C.A.B.
3rd Level White Feather
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"MY NAME IS AMY" by C.A.B.
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
My name is Amy. Well, not really, but it will do for this story; a confession actually. I am 28 years old. I am in college and studying for my master's degree. I have a boyfriend and grew up in a pretty normal, middle class family. I had a decent (if not boring) side job doing data entry, but I quit. I quit, not because it sucked, the pay was good and the hours fitted my schedule, I quit because I found a better job. My name is Amy, and I am a professional torturer.
Now, before you think I'm some kind of sicko, please let me tell you my story. I'm not into the whole BDSM thing, like in kink clubs, with all those cheesy dom wanna-be's and stiletto gals that get paid to smack around fat, pussifed men. No. In fact my sex life with my boyfriend is quite vanilla, and we like it that way. I'll admit it now, I do have sex with women, but not the way you think. I'm totally into guys and cock, I am NOT a prostitute. The women thing is part of my job. Let me explain.
About a year ago, some gal pals and I went out clubbing and sort of split up a little as the night wore on. I found myself talking to this guy (we'll call him Steve) and he was very funny and engaging. He was just cool and relaxed, unlike most of the club-boy fare who try to impress you with a face full of beer breath and a cheap line. No, Steve was very interesting and we talked about a lot of different things. He was older with a touch of gray and seemed to be worldly and knowledgeable without being a know-it-all. As far as I could deduce, he was divorced but not whacked out by it.
The conversation inevitably turned to sexual innuendo, and in Steve's defense, I started it. The topic of kinky sex cropped up and we played some clever word banter about it, and then it became about "power-exchange," and bondage, and sado-masochism. Steve wasn't trying to lure me, in fact, he mostly listened, and answered my stupid questions honestly. I asked him if he was a "dom" and he laughed, stating a definite "No," that he wasn't into that whole scene, but he did have experience tying up women. When he said that, I felt a little twinge inside and I hoped I didn't blush.
My friends had long since left me for some extended dancing in a fogged up car or were passing out in some stall somewhere. But I was totally into my conversation with Steve. I had had enough wine that my mouth and honesty were getting the better of me and I think I said something that I hoped would make Steve blush in return. Stupid. But I blurted out that I always wanted to tie up a girl and kind of... torture her. I felt really weird when I realized what I said and I thought Steve would smirk and find an excuse to leave. He called over the waitress and asked if I wanted another drink. I did, I was so stunned at what I said. He asked the waitress to bring me another wine and to bring him his bar tab.
I started to awkwardly apologize, but it didn't come out right. In fact I sounded like a stupid "drunk girl". Steve just smiled casually and when his check came he tore off a piece of paper and scribbled on it. He paid the waitress and when she left he handed me the paper. Then he looked me dead in the eye (and I'll never forget the look on his face) and said, "If you want to know what it feels like to tie up a woman and torture her, call me at this number." Then he simply smiled politely, shook my sweaty hand, got up and left. I sat there staring at the paper and the phone number for a long time, my heart pounding.
That night stuck with me for a long time and I tried to write it off as drunken bullshit. You know the kind; the "oh my god what the fuck did I say and do last night - that's not me" kind of guilt. Well... I did get back to my normal routine of school, studying, seeing my boyfriend, going to my boring job, et-cetera. But, especially when things got boring, my mind went back to that night and the phone number: in the shower; in my cubicle; when trying to study. I found an excuse not to throw away the piece of paper and it laid on my dresser like a secret in the open.
Now, like I told you, I am not a lesbian and I have a boyfriend; I like men. But, I have always had a secret fantasy about tying up a girl and torturing her... I'm not even sure how, really. I mean I wouldn't even know what to do. I suppose I'm a closet sadist maybe. I don't think its really a perversion... just a private fantasy that I never shared. It is kind of sexual for me and I used to daydream about this classmate that sat in front of me in eleventh grade math class. She was mouthy and bullied people, but so damn pretty. I think my fantasy started as a revenge thing because I dared not stand up to her or her clique. But then, I guess, somehow the revenge thing turned to a "control thing" and I somehow became more and more excited by it. So like I said, I don't think I'm a lesbo, but I do like the idea of "dominating". I used to masturbate to the fantasy, but I never shared or went farther with it.
Now this guy Steve and his "offer" had my heart pounding every time I would think about it. Damn.
One week my boyfriend had fucked off with his pals to go "fishing" or some bullshit excuse to go clubbing in some other town, and my part time job and school were really becoming the shits. I came home, frustrated and bored and saw that paper lying there. I got a wine from the fridge sat on my bed and stared at the paper. Then, swallowed hard, came up with some crap reason to call, and dialed the number on my cell.
It rang five times and I almost hung up when he answered. His voice was as smooth and cordial as I remembered it and he said it was "nice" that I called. I made nervous chit-chat and he was receptive, but just when I thought I was going to blow it, he interrupted, "So, have you given any thought to my offer?"
"Offer?" I feigned ignorance.
"Yes," he said patiently and matter-of-factly, "I told you that night that if you would like know what it feels like to tie up and torture a woman, to call me."
"Yes, I know, but..." I was lost. Caught in dreamy like guilt and excitement. My cheeks were hot.
"Well, if you are, and there's nothing wrong with that kind of kink, I'm inviting you to experience it. In fact, if your not doing anything else tonight, you can meet me at the following address... got some paper and a pen? Its okay if you don't want to or feel funny about it. I'm not after sex. It's just business with me and another woman. I'll explain everything when you get here and if you're not comfortable, no harm done."
"Um. Well. I'd like to but..."
"Good. Be here by nine o'clock, please. OH! And just so you know, this is a paying job. It's not prostitution or anything. Just a paying job."
"Wha.. What do I have to do?" I stammered. Heart pounding. Curiosity burning.
"It's like I said," He was smooth as velvet. No nervousness. No craziness, "You help me tie up and torture a woman and I pay you for the night. You go home alone and I pay you five thousand dollars."
"Excuse me?" Bullshit alert. I almost hung up.
He laughs lightly, "I assure you, it's all legitimate. Look don't worry about the money, you can judge for yourself whether you want the job or not. Tell you what, I'll pay you two hundred and fifty dollars just to come down and see for yourself. For your trouble. A finder's fee, if you will."
"Well... It's like a Dominatrix thing, eh? Like kink for hire?"
He laughs again. "Look. I've got to go and get things prepared here. If you want to come, by all means, you're invited. If not, that's cool too. No harm done. I'm not offended."
"Okay... maybe."
"Oh! One more thing... please come alone. I know that sounds scary, but this is a public place and safe. But you must use the utmost discretion. Please. I know I can count on you. If you come, keep it a secret."
And he hung up.
I was all over the place. I got another glass of wine and must have paced my apartment for twenty minutes absorbing it all. I was totally creeped outÑ but then again, my mind rationalized that, if one does partake in a torture session, of course it has to be discreet. I mean... I was just in the mood to find out. It was probably some mind game crap... and I did have a stun gun. But then, "what if?" What if it was legitimate and I had my only chance of discreetly realizing a fantasy. I doubted the money line... but what if Steve was just a kinky dude and his girlfriend. If anything, I just had to find out.
* * *
It took a while for me to decide what to do. No, I knew I wanted to go, but I couldn't decide what to wear! I know it sounds totally retarded, but, I mean, what does one wear to a first time ever BDSM encounter? Slutty? Formal? Studious? I mean... seriously. So I went with normal, knock-around jeans, sneaks, and a tee. Casual. And in case I needed to bolt. Heh.
I Googled the address and it was a Public Storage yard on a lonely stretch of a back highway. But it was a legitimate national company, and I was sure it was well-lit and had security guards. All the better. I called my boyfriend and left a message that I was going to such and such storage to help a friend move and I would call him by midnight to check in. I thought then if anything happened, they'd at least know where I was going at what time. I was awash with fear, paranoia, and oh so hopeful of a fantasy. Like I said, my heart was pounding the whole way there.
When I pulled up to the storage yard the gate opened like they were expecting me and, I swear, I almost backed out... but I drove in and started looking for the bay number. The whole way I was cussing myself for being "stupid" and my mind played the news reports of my body found in a storage unit on tomorrow's news. But there it was. I pulled up to Bay S-9 between its bright orange garage and the little windowless door next to it. The yard was well-lit and there was a dude riding around in one of those little golf-carts. A rent-a-cop to be sure... but I felt better.
I knocked lightly on the door and for a minute I thought I was played. There was no sound from inside, (but then again, what the fuck was I expecting?) The door popped open and Steve smiled at me warmly, then ran an eye over my shoulder as if to make sure I was alone. "Hi! C'mon in!" And he retreated inside as if he were pleasantly interrupted. I only took one step inside, just so I could size up the place and make a hasty back-peddle if I had to. But it was plain and also well lit. No chamber of horrors, just a small built out room with a desk, a chair, and a secondhand couch that had seen better days. Some small t.v. monitors, a tiny fridge, and a harsh, industrial fluorescent light over head. Steve was on his cell phone and smiled at me to sit down, before turning back to his conversation. I chose to stand. Noticed an old poster for auto tools and the sleazy bitch that flaunted them. An aluminum flight case by Steve's desk. His laptop, open and screen-saving. And another plain door; steel with locks. Obviously it lead to the rest of the bay...
My heart was pounding in my neck.
Steve's conversation was indeterminate. "Yes." "Right." "Of course." "We'll get it done." "Thanks." And he hung up and turned to me. "You made it!" he smiled. Then he said, "OH!" as if he surprised himself and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the biggest roll of cash I'd ever seen, unsnapped the ridiculously undersized rubber band and started counting out one fifty dollar bills. He then motioned for me to hold out my hand and he smiled as he leafed them into my palm one by one; he paused at two fifty, smiled and winked, and continued to five hundred. Then he pocketed his roll and sat back a safe distance to give me my space as I considered.
"See?" he smiled, "Now don't freak out. Sometimes business is business and there's nothing weird about it."
"I don't know. I mean..."
"Wait, just to show you that I have to protect myself too, I need to see your driver's license."
"I'm 28, Steve. I told you that the night we met."
"I know. Just humor me."
He took my license and looked it over, then, he took a hand-scanner and ran it over on the desk.
"There. For my records. Now we're both safe."
"I don't get it?"
"I'm going to explain. Want to meet the woman?"
"Uh? Yeah, I guess. Is she coming soon?" I was awkward. I wanted some wine. I wanted to leave. I wanted to stay.
