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MTJpub
04-16-2001, 07:47 PM
The Nylon Dungeon: Sharon

By Daumantas

Amy still couldn’t fathom what had happened to her.

She adjusted herself as much as her bonds would allow. Her arms ached from being suspended above her head for hours, with her wrists locked into shackles which were attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. Although the table on which she knelt was padded, she could barely move, with her legs clamped to the table by metal rings at the ankles and below the knees. Her legs, too, were beginning to ache. But she still preferred this to another tickling session.

The petite, 23-year-old receptionist, her blonde hair cut in a bob, had been in the Nylon Dungeon for three weeks. She was seized as part of a "hunting expedition" while on her way to work in the morning. As soon as she stepped out of her door, she had been deftly seized and quickly rendered unconscious by the Sleeping Agent. No one at the apartment complex had seen the incident. And she shuddered to think of the truth: that they must have noticed her several days before, and stalked her, determining when she left for work, to make the kidnapping go all the more smoothly.

There was no one in the cell with her. That made it all the worse, in her mind; she preferred those days when she was at least held prisoner with another girl or two, or three (the cells were only large enough for four women at a time). At least then there would be a bit of conversation, even though she knew that the cells were monitored at all times. The other captives had warned her to watch what she said. The Nylon Dungeon, which had deep pockets, employed a healthy supply of large guards to monitor the captives’ cells at all times with video cameras. Even the barest hint of an escape plot being discussed could earn each captive in the room an especially fierce punishment. But it was worse to be alone with her fears in this nightmarish place. Of course, she had no say in the matter.

It had been several hours since her last tickling session. Sometimes the captives were tickled repeatedly, particularly those who were popular for one reason or another. Sometimes they were forced to participate in events like the Tickle Olympics, into which Amy had been tossed shortly after her arrival (with her intense ticklishness, she hadn’t even lasted the opening elimination rounds). The winner of this contest received the promise of a month of no tickling, but had to torment other captives as part of her prize. The Nylon Dungeon found this to be a marvelous way of stifling camaraderie that might otherwise lead to escape attempts. She had heard through the grapevine that the winner, a Hispanic woman named Maria, had taken great pleasure in tickling the loser, an ex-teacher. She had apparently forced her to try to beg for mercy in Spanish – a language the teacher had only a limited skill with at best.

The girls were also sometimes promised relief from tickling in return for providing the members with sexual pleasure – or were threatened with especially intense tickling if they failed to cooperate. Amy had been chained up a few days ago with a girl named Gina, who had been abducted by a would-be suitor named Dan. Gina had told Amy that, back in "the world," as the captives often called the real world outside their new unwilling home, she had considered Dan a nice guy, but clearly not in her league as a boyfriend. But since coming here, she had had little choice but to give Dan whatever sexual pleasure he desired, and as often as he desired. Gina had become almost philosophical about the situation – at least, she reasoned, while she was blowing Dan, or other members of the Dungeon as demanded, she wasn’t being tickled. But Amy found little comfort in that argument. It was still so humiliating.

The tickling was unpredictable. Sometimes the girls would be left for days without being tickled, usually in a relatively uncomfortable position, like a hogtie, or the position in which Amy now found herself. The members seemed to have some sort of rotation system, although of course this was never revealed to the captive women – they never knew how soon, or how long, they would be waiting before they had to witness the dreaded sight of the steel door to their plain concrete cell opening. It wasn’t always for tickling – sometimes it was for sex, or for other torments, like the Dome, where the captives were often forced to watch other captives being tickled. And when they were tickled, there was no telling how long it would last – the one thing Amy had learned to expect was that it would not be brief.

The only regular part of their routine took place in the morning, when two large guards, armed with both stun guns and Sleeping Agent, would release the captives individually in each cell (one at a time, if more than one woman was in the cell). They would be given a bland, tasteless meal, a brief exercise period, and allowed to change their clothes (if any) and shower. Then they were expected to style their hair, do their makeup, and in general beautify themselves – and, of course, put on clean nylons, which were always available. Failure to do any of the above was considered a major infraction. And trying to make a run for it was not advisable. The women were also allowed to summon, via the video cameras, when a trip to the bathroom was necessary, although they were expected not to abuse this privilege.

But it always came back to the tickling. Nothing about this place where Amy found herself was worse than that. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of it. Surely, they couldn’t just keep her here, her feet in extreme sensitivity due to the Tickling Serum, and abuse her forever? There had to be a way out, somehow. But neither she, nor any of the girls she had met here, seemed to have been able to find it.

She gasped as she heard a noise at the door – then moaned with distress. The cell door was opening.



***********



Meanwhile, in the Dome, Jack was enjoying himself immensely.

While some of the other members of the Nylon Dungeon had learned to pace themselves, Jack was only 19, and he had all the horniness of the 19-year-old male. Often he would devise scenarios that would enable him to tickle torture two captives at once. And so it was today.

He lounged back in his chair, resting his arms comfortably across the table, tickling the helpless pair of captive feet in front of him, while watching the scene unfolding across the wide, surround-sound screen. He knew his captive was forced to watch too – forced to watch what was happening to Michelle.

