substance that seems to have eluded her this entire time. Watching through her tear-soaked eyes, she witnesses her masked captor move behind her, disappointed to find her again reaching into the hidden duffle bag that has plagued her so.

“I hope you don’t take offense to this or none, but I don’t believe a word out of your filthy lyin’ mouth!” she asserts, almost able to hear Cassady’s heart pounding in her chest. She tries to speak, hoping to plead through her doughy eyes for release, only to have the faint squeak of a woman defeated eek out of her strained gullet. Such pitiful weakness, her fortified resolve having crumbled into pieces after a long ordeal, is the prime material her captor is hoping to work with for what she has planned next. Watching her hand move down to her pocket, she reveals a long strand of twine right in front of her eyes. “It’s time to get serious now.” Placing it around Cassady’s big toes, the woman begins winding them together, creating the tiniest of knots atop her plump digits. Using the remainder of length, the deranged woman guides Cassady’s feet backwards to her ankles, stretching her soles taut as she binds them back to the cope.

“Oh, the things I could do to you, my lovely,” she tenderly states, witnessing the color syphon itself from Cassady’s face knowing just how utterly screwed she is going to be. “Let’s begin, shall we?” Once again reaching behind her, the masked woman reveals that most familiar of implements: an electric toothbrush, absolutely nothing to think about.

“Recognize this one, don’t you?” she asks the disheveled young women, her matted hair caking itself against the sweat of her brow and face. “Little do they know it can become an implement of torture for girls like you.” She flips the switch, the supersonic waves oscillating though the bristles, making the nerve endings in Cassady’s feet tingle in anticipation. In one fell swoop, holding the string back with her left hand, she plunges the electric toothbrush straight into Cassady’s left sole, eliciting an ear-splitting scream from the hapless starlet.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” Her eyes shoot up to the ceiling, the unfathomable terror that is befalling her just too much to bear. Scaling the length of her foot, flailing to the best of its ability yet with just nowhere to go, the dastardly device usurps any last shred of resistance left in the poor girl. Over and over again, she inflicts a merciless display of tickle torture upon her hapless feet, from the tender pads of her heels to the little plump toes, desperate scrunching to relinquish themselves from the invasive implement.

“Best not fight it dear, it’s only going to get much worse!” The absolute horror of such a thought, her wildest fantasies racking themselves to try and picture a fate worse than this. Twisting and turning between each and every one of her toes, the electric toothbrush weaves through the supple webbing with surgical precision, wielded by a true tickle enthusiast hellbent on breaking the poor girl’s spirit no matter how long it could take. The collar of her shirt drenched in a pitiful cocktail of sweat and tears emanating from her reddened face, Cassady feels as though she has learned the true meaning of suffering.

Oh, if she only knew better.

“Oh, you think the bristles would be bad enough, huh girlie?” the woman states forebodingly, lifting the device from her right pinky toe much to the starlet’s relief. “Well…you’d think wrong!” With one graceful motion, she takes the top off the device, revealing the thin metal tip of the instrument oscillating at supersonic speeds. Scores of young women have been on its receiving end, their psyches shattered into pieces the moment it touches their already-sensitized flesh, and Cassady is just going to be the next person in that line of succession.

“Now I’m going to ask you again,” she commands, waving the dreaded device ever-so close to her immobilized feet. Cassady is hopeless: had she one moment to compose herself, she would have relinquished everything she had to get the tickling to cease and desist, even giving up someone else to take her place if need be. Yet, despite her best instincts, she remains speechless, paralyzed with fear from the thought of that tiny strand of metal coming near her sensitized soles for more torment. “You asked for it!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOHOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” a blood-curdling shriek echoes through the hallway, not a person in earshot to give her salvation for the hellish denouement of her ordeal as the final stage of her suffering is inflicted upon her. Tracing its way up the side of her left foot, it glides across the balls of her feet, up and down, to and fro in an unpredictable pattern, keeping the poor girl on her toes the entire way. The sensation is that of a thousand strokes of her sharpened nails concentrated into one square millimeter of surface area, lighting up her nerve endings with a fire like no other. Ascending straight up into her toes, capitalizing in the untouched real estate that has indulged her fancy for some time, it seems as though the masked assailant has found the money spot.

“MERCYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!” is all that can be heard before poor Cassady dissolves into silent breathy laughter, the intensity of her inaudible shrieks a sight to behold. Her soft features have become distorted, morphing into a horrendous array of forced mirth and horror-stricken sensations no woman should have to experience. Her body going limp, the strain of so many passing moments of endless torments having tested her limits to the very end, it is astounding that she not once lost consciousness throughout the entire ordeal much to her chagrin.

After what seems to be an unbearable thirty minutes, she is left to rest, her spirit broken in two from such torments at her hands. Bowing her head down to her chest, she is unable to watch her captor move behind her, rummaging through her duffle bag to reveal a large roll of duct tape.

“Ay, you’re quite the energetic young thing, now ain’t you?” the woman notes, tearing a fine strip off with her teeth, slapping the lone strip of duct tape over Cassady’s dried lips without a hint of resistance. “I says you’d be free once I get the PIN to your devices, but, as they say, you can’t always get what you want.” Cassady gazes up into her piercing blue eyes, finding a glow of delight drenching them this very moment.

“Ah that job was chump change compared to the real job: asset acquisition,” she notes, seeing the fear grow in Cassady’s reddened eyes. “You see, there’s quite the exclusive club out there, waiting to get their hands on a ticklish slap of celebrity flesh like yourself. They pay the price through the nose, mostly for C-list or newcomers, but what they want they surely wish to get. So they send me in to wrangle you up and test you just to make sure you were what they ordered, and boy did you deliver right.” The words fall from her serpent tongue unto Cassady’s ears, glowing red from the sheer frustration of being rendered so helpless, so completely vulnerable, and now, so completely enraged.

“I’ve turned on the location app on your phone here, just to let them know where they can pick you up. And, if you thought I was cruel, you haven’t met my clientele. The videos they send me of their acquisition would turn your stomach inside out, the perverts they are. On, ticklish girls like yourself they get the most enjoyment out of, I guarantee that.” Had she thought about it for a brief moment, she would have completely discounted the story as mere fabrication but, given the perilous nature of her situation, that was anything but an option for her now. Her muffled pleas soon morph into subdued cries for help as a pair of headlights is seen through the windows, seemingly confirming just what the woman is saying.

“Best of luck there dearie: you’re going to need it.” She pats the poor starlet on the head, making her way out the back door without leaving a trace. Fresh footsteps are heard entering the house, pattering their way into the living room to confront poor Cassady, rendered to be their package ready for pickup.

The fate of Cassady McClincy would forever be one of Hollywood’s unsolved mysteries, one filled with hushed whispers of a hapless young woman making rounds in the underground kink scene, tickled into oblivion night after endless night by those affording the pleasure of indulging in her angelic flesh to their liking. The moment she was sold to the most prolific auction house nobody had every heard of, the stories ended, and the fantasies began.

The End
 

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