"Here. Come with me..." And he motioned to the other door where he flipped some dead-bolts. Inside was an even smaller room with a large window on the back wall. It was dimly lit; mostly from the light of the window. There were electronic gadgets and a microphone by the window. Another laptop.
"Come on. Don't be shy. You can see her through that window. It's a two way mirror, that's why we keep it dark on this side. It's okay, she can't see or hear you. It's like I told you, "discretion rules here" Its the most important rule." He walked casually to the large window, me following a nervous two steps behind.
Beyond the smoky glass is a woman in what looks like her mid thirties, smartly dressed in a designer silk blouse, trim black skirt, and strappy heels. She was buckled to a table with bands of nylon or something. She was obviously nervous; but laid motionless, her eyes darting this way and that. The room is really dark but for one large operating light hanging over her. It must have been blinding. Steve picks up a small mic and clicks it on, "We are going to start soon," he says curtly and professionally, then clicks the mic off abruptly. The woman mouths something we can't hear and tries to crane her neck but she is strapped down at her forehead. The whole scene is terrifying yet, I feel a twinge see her in so tightly bound. Steve smiles and pulls me away. "Here, sit down, I'll explain."
I was paralyzed with intrigue and fear as Steve laid it out with all the smooth frankness and nonchalance I had come to expect from him. It was frightening, but as he spoke, it was somehow perfectly acceptable in a twisted way. I had no fear of Steve. He commanded a sly kind of respect, and a weird kind of trust.
This was not a BDSM club or a private encounter. He and his unseen partners were in the business of extortion. They called what they do a "Catch and Release" They target wealthy women who have, or who's husbands have, a lot of money. They prefer corrupt wealthy folks with dirty money, because they are less likely to report the encounter. The wife is monitored and trailed for her weekly habits, then, is "caught" and brought here to be encouraged to give up her bank account and PIN numbers, which are then accessed electronically and cash is transferred to an untraceable account. The woman is then boxed up and released in another location and advised that it can happen again if she says anything. Mostly the woman never say anything, but even if they do, they have no idea who took them or where. They are also less likely to report money that the IRS does not know they have. Steve smiles again.
"So... this "encouragement"?" I asked slowly.
"Yes. That's what we do here. This is what we do. We encourage them to be cooperative... we use torture."
"Like cuttin' off fingers n'stuff? Forget it!"
"Ha! No. Nothing like that. And we can't risk any permanent damage or else someone might take it too personally. We need them more fearful of the IRS than us. Rule three: No permanent damage or maiming. We want the experience to be dreadful enough that they are scared and never want it to happen again... but thankful that they are released and too humiliated to tell the tale. As far as hubby is concerned, she just blew her bank account on a wild shopping spree. The wife usually lies about it."
"What's rule One and Two?"
"Rule one we covered. Discretion at all times. Rule two is, 'No names.' For now on, you will never call me Steve while we are here. You will call me 'Mr. A'. And I will always call you, 'Ms. B'. That is, if we need to address each other at all. For the first few sessions, you should just listen and watch, and only do as I instruct."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, that's why you are here. I'm going to make you into my apprentice torturer."
I swallow hard. Wanting more but wanting to run.
"But.. I don't know..."
"I'm going to teach you. I will teach you how to bind a victim. How to insight psychological fear. How to incite panic. How to bring the senses to the brink. How to..."
"Oh my god!"
"How to whip and slap. I will teach you how to induce utter helplessness. How to run electricity. How to sexually torture, tease, and humiliate. I'll teach the you the art of tickle torture.
My mouth was hanging open at "sexual torture" but I involuntarily smirked when he said "tickle torture."
"No," He moved closer, "Don't think for a minute we're fooling around here."
"No. I'm sorry. I know you're your serious. But... tickling? Really? That's like, for kids and teenagers."
Steve smiles but then awash with seriousness about his craft. "This is not friendly boyfriend girlfriend tickling, this is extreme tickling. Forced laughter. Involuntary torment of the nerve endings. When applied to a victim that is susceptible, and there are ways to make someone susceptible, it is an inescapable, unrelenting torment that leaves no marks. Ask anyone in the BDSM community what they would rather endure. Tickling is not one of them. We take pride in applying it here in long, slow, sessions that produce results. Coincidentally, I found out that woman in there is very ticklish. I was saving her for you."
My pussy was wet. It could have been all the excitement, but it was seeping for sure at "I was saving her for you."
So now I have this dilemma. A moral crisis of conscience. Here I am stuck in an awkward and insane situation. My sexual fantasy has come to life in the seemingly caring and benevolent hands of mobsters. Who, I'm sure, would have no qualms about putting ME on that table. They have a copy of my driver's license, and they now know where I live and everything else about me. They want to pay me a wad of cash to become an apprentice in an extremely illegal activity which breaks probably every Federal Law there is.
"Steve... I mean, 'Mr. A'. What do I have to do?" I stutter. Fear and excitement both.
"It's like I told you. You will go in there with me tonight, and we, together, under my instruction, are going to torture that bitch until she talks," he smiles, "But first, as I promised, I want you to step outside and mull it over. Keep the money I gave you. And if you don't come back, keep your mouth shut." And he smiled a different kind of smile.
I walked out to the car and lit a cigarette.
I called my boyfriend.
"Hi! We're all done here, just wanted you to know she's moved in fine. I'm going over her friends house for girls night. My phone will be 'off'. Bye!"
I recount the wad of bills in my pocket, snuff my cigarette, and walk back inside.
* * *
When I stepped back inside the storage bay's front office, Steve met me and said he was delighted that I decided to stay. It was the "smart move" as he said. I found that a touch ominous, and resigned myself that I could not escape my situation. Secretly, I was glad... the dark side of me I suppose. I rationalize really well.
Steve double locked the front door and escorted me to the second room (the Control Room as I now know it) and tossed me a white tee shirt. Man sized, but that was all he had. He explained that we can not give the woman (properly called a 'Guest') any visual clues to our identities. Plain, nondescript clothing or, in the future, when I was more comfortable, we could do it nude. I found that statement very hot. Steve was fit for an older man and my curiosity had been piqued since the bar.
He explained a myriad of operational details. What this or that does. What to do if this or that occurs, and other protocols. He said not to worry about memorizing everything this first time but just roll with it this evening. He would instruct and I would listen. He said when I was ready I could be 'hands on". He pulled the dossier on our guest and read some details to me. She was a corrupt contractor's wife. Their company had been building sub-standard homes in the area for a long time and they were paying off local officials. They had millions. She was 42 and didn't work. Spent her days shopping and at luncheons with other trophy wives. She drove a souped-up roadster that most people aren't even allowed to touch at the dealership. She has a couple of bank accounts under her name where they juggle money. She has her hair, nails, and tanning done every week without fail. No kids.
Steve then went over a loose outline of how an evening starts. He notes that most times it just takes a couple of hours but they have done all-nighters and, on rare occasion, weekends for "tough or stupid bitches." But, he was proud to say, that their record is 100% with nothing messy or unfortunate occurring (so called). Steve's company selects targets from in town, and more and more from nearby cites as pickings get slim. The guest is always brought in with a black fabric bag taped over the head and a mouth stuffed with a cloth gag and duct tape. Two company men (the 'Catchers') carry her in and bind her to the table. Then Steve does the rest. Whenever we are to go in the other room we are to wear these full-head black masks made of sheer Lycra like material; it makes us look like faceless bank-robbers in my opinion. Its easy for us to see out but the guest can't make out our faces.
The first thing Steve does is make sure the guest is fully immobilized. There are straps built into the padded table and they are secured with arms above their heads; buckled at the wrists; above the elbows; forehead; beneath the breasts; at the pelvis; two on the knees (above and below the kneecap); and the ankles. Like I said, 'totally immobilized.' Only then does Steve take off their head bags and gag tape. They scream and complain like banshees when that happens, but Steve simply leaves the room for a couple of hours to let them 'stew" about the situation. To the guest, the room is blackness beyond the harsh working light overhead.
Steve says it is important to leave them clothed at first so that they always have a sense of 'hope'. This is important because part of the breaking procedure is to dash that hope again and again. After about an hour or two, Steve will turn on the speakers in the room and speak from the control room. His voice is amplified and a little strange sounding; cold and detached. He likes to mind-fuck with them just when they have settled down a little. He'll say obscure things like, "We'll begin soon" or "We are almost ready for you" and he lets them eat it up for another hour. The mind play is vital to add to the fear.
Before we go in, Steve has me take off my jewelry and looks me over for any tattoos that might be visible. Then he helps me don my mask for the first time. It excites me because I realize I am safe behind anonymity. I can do anything I want now... I am not 'me' anymore. I am a 'torturer'. He instructs me to be absolutely silent and pay no attention or react to what the guest says or threatens. "Just act nonchalant and clinical. It scares the crap out of them."
As we step into the 'Play Room' for the first time, I am mesmerized by the sight of this beautiful woman bound to the table. Here, at chest height is the 'victim' I have only dreamed about in my darkest imaginings. Her eyes are moist from tears of fear and frustration, flashing defiantly as she rattles off pleads and threats and demands and apologies, jumbled together like the manic cries of the desperate. I have come to realize its the 'desperation' that turns me on the most, the fact that they must endure whatever I do to them and it is unbearable; but they must bear it. No choice. That's hot and it makes me wet just thinking about it.
Steve gently nudges me right up to the table where we hover over the guest. He then pulls over a trolley cart with an assortment of frightening tools, instruments, materials, and torture devices. Then he hands me these bent safety scissors, the kind they use in emergency rooms, and motions for me to begin cutting off her clothing. She screams anew as we start to strip away her expensive blouse, brassiere, and skirt. Steve then motions for me to stop and just stare at her as she takes it in. The look on her face excites me. Then he abruptly trims and yanks away her panties. He balls it up and stuffs them in her mouth followed by a couple of layers of duct tape. He is quick and efficient, and before the guest can tell what's happening he duct tapes cotton batting over her eyes. Then, what I thought was odd, almost comical, he places a large set of headphones over her ears, containing them. The wire, I assumed, was connected to the microphone system in the control room. From under the table he pulls out another wire with a sticky patch, peels it and sticks it to the side of her neck. Steve then motions for me to leave with him.The woman, shaking and fearful, nipples erect in the cool room air, moans behind her gag, whimpering.