This was truly the good life. Joining the Nylon Dungeon had required that he be sworn to secrecy, but it was a small price to pay. He relished moments like this so much, he could hardly contain himself. His breath was short as he drank in Michelle’s distress. She was his captive for the night – he had placed her in the video room, so that he could watch every moment of the torture he had devised for her, and had simultaneously taken his other captive into the Dome for the physical pleasure of tickling another at the same time. It was too good to be true. Here, in front of him, was someone who symbolized all the teachers who had humiliated him and called him stupid in school all those years. Now he was having his revenge.

Michelle hung by her wrists, in leather handcuffs. They were not tight enough to cut her skin, but they were tight enough that escape was not in the cards. A ball gag filled her mouth. She was dressed in a facsimile of the outfit she had been wearing on the night of her abduction: a frilly white blouse, with the buttons partially undone to reveal a lacy white bra, and tan pantyhose; but her skirt had been removed. Her ankles, bound with rope, were about a foot from the floor. A small weight was attached to the rope; not enough to hold her legs firmly downward, but heavy enough to make it uncomfortable to lift them.

Directly below her bare stocking feet, a small device, like a rotisserie, rotated at a mild speed. The surface of the rotisserie was covered with synthetic fur, cut into a deep shag. Her feet were positioned so that as the rotisserie moved, the furry surface continually stroked her nylon-clad soles.

The only way Michelle could escape the torture was to lift her feet upward. But the weight attached to her legs made that difficult. She would periodically gather her strength, her determination showing in her face, and with a grunt pull her feet up. She would hold her legs up to her bottom, until they began to ache to the point where she could no longer keep them up. Then, wincing at what she knew would come next, she would let her feet drop – directly onto the path of the rotisserie and its furred surface. She would then shriek into her gag, and her hysterical laughter would resume, until the tickling became so unbearable that she felt she had to again try to lift her feet. This had been going on for almost two hours.

Jack, reveling in his diabolical torture, almost forgot the captive nylon feet he was stroking. But they were quickly brought back to his attention as, in the course of his tickling, he struck a Mark – a point of extra-intense ticklishness, induced during previous sessions through the action of the Tickling Serum by paying particular attention to a single spot. Striking the Mark had elicited a sudden shriek from his prisoner, on top of her previous giggling. Now, his attention temporarily drawn away from Michelle, he turned around to look at the owner of the captive feet. And the owner instantly realized she had made a mistake.

Her name was Sharon, and she had been in the Nylon Dungeon for about two months. She was in her early thirties, and was a gorgeous brunette who had formerly had a cozy position as the administrative assistant to the top executive at her company. She was married, to a handsome, financially well off man.

However, she had come to the attention of another manager at her company who, secretly, belonged to the Nylon Dungeon. After ensuring that her kidnapping would not be traced to him, he had arranged for her to be brought here – which the Nylon Dungeon had done, with its customary expedience. The fact of her marriage was irrelevant; the Nylon Dungeon was never concerned with such niceties. Wives and girlfriends of members were strictly off-limits; but other than that, when a woman was desired, she was simply taken, married or single. After all, once inside, she was the property of the Dungeon.

Sharon, while chained up in her cell, often thought despairingly of her husband, wondering if she would ever set eyes on him again. But at times like this, when she was being tickled, she couldn’t concentrate on anything else but the tickling – because, at such times, there was nothing else.

At her age, 19-year-old Jack would not, in her former life, have even registered as a blip on her radar screen. But now, she was his toy, his helpless captive, being used for his amusement. Jack smiled blissfully at the thought that this "older woman" was so completely under his control.

Sharon had been the victim of Jack’s sessions before, and she dreaded it immensely, as did all the women in the Nylon Dungeon who had encountered Jack. With the callowness of his age, he showed his captives absolutely no mercy. Sharon knew that Jack would not cease until he had either fallen over with exhaustion or driven her half-insane with his merciless tickling.

Now, he had found a Mark, in the base of her instep, left there by an earlier torturer. He looked back into Sharon’s eyes. Like Michelle, Sharon had a ball gag cruelly tied in her mouth; Jack preferred to keep his captives as helpless as possible. Gagged, she was unable to plead for mercy, but she silently begged Jack with her eyes, as he poised his finger over the Mark on her right foot.

Jack shivered with anticipation. He deeply enjoyed the look of intense fear in Sharon’s tear-stained eyes, her silent plea for mercy. He drew his finger closer to the Mark, then pulled it away, again and again, teasing Sharon, savoring her torment.

After five minutes, he momentarily turned back to the screen, and as he did not resume tickling, Sharon dared hope he had decided to spare her. But then, he turned back to her, and with a wide grin, drove his index and middle fingers into her instep, making a small, tight circle around the extra-ticklish spot.

Sharon screamed into her gag. Her head thrust from side to side, and she pulled with all her might in futile struggles with her shackles. Her screams quickly cascaded into hysterical, screeching laughter, tears flowing down her face.

While still tormenting the Mark on her right foot, Jack then began raking the smooth, nylon sole of her left foot. Her screams redoubled, almost to hoarseness, and her body convulsed with uncontrollable laughter.

Now satisfied at the level to which he had increased his helpless victim’s tickle torture, Jack – continuing to circle the Mark on Sharon’s right foot, and to rake her left foot – turned back to the video screen, to again drink in the torment of his other helpless captive.



The End

Herr_Kitzeln
10-28-2010, 02:52 AM
Another great one!