In the other room, Steve dons a wireless headset microphone. "When she's got those headphones on she can't hear us speak unless I turn on this headset mic. This isolates her further. Unless I am speaking to her through my headset, all she hears is her own breathing and heartbeat from the sticky mic I put on her neck. When we start to torture her, anything she utters will be amplified into her own headphones. She'll never forget it. It will haunt her dreams, and she'll never want to chance an encounter again." he winks, "Keeps the money flowing."
"Now," Steve put a supportive hand on my shoulder, "When we go back in there, I'm going to give her 'the speech'. Yes, it is a very specific wording. Basically its her instructions on what is expected of her. She'll probably want to say anything we want to hear, but that's not how it goes down. Listen and learn." I swallowed hard, totally detached from myself. I was just as frightened as the woman but, oh my god, I kept squeezing my legs together I was so turned on.
Back in the room the woman was totally disorientated, hearing nothing but her own rapid breathing and seeing nothing. She looked very ready to comply. Steve spoke freely to me in the room now.
"Ms. B, go up to her and start slowly caressing her skin. Gently. Reassuringly. All over. Then I will speak to her, and while I do keep stroking no matter how she reacts. I walked up to the table, her skin was glowing with cool perspiration, but she was soft like silk. perfectly shaved, and tan. She had a bikini wax. When I first touched her I jumped a little because she startled. Then I remembered that she is in this amplified breathing/heartbeat zone and totally sightless. I scared her, and it thrilled me. My hand went back and I ran my fingers down her smooth arms, over her breasts and beyond. Easy. Soothing. Like petting an animal. Her breathing was in small fits and starts. Then Steve clicked his headset mic on, his voice pumped directly into her headphones.
"You need to pay very close attention. The only way to save yourself is to do exactly what we ask. I am going to tell you what you are to do. In a little while, we are going to ask you for your bank account information, as many as you can recall. Your pass-codes and PIN numbers. You will give us the information and we will confirm it. If you do not tell us what we want to know, if you are not forthcoming, if you lie to us, then we will torture you for as long as we think it takes to convince you, if you lie again or resist, we will double the time we torture you until we ask again. This will continue until we get what we want. Comply and you will be released. Do you understand what I have just told you?"
The woman shakes her head, vigorously. She tries to speak something but it is muffled. She wants to cooperate. She's desperate to cooperate. Her nipples are firm under my sweeping palms.
"Are you ready to cooperate? Are you ready to comply?"
She shakes her head 'yes!' and murmurs something hard enough through the gag to make her neck veins stick out. Her thighs are smooth and toned. I double my hands on her body. Her every pore is lit by the brash light, my shadow is over her, close and intimate. I can smell her feint sex and fear mixed. Steve turns his mic back on.
"I know you think you are ready to comply, but we need you to understand how serious we are, " Steve smiles at me behind his mask, "So we are going to demonstrate how helpless you are. We are going to torture you and we are not going to stop until such time as we see fit."
The woman begins to quake and pull at her straps. Panic.
"We are going to make you suffer and scream and you can do nothing to stop it. What you want does not matter. You are nothing but a play thing to us. When we stop. IF we stop. We will ask for information. You will answer. Do you understand?"
The woman is screaming behind her gag. Pulling at her straps to no avail, she can't move. She's stopped listening and is in hysterics. I keep running my hand over her but now its pointless. Steve tells me you stop and join him in the other room. We leave her screaming, pondering her fate.
* * *
When Steve closes the door to the control room he has me sit at the console with him. I can't take my eyes off the woman on the other side of the glass, shaking and straining at her bonds. I am both sympathetic and sexually mesmerized by the sight. Steve turns me on my stool to face him.
"Go ahead. Ask." he says.
"Ask? What? Oh..." he can read me, "Why did you say we were going to torture her if she was ready to give up her bank accounts? She's scared enough, isn't she?"
"Yes. And no. She is scared, no doubt there, and that's exactly how we want her. However, she might or might not be scared enough to give us what we want. Ask her now, and she my give us bullshit for hours. Waist of time. And let me tell you, as scared as she is, we have no threat credibility other than the actual abduction. We want more than scaredÑ we want dread. This way, she'll remain frightened for her life. She won't dare risk this happening again. Understand?"
"I think so," I paused, "So... what are we going to do?"
"When we go in, I will tell her over the mic how we are going to torture her, and then we will. Step by step. We will mix psychological and sexual torment, pain, and tickling. She won't know whether to scream, cum, or cry. We'll start with her nipples and breasts. Pay attention to the verbal play, not only will she feel violated but guilty for getting turned on against her will. We will slowly build her up with sexual tension, then dash it with a good flogging or more nipple torture," he smiles, "or both." My own nipples were hard just listening to Steve casually rattle off the methods of torture he would employ... no wait, WE would employ. I was unconsciously rocking on my stool. One ear on Steve, one eye on that delicious spoiled tart. The girl from my high school fantasies superimposed perfectly on this woman. I was so ready.
Steve cleared his throat and I came back to the room.
"It is important that you have a care for your enthusiasm. Never rush. Torturing is an art form and we take our cues from the guest. We must maintain the illusion that she does not matter. In truth, it is her every reaction that dictates the path we take. You must me mindful of her body's reaction but ignore her mouth. Never hesitate or stop based on what she tries to say, even when she's gagged, "Steve chuckles, "There are no safe-words here."
I nod. Enthralled.
"Whatever I ask you to do, do it slow and deliberate. Be merciless. In the end, its all worth it. If we fuck around and get sloppy, we won't see dime one... and we're fucked." Steve said 'we're fucked' but his eyes hinted I was fucked. He continued.
"The idea is to bring her to the edge of endurance and then make her endure more, and then, more beyond that. Guests never think they can deal with it and they die a thousand times every-time you push them a little more. It's called torture for a reason." then he looked at me funny, "Are you ticklish?"
"What?" I swallowed, off guard.
"I said, are you ticklish?"
"No!... Yes. Actually I hate it. I can't stand it."
"That's my point. You absolutely can't stand it, that's why its such an effective torture. When you can not stand one more bit of it, you have no choice and must endure more. The laughter is forced. The guest does not want to laugh but is forced to. Its humiliating and agonizing at the same time. Some get sexually excited involuntarily and that humiliates them more. Absolute loss of control. Slow agony. The sexual torture works the same way; forced to the edge, then denied. Or inversely, forced to cum multiple times against their will."
I had never thought of tickling or sex that way, but now I could see it. A wicked and delightful torment. That woman, crazed and suffering under my deftest touch. My fantasy was fleshing out before my eyes.
"The other side of that coin is it does not stop. There is nothing they can say or do to stop it. They come to realize that they are..."
"Totally dominated!" I blurted out. Then blushed.
"Right. Are you almost ready to go back in?"
"Oh, yes!"
"I'll show you how to torture breasts. Its a good warm up." Steve tugged down his mask and then adjusted mine and we went in. I dove in.
* * *
In the room Steve motioned me closer and I stood opposite him over our guest. She felt our presence more than she actually knew we were there. In her head-space there was only her breathing and pounding heart. She was pearled with perspiration and wound like a spring ready to explode. Steve clicks on his mic.
"We're going to torture you now. I want you to watch as we do it." Off goes the mic. Steve peels off her taped blindfold, which was easy because of her sweating. Her eyes were beautiful to me, all flashing and defiant, full of terror. Deep blue and nary a crease of laugh lines. She babbles something into her gag. Steve instructs me to play with her nipples, to make them very hard. I touch her and begin doing to her what I know makes mine hard; caressing and pinching, squeezing and pulling all over her breasts. Circling slowly to tease the tip. I make them each wet with the tip of my tongue, blowing on them to watch the flesh tighten. I loose myself in the process until Steve asks, "Are they really hard? Back away."
Without warning Steve begins to whip the whole of her breasts with a leather flogger. Beating them each in measured, practiced strikes. Fast enough to seem violent, yet spaced enough for her to appreciate every welling sting. Steve is smiling behind his mask, "They are no doubt hard now... check this out." He dips the very tips of the leather thongs into a bucket of water, "This really stings." He is sadistic, licking each erect nipple with a snap of pain, and rounds out the beating with her belly and mound. The woman is in fits and she cannot help but squint at every strike. Steve stops and adjusts his mask. "Now soothe her, caress her... finger her a little. See how red and tender she is. She's wet as well."
This cycle of flogging and teasing goes on for a while. Then Steve flicks at her nipples and pinches and pulls them, filling them with her hot pounding pulse as he fastens clamps on each one, turning the adjustment wheels slowly until she cries out. His mic on, "Do you feel that? Good. Wait until we remove them... its worse."
I am in the presence of a true sadist, but as I watch, I realize he was right. He is locked onto this woman with his entire being. Her every wince. Every twitch. Reading her for clues. He devours her agony like sustenance, this is more than just a job to him, it's a dance macabre; torturer and sufferer. I decide I want to fuck Steve. Definitely.
The guest is glistening with sweat and tears and she is absolutely stunning that way. Steve instructs me to play with her lips and masturbate her lightly, "Just a little. Maddening circles, break it up, keep her edgy." I oblige and use my lightest touch to play around her pubic bone, inner thighs and puffy lips. Steve's mic clicks again.
"You think you're a classy bitch but your just a cum slut aren't you? You want to gush all over my table don't you? Doesn't take much to get your pussy wet does it, ****?" He clicks off. She whimpers and screams haplessly into the gag.
Steve raises a finger to me as if to say, "Watch this!" He throws a lever below the table and something heavy releases. The table has some tricks built in. Steve turns a crank and the table splits under her ass, her legs spread out with each pinion notched. He does not stop until she is wide and fully exposed. Her pussy is red and puffy. Her wetness glistening over her asshole. I know I am exactly the same under my jeans. Steve then hands me a a small stiff feather. He spreads her lips with his hands, her pink button poking out from under its hood, throbbing and sensitive. "Okay. Now paint around that little clit, Deft strokes. You know what to do. Not enough to make her cum, just torture."
I lower myself between her legs like a black widow considering its prey and watch her squirm and thrash as I torture her most sensitive flesh. A woman knows a woman. Not as clumsy or reckless as a man. A woman knows how to draw it out until it's excruciating. I realized this is why Steve wanted me. As good a torturer as he could ever become... he'll never understand a pussy the way woman does. It took a while but I made her cry for release. There was none.
Steve pulls me away. She is left oozing and frustrated. "Now we switch gears."
He clicks on his mic, "Are you ticklish?" The woman has no answer, she is not prepared. Her eyes suddenly widen. Steve looms over her and begins to tickle her ribs. She instantly screams into her gag. "Are you ticklish? Answer me." He continues to dig. The woman is obviously off the scale ticklish and cannot answer, let alone breathe. He gleefully continues as she thrashes. I watch in amazement at her suffering... laughing a little myself with her forced laughter. She hated it. He would pause as he worked up and down her tanned sides, and she would scream hatred at him through her gag, she was absolutely livid and cursed till her face was red. But then the most satisfying thing; Steve would start tickling her ribs and underarms and belly and her mask of hate was forced to transform into a tearful mirth. And she laughed and laughed and laughed and had no control that she was. That was erotic. Force the bitch to do what he wanted. Now I wanted to do it. Bad.
Steve stopped and parted her lips again. This time handing me a vibrator with a knobby clit stimulator. "Do it. Bring her this close. Then stop." I did as I was told. She pulsed and strained and seeped all over the leather table. She did not want to, but she was being forced to the edge... and there I made her stay. This close. Denied. I wanted to turn the vibe on myself. But Steve had other plans.
* * *
I slowly danced the head of the vibrator all along the sides of her clit hood and watched her involuntary contractions, moving it away just as she inched closer to climax. The woman moans and bucks. I see humiliation in her face, suffering so close to release. Steve pulls me away and shows her a digital camera, he then begins to take pictures, the flash capturing her in her most exposed position. Close-ups, full body, her face... many portraits of her face in agonized detail. He mocks her at the end with a big thumbs-up. She closes her eyes and weeps in shame.
"Okay, Ms. B, she obviously has no love of paparazzi. Time to cheer her up." said Steve. He cranks the table closed and locks it. Then he begins to unbuckle her, everything but her wrists and ankles. I stand there, perplexed.
"That's it? Is it over? We're letting her go? I mean..."
Steve smiles under his mask, "No. But for this next round we're going to stretch her out a bit." He hands me a heavy, metal crank handle. I didn't know what it was at the time, "Go. Up to the front there. Underneath."
I did so. The table had more surprises. It was then that I noticed her wrist cuffs were attached to cables. And they were run to what looked like a winch on the underside of the table.
"Go ahead. The handle fits on the side." Steve says, then turns on his mic, "Are you ready to talk? Are you ready to tell us everything we want to know?"
The woman sadly nods. Thinks twice, and then tries to scream her willingness to comply. Steve looms over her, "We're not ready to hear your confession yet." Off goes the mic. The woman's eyes grow twice as large as she panics anew. It must have been deafening in her headphones.
Steve assists me at the head of the table, "See. Hope is dashed again. She thought she was being released. What we are going to do is pull her really taught. Then we're going to tickle her. She will be too tight to move much and it makes her feel very vulnerable," he chuckles some, "Because she is. When I say, start turning the crank, nice and slow, let her hear each ratchet. Slow. I'll say when to stop."
He turns the mic on. "We are going to rack you nice and tight now," He motions to me to begin cranking, "If you are lucky, that sexy body of yours will be two inches taller when we're done. By the way... did I ask you if you were ticklish?"
The woman begins to buck and pull, but with each turn, her arms are pulled tighter to her head, and her ankles come together under the tension. Clink. Clink. Clink. She becomes a living line of tan, tender flesh.
"Okay, enough, Ms. B." Steve joins me by her head, "Now, you take one side and I'll do the other, mirror what I do. We start on her arms and work down to the pits. Tickle by scrabbling like this, but don't linger in any one place too long, move it around. Even if you find a place that is really effective, don't be tempted to stay there too long or it will become desensitized. Besides, it's not always the obvious places that are ticklish, sometimes there are little surprises."
We start and the woman strains the cables as she begins to laugh explosively through her gag. I feel a new wave of hot moisture between my legs as I watch her suffer under my dancing fingers. Each part of her produces different laughter and agony. Her armpits were great fun; exposed and taught, I imagined she worked out because she was yanking violently to pull her arms down, anything to protect the sensitive skin. But she could do nothing. It was true torture in every sense of the word.
Following Steve's tutelage and example, I learned about the ribs and belly, the areas just below the belt-line, the neck, ears, and, oddly, the breasts and belly button. She laughed uncontrollably and her breathing was torment in itself being forced through her nostrils. Steve would taunt her through the mic periodically, telling her "You can't stop us," and "We're going to tickle you to death," things of that nature. I loved it.
"I want to try that. I want to tease her with the mic." I said.
"No. Not this session. I appreciate your eagerness, though. Okay, ready, this is how you tickle legs, knees, and ass. Steve instructed on lightness technique, pinching, scraping, knuckling and other methods of tickling that I never imagined. Our guest was pink and red with uncontrollable laughter. "You like it, don't you? You want us to tickle you all night?" Steve teased into her headphones, "There's no where to escape. You can't get away."
He looks at me, "Let's see if her feet are ticklish." I moved quickly to undo the little side buckle on one of her shoes but Steve stayed my hand, "No. Not so quickly. With these shoes you can tease and tickle by wiggling in from the sides, see?" The woman exploded with giggles and I thought the gag tape would pop off, but it held. She was pleading for mercy, the words were mangled but I could tell. I wanted masturbate right there and then. But Steve urged me to do my job.
Her strappy heels were designer Italian leather, very expensive, and I was jealous. Her tan, silky feet and french nails were perfection. Pedicured weekly I assumed. I thought about asking for her shoes but thought better of it, her feet were bigger than mine, "I wish I could afford heels like these..."
"After tonight, you will." Steve said matter-of-factly, "Keep exploring and teasing around and in between her shoes and skin, it's maddening." He was right, between fits of giggles the woman would enrage and groan all types of threats at me. So... I used both hands and teased and tickled her between the straps. Domination.
Steve then drags the two stools from the control room and sets them on either side at the foot of the table, "Go ahead, Ms. B, have a seat and get comfortable, we're going to take our time here. His mic went on, "I see your feet are ticklish. You should have told us. As punishment, were going to torture your feet a very long time. You might feel like dying, but I assure you... you won't." Steve smiles at me through his mask, "Now we remove these very slowly, let her die a thousand deaths of anticipation."
We sat on the stools, each on one side. She tried but could not move to stop it, so tight was she pulled. I set to unbuckling the little side strap slowly and teasingly. Then we slipped off those expensive shoes and Steve motioned to cast them aside flippantly. She strained to watch, helpless. Her feet were definitely pedicured, not a callous or roughness to be found, just what looked like a mile of narrow, snowy soft skin on a high arch. Her toes were like a high fashion model's, long and lean, but plump and pink underneath. I don't have a foot fetish, but there is something erotic about a woman's second or third most sensitive flesh just hanging there, exposed and helpless. Shit, more of this kind of fun and I may develop a foot fetish.
Her feet wiggled like mad at first but then as I began to tickle they went limp with her laughter, as if she had resigned to suffer. That was hot. Steve taught me how ticklish the heels and the tops of the feet are. How to exploit under and between each toe. How to trace the arches sharply. He also showed me the base psychological response when a foot is grabbed and tickled. And, conversely, the psychology of the dangling foot when tickled.
All the while the woman rocked a little from side to side as she convulsed with laughter. Steve would tease her verbally throughout, asking if she wanted it to stop. There was no stopping. We must have sat there for 40 minutes of on and off again foot tickling. We switched sides and just when I thought this woman could physically laugh no more, Steve pushed me to torture her longer. I was so horny, I thought I would cum. Then, out of nowhere, Steve looks at me and says, "I'm going to keep tickling her feet... but you need to suck my cock while I do it."
It took me a moment to process what he just said, and I watched myself kneel down without question and unzip him, releasing his engorgement. Without a word I pulled him into my mouth and worked my tongue as the woman screamed with pitiful laughter. I found myself rubbing my jeans on Steve's leg as I sucked him to climax, swallowing greedily like a some deranged meth whore. I came hard as I did. It was dirty, disgusting, surreal... and I loved it.
Needless to say, the night went by like a dream state from there. The woman spilled her information like a squealing piglet. Steve confirmed everything silently from his laptop, and in the wink of a few internet minutes, the numbers got smaller on her accounts and bigger somewhere in the electronic ether.
Oddly, Steve went up and thanked her sincerely ( a parting insult), and then warned her of the consequences if she ever spoke of this night. The woman pleaded to agree and begged for "no more torture!". Steve then looked at me, "The boys will be here in half an hour to scurry her to some remote parking lot. You need practice, see how many times you can force her to cum in that time." He's so business about it. I obey. I cranked open the table and tortured her clit mercilessly with the vibe. She's a squirter, I'll tell you that.
So, that was just my first time. After "the boys" carted Ms. Rich Bitch away, and it was just Steve and I... I became a little nervous. I was unsure if the noob was, in reality, expendable. But why would they go through all this trouble just to pop me and pick my pockets? Steve was pleasant and frank, and gave me a bonus of five thousand dollars right then and there, saying, "You go get yourself a hot little pair of Italian shoes... better than hers. You deserve it." And then he escorted me to my car and shut the door for me. I watched as he lazily walked back to the bay, but then he lurched and spun with his finger in the air. He trotted over and knocked for me to roll down the window. I did. I swallowed hard.
"Almost forgot. Next Friday night. Be here at eight. So much to do," he smiled, "Oh, I almost forgot..." he hands me a CD mailer, "drop this in a mailbox somewhere. Don't go to a post office."
"Is this...?"
"It's her night, recorded. What she heard in her headphones and digital pictures. When she gets it, she'll freak. Kind of like insurance. If she can get a copy, anyone can. Capishe?"
I nodded and he and waved me off. When I finally got home, I went right to my bed and masturbated over and over, the whole night playing over and over in my head.
So that's it. If you stop to think about it, it really wasn't as bizarre or complicated as you first might think. I still go to school (better grades now, and my loans are paid off.) My sex life with my boyfriend is still vanilla (but he'd die if he knew what I was thinking while we fuck). I got a new car, nothing too flashy. And needless to say I drive it with some snappy new Italian leather heels. Pedicures once a week, mind you.
Best of all, about every two weeks, I get paid a shit load of untraceable cash to torture beautiful women that probably... no, definitely, deserve it. And that gets this girl off.
My name is Amy, and I'm a professional torturer. So... what are you doing this weekend?
~ C.A.B.
****************************************************************
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
My name is Amy. Well, not really, but it will do for this story; a confession actually. I am 28 years old. I am in college and studying for my master's degree. I have a boyfriend and grew up in a pretty normal, middle class family. I had a decent (if not boring) side job doing data entry, but I quit. I quit, not because it sucked, the pay was good and the hours fitted my schedule, I quit because I found a better job. My name is Amy, and I am a professional torturer.
Now, before you think I'm some kind of sicko, please let me tell you my story. I'm not into the whole BDSM thing, like in kink clubs, with all those cheesy dom wanna-be's and stiletto gals that get paid to smack around fat, pussifed men. No. In fact my sex life with my boyfriend is quite vanilla, and we like it that way. I'll admit it now, I do have sex with women, but not the way you think. I'm totally into guys and cock, I am NOT a prostitute. The women thing is part of my job. Let me explain.
About a year ago, some gal pals and I went out clubbing and sort of split up a little as the night wore on. I found myself talking to this guy (we'll call him Steve) and he was very funny and engaging. He was just cool and relaxed, unlike most of the club-boy fare who try to impress you with a face full of beer breath and a cheap line. No, Steve was very interesting and we talked about a lot of different things. He was older with a touch of gray and seemed to be worldly and knowledgeable without being a know-it-all. As far as I could deduce, he was divorced but not whacked out by it.
The conversation inevitably turned to sexual innuendo, and in Steve's defense, I started it. The topic of kinky sex cropped up and we played some clever word banter about it, and then it became about "power-exchange," and bondage, and sado-masochism. Steve wasn't trying to lure me, in fact, he mostly listened, and answered my stupid questions honestly. I asked him if he was a "dom" and he laughed, stating a definite "No," that he wasn't into that whole scene, but he did have experience tying up women. When he said that, I felt a little twinge inside and I hoped I didn't blush.
My friends had long since left me for some extended dancing in a fogged up car or were passing out in some stall somewhere. But I was totally into my conversation with Steve. I had had enough wine that my mouth and honesty were getting the better of me and I think I said something that I hoped would make Steve blush in return. Stupid. But I blurted out that I always wanted to tie up a girl and kind of... torture her. I felt really weird when I realized what I said and I thought Steve would smirk and find an excuse to leave. He called over the waitress and asked if I wanted another drink. I did, I was so stunned at what I said. He asked the waitress to bring me another wine and to bring him his bar tab.
I started to awkwardly apologize, but it didn't come out right. In fact I sounded like a stupid "drunk girl". Steve just smiled casually and when his check came he tore off a piece of paper and scribbled on it. He paid the waitress and when she left he handed me the paper. Then he looked me dead in the eye (and I'll never forget the look on his face) and said, "If you want to know what it feels like to tie up a woman and torture her, call me at this number." Then he simply smiled politely, shook my sweaty hand, got up and left. I sat there staring at the paper and the phone number for a long time, my heart pounding.
That night stuck with me for a long time and I tried to write it off as drunken bullshit. You know the kind; the "oh my god what the fuck did I say and do last night - that's not me" kind of guilt. Well... I did get back to my normal routine of school, studying, seeing my boyfriend, going to my boring job, et-cetera. But, especially when things got boring, my mind went back to that night and the phone number: in the shower; in my cubicle; when trying to study. I found an excuse not to throw away the piece of paper and it laid on my dresser like a secret in the open.
Now, like I told you, I am not a lesbian and I have a boyfriend; I like men. But, I have always had a secret fantasy about tying up a girl and torturing her... I'm not even sure how, really. I mean I wouldn't even know what to do. I suppose I'm a closet sadist maybe. I don't think its really a perversion... just a private fantasy that I never shared. It is kind of sexual for me and I used to daydream about this classmate that sat in front of me in eleventh grade math class. She was mouthy and bullied people, but so damn pretty. I think my fantasy started as a revenge thing because I dared not stand up to her or her clique. But then, I guess, somehow the revenge thing turned to a "control thing" and I somehow became more and more excited by it. So like I said, I don't think I'm a lesbo, but I do like the idea of "dominating". I used to masturbate to the fantasy, but I never shared or went farther with it.
Now this guy Steve and his "offer" had my heart pounding every time I would think about it. Damn.
One week my boyfriend had fucked off with his pals to go "fishing" or some bullshit excuse to go clubbing in some other town, and my part time job and school were really becoming the shits. I came home, frustrated and bored and saw that paper lying there. I got a wine from the fridge sat on my bed and stared at the paper. Then, swallowed hard, came up with some crap reason to call, and dialed the number on my cell.
It rang five times and I almost hung up when he answered. His voice was as smooth and cordial as I remembered it and he said it was "nice" that I called. I made nervous chit-chat and he was receptive, but just when I thought I was going to blow it, he interrupted, "So, have you given any thought to my offer?"
"Offer?" I feigned ignorance.
"Yes," he said patiently and matter-of-factly, "I told you that night that if you would like know what it feels like to tie up and torture a woman, to call me."
"Yes, I know, but..." I was lost. Caught in dreamy like guilt and excitement. My cheeks were hot.
"Well, if you are, and there's nothing wrong with that kind of kink, I'm inviting you to experience it. In fact, if your not doing anything else tonight, you can meet me at the following address... got some paper and a pen? Its okay if you don't want to or feel funny about it. I'm not after sex. It's just business with me and another woman. I'll explain everything when you get here and if you're not comfortable, no harm done."
"Um. Well. I'd like to but..."
"Good. Be here by nine o'clock, please. OH! And just so you know, this is a paying job. It's not prostitution or anything. Just a paying job."
"Wha.. What do I have to do?" I stammered. Heart pounding. Curiosity burning.
"It's like I said," He was smooth as velvet. No nervousness. No craziness, "You help me tie up and torture a woman and I pay you for the night. You go home alone and I pay you five thousand dollars."
"Excuse me?" Bullshit alert. I almost hung up.
He laughs lightly, "I assure you, it's all legitimate. Look don't worry about the money, you can judge for yourself whether you want the job or not. Tell you what, I'll pay you two hundred and fifty dollars just to come down and see for yourself. For your trouble. A finder's fee, if you will."
"Well... It's like a Dominatrix thing, eh? Like kink for hire?"
He laughs again. "Look. I've got to go and get things prepared here. If you want to come, by all means, you're invited. If not, that's cool too. No harm done. I'm not offended."
"Okay... maybe."
"Oh! One more thing... please come alone. I know that sounds scary, but this is a public place and safe. But you must use the utmost discretion. Please. I know I can count on you. If you come, keep it a secret."
And he hung up.
I was all over the place. I got another glass of wine and must have paced my apartment for twenty minutes absorbing it all. I was totally creeped outÑ but then again, my mind rationalized that, if one does partake in a torture session, of course it has to be discreet. I mean... I was just in the mood to find out. It was probably some mind game crap... and I did have a stun gun. But then, "what if?" What if it was legitimate and I had my only chance of discreetly realizing a fantasy. I doubted the money line... but what if Steve was just a kinky dude and his girlfriend. If anything, I just had to find out.
* * *
It took a while for me to decide what to do. No, I knew I wanted to go, but I couldn't decide what to wear! I know it sounds totally retarded, but, I mean, what does one wear to a first time ever BDSM encounter? Slutty? Formal? Studious? I mean... seriously. So I went with normal, knock-around jeans, sneaks, and a tee. Casual. And in case I needed to bolt. Heh.
I Googled the address and it was a Public Storage yard on a lonely stretch of a back highway. But it was a legitimate national company, and I was sure it was well-lit and had security guards. All the better. I called my boyfriend and left a message that I was going to such and such storage to help a friend move and I would call him by midnight to check in. I thought then if anything happened, they'd at least know where I was going at what time. I was awash with fear, paranoia, and oh so hopeful of a fantasy. Like I said, my heart was pounding the whole way there.
When I pulled up to the storage yard the gate opened like they were expecting me and, I swear, I almost backed out... but I drove in and started looking for the bay number. The whole way I was cussing myself for being "stupid" and my mind played the news reports of my body found in a storage unit on tomorrow's news. But there it was. I pulled up to Bay S-9 between its bright orange garage and the little windowless door next to it. The yard was well-lit and there was a dude riding around in one of those little golf-carts. A rent-a-cop to be sure... but I felt better.
I knocked lightly on the door and for a minute I thought I was played. There was no sound from inside, (but then again, what the fuck was I expecting?) The door popped open and Steve smiled at me warmly, then ran an eye over my shoulder as if to make sure I was alone. "Hi! C'mon in!" And he retreated inside as if he were pleasantly interrupted. I only took one step inside, just so I could size up the place and make a hasty back-peddle if I had to. But it was plain and also well lit. No chamber of horrors, just a small built out room with a desk, a chair, and a secondhand couch that had seen better days. Some small t.v. monitors, a tiny fridge, and a harsh, industrial fluorescent light over head. Steve was on his cell phone and smiled at me to sit down, before turning back to his conversation. I chose to stand. Noticed an old poster for auto tools and the sleazy bitch that flaunted them. An aluminum flight case by Steve's desk. His laptop, open and screen-saving. And another plain door; steel with locks. Obviously it lead to the rest of the bay...
My heart was pounding in my neck.
Steve's conversation was indeterminate. "Yes." "Right." "Of course." "We'll get it done." "Thanks." And he hung up and turned to me. "You made it!" he smiled. Then he said, "OH!" as if he surprised himself and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the biggest roll of cash I'd ever seen, unsnapped the ridiculously undersized rubber band and started counting out one fifty dollar bills. He then motioned for me to hold out my hand and he smiled as he leafed them into my palm one by one; he paused at two fifty, smiled and winked, and continued to five hundred. Then he pocketed his roll and sat back a safe distance to give me my space as I considered.
"See?" he smiled, "Now don't freak out. Sometimes business is business and there's nothing weird about it."
"I don't know. I mean..."
"Wait, just to show you that I have to protect myself too, I need to see your driver's license."
"I'm 28, Steve. I told you that the night we met."
"I know. Just humor me."
He took my license and looked it over, then, he took a hand-scanner and ran it over on the desk.
"There. For my records. Now we're both safe."
"I don't get it?"
"I'm going to explain. Want to meet the woman?"
"Uh? Yeah, I guess. Is she coming soon?" I was awkward. I wanted some wine. I wanted to leave. I wanted to stay.
"Here. Come with me..." And he motioned to the other door where he flipped some dead-bolts. Inside was an even smaller room with a large window on the back wall. It was dimly lit; mostly from the light of the window. There were electronic gadgets and a microphone by the window. Another laptop.
"Come on. Don't be shy. You can see her through that window. It's a two way mirror, that's why we keep it dark on this side. It's okay, she can't see or hear you. It's like I told you, "discretion rules here" Its the most important rule." He walked casually to the large window, me following a nervous two steps behind.
Beyond the smoky glass is a woman in what looks like her mid thirties, smartly dressed in a designer silk blouse, trim black skirt, and strappy heels. She was buckled to a table with bands of nylon or something. She was obviously nervous; but laid motionless, her eyes darting this way and that. The room is really dark but for one large operating light hanging over her. It must have been blinding. Steve picks up a small mic and clicks it on, "We are going to start soon," he says curtly and professionally, then clicks the mic off abruptly. The woman mouths something we can't hear and tries to crane her neck but she is strapped down at her forehead. The whole scene is terrifying yet, I feel a twinge see her in so tightly bound. Steve smiles and pulls me away. "Here, sit down, I'll explain."
I was paralyzed with intrigue and fear as Steve laid it out with all the smooth frankness and nonchalance I had come to expect from him. It was frightening, but as he spoke, it was somehow perfectly acceptable in a twisted way. I had no fear of Steve. He commanded a sly kind of respect, and a weird kind of trust.
This was not a BDSM club or a private encounter. He and his unseen partners were in the business of extortion. They called what they do a "Catch and Release" They target wealthy women who have, or who's husbands have, a lot of money. They prefer corrupt wealthy folks with dirty money, because they are less likely to report the encounter. The wife is monitored and trailed for her weekly habits, then, is "caught" and brought here to be encouraged to give up her bank account and PIN numbers, which are then accessed electronically and cash is transferred to an untraceable account. The woman is then boxed up and released in another location and advised that it can happen again if she says anything. Mostly the woman never say anything, but even if they do, they have no idea who took them or where. They are also less likely to report money that the IRS does not know they have. Steve smiles again.
"So... this "encouragement"?" I asked slowly.
"Yes. That's what we do here. This is what we do. We encourage them to be cooperative... we use torture."
"Like cuttin' off fingers n'stuff? Forget it!"
"Ha! No. Nothing like that. And we can't risk any permanent damage or else someone might take it too personally. We need them more fearful of the IRS than us. Rule three: No permanent damage or maiming. We want the experience to be dreadful enough that they are scared and never want it to happen again... but thankful that they are released and too humiliated to tell the tale. As far as hubby is concerned, she just blew her bank account on a wild shopping spree. The wife usually lies about it."
"What's rule One and Two?"
"Rule one we covered. Discretion at all times. Rule two is, 'No names.' For now on, you will never call me Steve while we are here. You will call me 'Mr. A'. And I will always call you, 'Ms. B'. That is, if we need to address each other at all. For the first few sessions, you should just listen and watch, and only do as I instruct."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, that's why you are here. I'm going to make you into my apprentice torturer."
I swallow hard. Wanting more but wanting to run.
"But.. I don't know..."
"I'm going to teach you. I will teach you how to bind a victim. How to insight psychological fear. How to incite panic. How to bring the senses to the brink. How to..."
"Oh my god!"
"How to whip and slap. I will teach you how to induce utter helplessness. How to run electricity. How to sexually torture, tease, and humiliate. I'll teach the you the art of tickle torture.
My mouth was hanging open at "sexual torture" but I involuntarily smirked when he said "tickle torture."
"No," He moved closer, "Don't think for a minute we're fooling around here."
"No. I'm sorry. I know you're your serious. But... tickling? Really? That's like, for kids and teenagers."
Steve smiles but then awash with seriousness about his craft. "This is not friendly boyfriend girlfriend tickling, this is extreme tickling. Forced laughter. Involuntary torment of the nerve endings. When applied to a victim that is susceptible, and there are ways to make someone susceptible, it is an inescapable, unrelenting torment that leaves no marks. Ask anyone in the BDSM community what they would rather endure. Tickling is not one of them. We take pride in applying it here in long, slow, sessions that produce results. Coincidentally, I found out that woman in there is very ticklish. I was saving her for you."
My pussy was wet. It could have been all the excitement, but it was seeping for sure at "I was saving her for you."
So now I have this dilemma. A moral crisis of conscience. Here I am stuck in an awkward and insane situation. My sexual fantasy has come to life in the seemingly caring and benevolent hands of mobsters. Who, I'm sure, would have no qualms about putting ME on that table. They have a copy of my driver's license, and they now know where I live and everything else about me. They want to pay me a wad of cash to become an apprentice in an extremely illegal activity which breaks probably every Federal Law there is.
"Steve... I mean, 'Mr. A'. What do I have to do?" I stutter. Fear and excitement both.
"It's like I told you. You will go in there with me tonight, and we, together, under my instruction, are going to torture that bitch until she talks," he smiles, "But first, as I promised, I want you to step outside and mull it over. Keep the money I gave you. And if you don't come back, keep your mouth shut." And he smiled a different kind of smile.
I walked out to the car and lit a cigarette.
I called my boyfriend.
"Hi! We're all done here, just wanted you to know she's moved in fine. I'm going over her friends house for girls night. My phone will be 'off'. Bye!"
I recount the wad of bills in my pocket, snuff my cigarette, and walk back inside.
* * *
When I stepped back inside the storage bay's front office, Steve met me and said he was delighted that I decided to stay. It was the "smart move" as he said. I found that a touch ominous, and resigned myself that I could not escape my situation. Secretly, I was glad... the dark side of me I suppose. I rationalize really well.
Steve double locked the front door and escorted me to the second room (the Control Room as I now know it) and tossed me a white tee shirt. Man sized, but that was all he had. He explained that we can not give the woman (properly called a 'Guest') any visual clues to our identities. Plain, nondescript clothing or, in the future, when I was more comfortable, we could do it nude. I found that statement very hot. Steve was fit for an older man and my curiosity had been piqued since the bar.
He explained a myriad of operational details. What this or that does. What to do if this or that occurs, and other protocols. He said not to worry about memorizing everything this first time but just roll with it this evening. He would instruct and I would listen. He said when I was ready I could be 'hands on". He pulled the dossier on our guest and read some details to me. She was a corrupt contractor's wife. Their company had been building sub-standard homes in the area for a long time and they were paying off local officials. They had millions. She was 42 and didn't work. Spent her days shopping and at luncheons with other trophy wives. She drove a souped-up roadster that most people aren't even allowed to touch at the dealership. She has a couple of bank accounts under her name where they juggle money. She has her hair, nails, and tanning done every week without fail. No kids.
Steve then went over a loose outline of how an evening starts. He notes that most times it just takes a couple of hours but they have done all-nighters and, on rare occasion, weekends for "tough or stupid bitches." But, he was proud to say, that their record is 100% with nothing messy or unfortunate occurring (so called). Steve's company selects targets from in town, and more and more from nearby cites as pickings get slim. The guest is always brought in with a black fabric bag taped over the head and a mouth stuffed with a cloth gag and duct tape. Two company men (the 'Catchers') carry her in and bind her to the table. Then Steve does the rest. Whenever we are to go in the other room we are to wear these full-head black masks made of sheer Lycra like material; it makes us look like faceless bank-robbers in my opinion. Its easy for us to see out but the guest can't make out our faces.
The first thing Steve does is make sure the guest is fully immobilized. There are straps built into the padded table and they are secured with arms above their heads; buckled at the wrists; above the elbows; forehead; beneath the breasts; at the pelvis; two on the knees (above and below the kneecap); and the ankles. Like I said, 'totally immobilized.' Only then does Steve take off their head bags and gag tape. They scream and complain like banshees when that happens, but Steve simply leaves the room for a couple of hours to let them 'stew" about the situation. To the guest, the room is blackness beyond the harsh working light overhead.
Steve says it is important to leave them clothed at first so that they always have a sense of 'hope'. This is important because part of the breaking procedure is to dash that hope again and again. After about an hour or two, Steve will turn on the speakers in the room and speak from the control room. His voice is amplified and a little strange sounding; cold and detached. He likes to mind-fuck with them just when they have settled down a little. He'll say obscure things like, "We'll begin soon" or "We are almost ready for you" and he lets them eat it up for another hour. The mind play is vital to add to the fear.
Before we go in, Steve has me take off my jewelry and looks me over for any tattoos that might be visible. Then he helps me don my mask for the first time. It excites me because I realize I am safe behind anonymity. I can do anything I want now... I am not 'me' anymore. I am a 'torturer'. He instructs me to be absolutely silent and pay no attention or react to what the guest says or threatens. "Just act nonchalant and clinical. It scares the crap out of them."
As we step into the 'Play Room' for the first time, I am mesmerized by the sight of this beautiful woman bound to the table. Here, at chest height is the 'victim' I have only dreamed about in my darkest imaginings. Her eyes are moist from tears of fear and frustration, flashing defiantly as she rattles off pleads and threats and demands and apologies, jumbled together like the manic cries of the desperate. I have come to realize its the 'desperation' that turns me on the most, the fact that they must endure whatever I do to them and it is unbearable; but they must bear it. No choice. That's hot and it makes me wet just thinking about it.
Steve gently nudges me right up to the table where we hover over the guest. He then pulls over a trolley cart with an assortment of frightening tools, instruments, materials, and torture devices. Then he hands me these bent safety scissors, the kind they use in emergency rooms, and motions for me to begin cutting off her clothing. She screams anew as we start to strip away her expensive blouse, brassiere, and skirt. Steve then motions for me to stop and just stare at her as she takes it in. The look on her face excites me. Then he abruptly trims and yanks away her panties. He balls it up and stuffs them in her mouth followed by a couple of layers of duct tape. He is quick and efficient, and before the guest can tell what's happening he duct tapes cotton batting over her eyes. Then, what I thought was odd, almost comical, he places a large set of headphones over her ears, containing them. The wire, I assumed, was connected to the microphone system in the control room. From under the table he pulls out another wire with a sticky patch, peels it and sticks it to the side of her neck. Steve then motions for me to leave with him.The woman, shaking and fearful, nipples erect in the cool room air, moans behind her gag, whimpering.
In the other room, Steve dons a wireless headset microphone. "When she's got those headphones on she can't hear us speak unless I turn on this headset mic. This isolates her further. Unless I am speaking to her through my headset, all she hears is her own breathing and heartbeat from the sticky mic I put on her neck. When we start to torture her, anything she utters will be amplified into her own headphones. She'll never forget it. It will haunt her dreams, and she'll never want to chance an encounter again." he winks, "Keeps the money flowing."
"Now," Steve put a supportive hand on my shoulder, "When we go back in there, I'm going to give her 'the speech'. Yes, it is a very specific wording. Basically its her instructions on what is expected of her. She'll probably want to say anything we want to hear, but that's not how it goes down. Listen and learn." I swallowed hard, totally detached from myself. I was just as frightened as the woman but, oh my god, I kept squeezing my legs together I was so turned on.
Back in the room the woman was totally disorientated, hearing nothing but her own rapid breathing and seeing nothing. She looked very ready to comply. Steve spoke freely to me in the room now.
"Ms. B, go up to her and start slowly caressing her skin. Gently. Reassuringly. All over. Then I will speak to her, and while I do keep stroking no matter how she reacts. I walked up to the table, her skin was glowing with cool perspiration, but she was soft like silk. perfectly shaved, and tan. She had a bikini wax. When I first touched her I jumped a little because she startled. Then I remembered that she is in this amplified breathing/heartbeat zone and totally sightless. I scared her, and it thrilled me. My hand went back and I ran my fingers down her smooth arms, over her breasts and beyond. Easy. Soothing. Like petting an animal. Her breathing was in small fits and starts. Then Steve clicked his headset mic on, his voice pumped directly into her headphones.
"You need to pay very close attention. The only way to save yourself is to do exactly what we ask. I am going to tell you what you are to do. In a little while, we are going to ask you for your bank account information, as many as you can recall. Your pass-codes and PIN numbers. You will give us the information and we will confirm it. If you do not tell us what we want to know, if you are not forthcoming, if you lie to us, then we will torture you for as long as we think it takes to convince you, if you lie again or resist, we will double the time we torture you until we ask again. This will continue until we get what we want. Comply and you will be released. Do you understand what I have just told you?"
The woman shakes her head, vigorously. She tries to speak something but it is muffled. She wants to cooperate. She's desperate to cooperate. Her nipples are firm under my sweeping palms.
"Are you ready to cooperate? Are you ready to comply?"
She shakes her head 'yes!' and murmurs something hard enough through the gag to make her neck veins stick out. Her thighs are smooth and toned. I double my hands on her body. Her every pore is lit by the brash light, my shadow is over her, close and intimate. I can smell her feint sex and fear mixed. Steve turns his mic back on.
"I know you think you are ready to comply, but we need you to understand how serious we are, " Steve smiles at me behind his mask, "So we are going to demonstrate how helpless you are. We are going to torture you and we are not going to stop until such time as we see fit."
The woman begins to quake and pull at her straps. Panic.
"We are going to make you suffer and scream and you can do nothing to stop it. What you want does not matter. You are nothing but a play thing to us. When we stop. IF we stop. We will ask for information. You will answer. Do you understand?"
The woman is screaming behind her gag. Pulling at her straps to no avail, she can't move. She's stopped listening and is in hysterics. I keep running my hand over her but now its pointless. Steve tells me you stop and join him in the other room. We leave her screaming, pondering her fate.
* * *
When Steve closes the door to the control room he has me sit at the console with him. I can't take my eyes off the woman on the other side of the glass, shaking and straining at her bonds. I am both sympathetic and sexually mesmerized by the sight. Steve turns me on my stool to face him.
"Go ahead. Ask." he says.
"Ask? What? Oh..." he can read me, "Why did you say we were going to torture her if she was ready to give up her bank accounts? She's scared enough, isn't she?"
"Yes. And no. She is scared, no doubt there, and that's exactly how we want her. However, she might or might not be scared enough to give us what we want. Ask her now, and she my give us bullshit for hours. Waist of time. And let me tell you, as scared as she is, we have no threat credibility other than the actual abduction. We want more than scaredÑ we want dread. This way, she'll remain frightened for her life. She won't dare risk this happening again. Understand?"
"I think so," I paused, "So... what are we going to do?"
"When we go in, I will tell her over the mic how we are going to torture her, and then we will. Step by step. We will mix psychological and sexual torment, pain, and tickling. She won't know whether to scream, cum, or cry. We'll start with her nipples and breasts. Pay attention to the verbal play, not only will she feel violated but guilty for getting turned on against her will. We will slowly build her up with sexual tension, then dash it with a good flogging or more nipple torture," he smiles, "or both." My own nipples were hard just listening to Steve casually rattle off the methods of torture he would employ... no wait, WE would employ. I was unconsciously rocking on my stool. One ear on Steve, one eye on that delicious spoiled tart. The girl from my high school fantasies superimposed perfectly on this woman. I was so ready.
Steve cleared his throat and I came back to the room.
"It is important that you have a care for your enthusiasm. Never rush. Torturing is an art form and we take our cues from the guest. We must maintain the illusion that she does not matter. In truth, it is her every reaction that dictates the path we take. You must me mindful of her body's reaction but ignore her mouth. Never hesitate or stop based on what she tries to say, even when she's gagged, "Steve chuckles, "There are no safe-words here."
I nod. Enthralled.
"Whatever I ask you to do, do it slow and deliberate. Be merciless. In the end, its all worth it. If we fuck around and get sloppy, we won't see dime one... and we're fucked." Steve said 'we're fucked' but his eyes hinted I was fucked. He continued.
"The idea is to bring her to the edge of endurance and then make her endure more, and then, more beyond that. Guests never think they can deal with it and they die a thousand times every-time you push them a little more. It's called torture for a reason." then he looked at me funny, "Are you ticklish?"
"What?" I swallowed, off guard.
"I said, are you ticklish?"
"No!... Yes. Actually I hate it. I can't stand it."
"That's my point. You absolutely can't stand it, that's why its such an effective torture. When you can not stand one more bit of it, you have no choice and must endure more. The laughter is forced. The guest does not want to laugh but is forced to. Its humiliating and agonizing at the same time. Some get sexually excited involuntarily and that humiliates them more. Absolute loss of control. Slow agony. The sexual torture works the same way; forced to the edge, then denied. Or inversely, forced to cum multiple times against their will."
I had never thought of tickling or sex that way, but now I could see it. A wicked and delightful torment. That woman, crazed and suffering under my deftest touch. My fantasy was fleshing out before my eyes.
"The other side of that coin is it does not stop. There is nothing they can say or do to stop it. They come to realize that they are..."
"Totally dominated!" I blurted out. Then blushed.
"Right. Are you almost ready to go back in?"
"Oh, yes!"
"I'll show you how to torture breasts. Its a good warm up." Steve tugged down his mask and then adjusted mine and we went in. I dove in.
* * *
In the room Steve motioned me closer and I stood opposite him over our guest. She felt our presence more than she actually knew we were there. In her head-space there was only her breathing and pounding heart. She was pearled with perspiration and wound like a spring ready to explode. Steve clicks on his mic.
"We're going to torture you now. I want you to watch as we do it." Off goes the mic. Steve peels off her taped blindfold, which was easy because of her sweating. Her eyes were beautiful to me, all flashing and defiant, full of terror. Deep blue and nary a crease of laugh lines. She babbles something into her gag. Steve instructs me to play with her nipples, to make them very hard. I touch her and begin doing to her what I know makes mine hard; caressing and pinching, squeezing and pulling all over her breasts. Circling slowly to tease the tip. I make them each wet with the tip of my tongue, blowing on them to watch the flesh tighten. I loose myself in the process until Steve asks, "Are they really hard? Back away."
Without warning Steve begins to whip the whole of her breasts with a leather flogger. Beating them each in measured, practiced strikes. Fast enough to seem violent, yet spaced enough for her to appreciate every welling sting. Steve is smiling behind his mask, "They are no doubt hard now... check this out." He dips the very tips of the leather thongs into a bucket of water, "This really stings." He is sadistic, licking each erect nipple with a snap of pain, and rounds out the beating with her belly and mound. The woman is in fits and she cannot help but squint at every strike. Steve stops and adjusts his mask. "Now soothe her, caress her... finger her a little. See how red and tender she is. She's wet as well."
This cycle of flogging and teasing goes on for a while. Then Steve flicks at her nipples and pinches and pulls them, filling them with her hot pounding pulse as he fastens clamps on each one, turning the adjustment wheels slowly until she cries out. His mic on, "Do you feel that? Good. Wait until we remove them... its worse."
I am in the presence of a true sadist, but as I watch, I realize he was right. He is locked onto this woman with his entire being. Her every wince. Every twitch. Reading her for clues. He devours her agony like sustenance, this is more than just a job to him, it's a dance macabre; torturer and sufferer. I decide I want to fuck Steve. Definitely.
The guest is glistening with sweat and tears and she is absolutely stunning that way. Steve instructs me to play with her lips and masturbate her lightly, "Just a little. Maddening circles, break it up, keep her edgy." I oblige and use my lightest touch to play around her pubic bone, inner thighs and puffy lips. Steve's mic clicks again.
"You think you're a classy bitch but your just a cum slut aren't you? You want to gush all over my table don't you? Doesn't take much to get your pussy wet does it, ****?" He clicks off. She whimpers and screams haplessly into the gag.
Steve raises a finger to me as if to say, "Watch this!" He throws a lever below the table and something heavy releases. The table has some tricks built in. Steve turns a crank and the table splits under her ass, her legs spread out with each pinion notched. He does not stop until she is wide and fully exposed. Her pussy is red and puffy. Her wetness glistening over her asshole. I know I am exactly the same under my jeans. Steve then hands me a a small stiff feather. He spreads her lips with his hands, her pink button poking out from under its hood, throbbing and sensitive. "Okay. Now paint around that little clit, Deft strokes. You know what to do. Not enough to make her cum, just torture."
I lower myself between her legs like a black widow considering its prey and watch her squirm and thrash as I torture her most sensitive flesh. A woman knows a woman. Not as clumsy or reckless as a man. A woman knows how to draw it out until it's excruciating. I realized this is why Steve wanted me. As good a torturer as he could ever become... he'll never understand a pussy the way woman does. It took a while but I made her cry for release. There was none.
Steve pulls me away. She is left oozing and frustrated. "Now we switch gears."
He clicks on his mic, "Are you ticklish?" The woman has no answer, she is not prepared. Her eyes suddenly widen. Steve looms over her and begins to tickle her ribs. She instantly screams into her gag. "Are you ticklish? Answer me." He continues to dig. The woman is obviously off the scale ticklish and cannot answer, let alone breathe. He gleefully continues as she thrashes. I watch in amazement at her suffering... laughing a little myself with her forced laughter. She hated it. He would pause as he worked up and down her tanned sides, and she would scream hatred at him through her gag, she was absolutely livid and cursed till her face was red. But then the most satisfying thing; Steve would start tickling her ribs and underarms and belly and her mask of hate was forced to transform into a tearful mirth. And she laughed and laughed and laughed and had no control that she was. That was erotic. Force the bitch to do what he wanted. Now I wanted to do it. Bad.
Steve stopped and parted her lips again. This time handing me a vibrator with a knobby clit stimulator. "Do it. Bring her this close. Then stop." I did as I was told. She pulsed and strained and seeped all over the leather table. She did not want to, but she was being forced to the edge... and there I made her stay. This close. Denied. I wanted to turn the vibe on myself. But Steve had other plans.
* * *
I slowly danced the head of the vibrator all along the sides of her clit hood and watched her involuntary contractions, moving it away just as she inched closer to climax. The woman moans and bucks. I see humiliation in her face, suffering so close to release. Steve pulls me away and shows her a digital camera, he then begins to take pictures, the flash capturing her in her most exposed position. Close-ups, full body, her face... many portraits of her face in agonized detail. He mocks her at the end with a big thumbs-up. She closes her eyes and weeps in shame.
"Okay, Ms. B, she obviously has no love of paparazzi. Time to cheer her up." said Steve. He cranks the table closed and locks it. Then he begins to unbuckle her, everything but her wrists and ankles. I stand there, perplexed.
"That's it? Is it over? We're letting her go? I mean..."
Steve smiles under his mask, "No. But for this next round we're going to stretch her out a bit." He hands me a heavy, metal crank handle. I didn't know what it was at the time, "Go. Up to the front there. Underneath."
I did so. The table had more surprises. It was then that I noticed her wrist cuffs were attached to cables. And they were run to what looked like a winch on the underside of the table.
"Go ahead. The handle fits on the side." Steve says, then turns on his mic, "Are you ready to talk? Are you ready to tell us everything we want to know?"
The woman sadly nods. Thinks twice, and then tries to scream her willingness to comply. Steve looms over her, "We're not ready to hear your confession yet." Off goes the mic. The woman's eyes grow twice as large as she panics anew. It must have been deafening in her headphones.
Steve assists me at the head of the table, "See. Hope is dashed again. She thought she was being released. What we are going to do is pull her really taught. Then we're going to tickle her. She will be too tight to move much and it makes her feel very vulnerable," he chuckles some, "Because she is. When I say, start turning the crank, nice and slow, let her hear each ratchet. Slow. I'll say when to stop."
He turns the mic on. "We are going to rack you nice and tight now," He motions to me to begin cranking, "If you are lucky, that sexy body of yours will be two inches taller when we're done. By the way... did I ask you if you were ticklish?"
The woman begins to buck and pull, but with each turn, her arms are pulled tighter to her head, and her ankles come together under the tension. Clink. Clink. Clink. She becomes a living line of tan, tender flesh.
"Okay, enough, Ms. B." Steve joins me by her head, "Now, you take one side and I'll do the other, mirror what I do. We start on her arms and work down to the pits. Tickle by scrabbling like this, but don't linger in any one place too long, move it around. Even if you find a place that is really effective, don't be tempted to stay there too long or it will become desensitized. Besides, it's not always the obvious places that are ticklish, sometimes there are little surprises."
We start and the woman strains the cables as she begins to laugh explosively through her gag. I feel a new wave of hot moisture between my legs as I watch her suffer under my dancing fingers. Each part of her produces different laughter and agony. Her armpits were great fun; exposed and taught, I imagined she worked out because she was yanking violently to pull her arms down, anything to protect the sensitive skin. But she could do nothing. It was true torture in every sense of the word.
Following Steve's tutelage and example, I learned about the ribs and belly, the areas just below the belt-line, the neck, ears, and, oddly, the breasts and belly button. She laughed uncontrollably and her breathing was torment in itself being forced through her nostrils. Steve would taunt her through the mic periodically, telling her "You can't stop us," and "We're going to tickle you to death," things of that nature. I loved it.
"I want to try that. I want to tease her with the mic." I said.
"No. Not this session. I appreciate your eagerness, though. Okay, ready, this is how you tickle legs, knees, and ass. Steve instructed on lightness technique, pinching, scraping, knuckling and other methods of tickling that I never imagined. Our guest was pink and red with uncontrollable laughter. "You like it, don't you? You want us to tickle you all night?" Steve teased into her headphones, "There's no where to escape. You can't get away."
He looks at me, "Let's see if her feet are ticklish." I moved quickly to undo the little side buckle on one of her shoes but Steve stayed my hand, "No. Not so quickly. With these shoes you can tease and tickle by wiggling in from the sides, see?" The woman exploded with giggles and I thought the gag tape would pop off, but it held. She was pleading for mercy, the words were mangled but I could tell. I wanted masturbate right there and then. But Steve urged me to do my job.
Her strappy heels were designer Italian leather, very expensive, and I was jealous. Her tan, silky feet and french nails were perfection. Pedicured weekly I assumed. I thought about asking for her shoes but thought better of it, her feet were bigger than mine, "I wish I could afford heels like these..."
"After tonight, you will." Steve said matter-of-factly, "Keep exploring and teasing around and in between her shoes and skin, it's maddening." He was right, between fits of giggles the woman would enrage and groan all types of threats at me. So... I used both hands and teased and tickled her between the straps. Domination.
Steve then drags the two stools from the control room and sets them on either side at the foot of the table, "Go ahead, Ms. B, have a seat and get comfortable, we're going to take our time here. His mic went on, "I see your feet are ticklish. You should have told us. As punishment, were going to torture your feet a very long time. You might feel like dying, but I assure you... you won't." Steve smiles at me through his mask, "Now we remove these very slowly, let her die a thousand deaths of anticipation."
We sat on the stools, each on one side. She tried but could not move to stop it, so tight was she pulled. I set to unbuckling the little side strap slowly and teasingly. Then we slipped off those expensive shoes and Steve motioned to cast them aside flippantly. She strained to watch, helpless. Her feet were definitely pedicured, not a callous or roughness to be found, just what looked like a mile of narrow, snowy soft skin on a high arch. Her toes were like a high fashion model's, long and lean, but plump and pink underneath. I don't have a foot fetish, but there is something erotic about a woman's second or third most sensitive flesh just hanging there, exposed and helpless. Shit, more of this kind of fun and I may develop a foot fetish.
Her feet wiggled like mad at first but then as I began to tickle they went limp with her laughter, as if she had resigned to suffer. That was hot. Steve taught me how ticklish the heels and the tops of the feet are. How to exploit under and between each toe. How to trace the arches sharply. He also showed me the base psychological response when a foot is grabbed and tickled. And, conversely, the psychology of the dangling foot when tickled.
All the while the woman rocked a little from side to side as she convulsed with laughter. Steve would tease her verbally throughout, asking if she wanted it to stop. There was no stopping. We must have sat there for 40 minutes of on and off again foot tickling. We switched sides and just when I thought this woman could physically laugh no more, Steve pushed me to torture her longer. I was so horny, I thought I would cum. Then, out of nowhere, Steve looks at me and says, "I'm going to keep tickling her feet... but you need to suck my cock while I do it."
It took me a moment to process what he just said, and I watched myself kneel down without question and unzip him, releasing his engorgement. Without a word I pulled him into my mouth and worked my tongue as the woman screamed with pitiful laughter. I found myself rubbing my jeans on Steve's leg as I sucked him to climax, swallowing greedily like a some deranged meth whore. I came hard as I did. It was dirty, disgusting, surreal... and I loved it.
Needless to say, the night went by like a dream state from there. The woman spilled her information like a squealing piglet. Steve confirmed everything silently from his laptop, and in the wink of a few internet minutes, the numbers got smaller on her accounts and bigger somewhere in the electronic ether.
Oddly, Steve went up and thanked her sincerely ( a parting insult), and then warned her of the consequences if she ever spoke of this night. The woman pleaded to agree and begged for "no more torture!". Steve then looked at me, "The boys will be here in half an hour to scurry her to some remote parking lot. You need practice, see how many times you can force her to cum in that time." He's so business about it. I obey. I cranked open the table and tortured her clit mercilessly with the vibe. She's a squirter, I'll tell you that.
So, that was just my first time. After "the boys" carted Ms. Rich Bitch away, and it was just Steve and I... I became a little nervous. I was unsure if the noob was, in reality, expendable. But why would they go through all this trouble just to pop me and pick my pockets? Steve was pleasant and frank, and gave me a bonus of five thousand dollars right then and there, saying, "You go get yourself a hot little pair of Italian shoes... better than hers. You deserve it." And then he escorted me to my car and shut the door for me. I watched as he lazily walked back to the bay, but then he lurched and spun with his finger in the air. He trotted over and knocked for me to roll down the window. I did. I swallowed hard.
"Almost forgot. Next Friday night. Be here at eight. So much to do," he smiled, "Oh, I almost forgot..." he hands me a CD mailer, "drop this in a mailbox somewhere. Don't go to a post office."
"Is this...?"
"It's her night, recorded. What she heard in her headphones and digital pictures. When she gets it, she'll freak. Kind of like insurance. If she can get a copy, anyone can. Capishe?"
I nodded and he and waved me off. When I finally got home, I went right to my bed and masturbated over and over, the whole night playing over and over in my head.
So that's it. If you stop to think about it, it really wasn't as bizarre or complicated as you first might think. I still go to school (better grades now, and my loans are paid off.) My sex life with my boyfriend is still vanilla (but he'd die if he knew what I was thinking while we fuck). I got a new car, nothing too flashy. And needless to say I drive it with some snappy new Italian leather heels. Pedicures once a week, mind you.
Best of all, about every two weeks, I get paid a shit load of untraceable cash to torture beautiful women that probably... no, definitely, deserve it. And that gets this girl off.
My name is Amy, and I'm a professional torturer. So... what are you doing this weekend?
~ C.A.B.
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