ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
It is time.
A solemn hallway, an inconspicuous door placed precariously to your left, its nonchalant presence hiding its true purpose. Unbolting its modest latch, you descend a narrow staircase, coming face to face with another door, its true purpose crystal clear to anyone standing right in front of it.
It’s here to keep something (or someone) in.
You call it The End. It is your playroom, a space in which to inflict the most ungodly displays of tickle torture upon your most unwilling of victims. Lining this space are the exact tools of the trade: bondage racks, x-frames, medieval stocks, chains, cuffs, gags, anything they couldn’t possibly imagine to maximize their suffering. As well, nestled in the corner of this expansive compartment, a small closet holds your growing collection of outfits and costumes, some purchased, most “left behind” by your guests. To them, for as long as you desire, it is their domicile, trapped in a never-ending cycle of hellish torments until your carnal desires are satisfied. And though you may relinquish them back into their normal lives eventually, it always stays with them.
They may leave The End, but The End never leaves them.
Several months have passed since your last visitor made their way into your chamber. Their stay was long, but time has only dulled these precious memories. It seemed unbearable, patiently biding your time until securing your next resident for an extended stay, but the wait has oh so been worth it. Meticulously, just like the rest of them, you have prepared for this moment: researching your capture, the time of day most vulnerable, the exact dose of sedative to render her for transport, drawing out each and every detail she is to experience down to the most minuscule detail. However, no amount of preparation would be complete without the subject of your attention, falling one night into your inescapable clutches, thrust into that most delectable situation she finds herself in now.
You unbolt the first latch, its lubricated mechanisms amounting to nothing more than the sound of a pin drop. The room is soundproofed, nothing short of a jet takeoff enough to rouse suspicion. Now the second, a short click audible only to those on the outside, followed by the turn of a specially crafted key designed only for this knob. The thick slab of wood and fiberglass swings open, a subtle swoosh its only indicator. As you make your entrance, careful up until this point not to make a single sound, you venture not three meters into the room and, there she lays.
Emma Watson, welcome home.
You gaze upon her helpless figure, but a mere plaything ripe for your entertainment. Stripped down to her bra and panties, she lays atop a padded leather table. Medical grade cuffs bind her wrists, her ankles resting in a sturdy set of padded stocks, stretching her taut without an inch of slack. What little motion she may have had is made null in void, as thick leather straps, extending from underneath the table, bind her as well: two for the elbows, two for the knees, and one large strap just below the waist.
From the corner of the room, you watch her rouse from slumber, the unfortunate turn on events slowly coming to her realization. Fidgeting her way around the restraints, she soon discovers the hopeless position she is truly in, the discovery of which is currently frightening her completely mute. A thick scarf is nestled over her eyes as well, robbing her of any chance of sight as she peers desperately about. You wish not to startle the pitiful thing, lest she discover the myriad of diabolical contraptions that lie in wait just out of view.
Suddenly, you begin to approach her. The thud of your heels against the hardwood floors startling the girl, a gasp escaping her lips as she peers blindly in your direction. Circling her as a predator would their prey, you relish the possibilities, salivating over each and every dastardly thing you can and will do to this beautiful creature. Everything up until this point has been executed with absolute perfection.
“Who…who’s there?” She finally finds her voice. “Please, whoever you are, just let me go and I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” She begins pleading towards you for her release, searching for even a sliver of humanity she is sure you have. Such will fall on deaf ears, lost in thought as you savor the lowliest, most devious parts of your delectable imagination. But it is no accident that you remain silent to her pleas: you choose not to speak to her, as you will let her body do the talking. You stop, peering one last time over the timid young woman who had the misfortune of falling into your clutches. Kneeling before her bare, freshly pedicured size six feet, you gently blow upon the sole of her left foot. Like a bolt of lightning coursing through her leg, a swift jerk confirms just what you had hoped, sealing her fate for the bulk of her time here under your control.
She is ticklish.
Perched just before her sumptuous soles, you gently glide your nails across her supple flesh with ease, skittering them to and fro across a surface without even the slightest bit of friction. A look of defiance encapsulates her face, scrunching her nose, pursing her lips as she attempts to fend off such maddening sensations.
“Don’t do that!” she demands, a slight giggle escaping from the tail end of that phrase. Much to your delight, despite her precarious predicament, she has somehow found the audacity to issue you instruction. “I mean it, don’t touch me!” Each jerk of her foot is matched with a stern command, ordering you to cease and desist with ever-increasing urgency. Her resistance is admirable, but misguided, as you have nothing but all the time in the world to break this delectable darling, her insolent spirit making the process even more satisfying.
It seems with each passing moment, a small strip of resilience abandons her, as her stern demeanor slowly morphs into a forced toothy grin, teetering laughter escaping her like a leak in a balloon. You’d love nothing more than to ask her just what is so funny, but you dare not spoil the atmosphere, the feeling of a silent figure holding eminent domain over her body too valuable to break merely for the sake of conversation. As delectably ticklish as her soles are, her heels prove even more maddening, tracing the tips of your fingers around their sensitive edges. They never know just how ticklish the sides of their feet are, avoiding the pressure placed on their soles and heels on a daily basis, left completely without protection.
“MMMMMMMPHPHPHPH!” Such efforts usurp her resistance, grunts of dismay dissolving into pathetic girlish giggles in a mere instant. It’s almost adorable, watching such a starlet succumb to the tender touch so readily, her submissive nature going against the sensibilities of a modern-day woman. As maddening a sensation as this is, had she been able to predict your next move, she may have begged you to continue the course.
Without warning, you lunge directly underneath her toes, scratching your nails underneath their tender little pads in earnest.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!” A piercing scream echoes through the chamber, a mixture of surprise and rage escaping her as all defenses in an instant seem to have abandoned her. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAPPP!!” Toes flailing to and fro, they are all but helpless to your touch, scraping up and down their stems, in between every crease and crevice with surgical accuracy. Frantically they scrunch together, desperately attempting to lock you out only to keep them in with comical failure.
“GET OUT OF MY TOES!!” You wish to tease her, expressing just how ridiculous she’s acting as her toes inevitably keep holding your fingers into their rightful place. However, you resist, for the moment you reveal to her any hint of humanity, even as small as the very sound of your voice, you give her power. For all she knows, you are a ghostly apparition, sent from the depths of hell to inflict upon her the torments of a thousand ticklish nights. For all she knows, she is trapped in a perpetual nightmare, one which she cannot wake herself from, and for the time being, you wish to prove that correct.
For close to half an hour you continue this back-and-forth, and it appears you’ve exhausted the poor thing. Lesser creatures would have passed out by now from such ungodly torments, but her youthful stamina, in tandem with your careful hand, has guaranteed her no repose. You gaze down at your work, for what began as a pair of creamy soft feet have now collected a dark tint of red, the vigorousness of her plight leaving its mark.
“Please…no more…I’m begging you,” she whimpers. Beads of sweat stream across her toned body, her chest heaving in desperate attempt to catch her breath. Her blindfold soaked with tears, the sputtering of her hollow pleas match that most pathetic of states she finds herself in. But you find the begging most troublesome, syphoning off any energy that could be put well into use during her torments.
Wandering over to a small dresser perched just in the left corner, you retrieve a second scarf. Knotting a large wad into the middle of it, you gently hoist her head up, binding it directly in between her gleaming white teeth. Meek whimpers escape her, the only pathetic effort she has left of gaining your sympathies. Such would seem as though you had tuckered her out, having absolutely no more pluck and energy left in her. But you know better: you know what this girl’s limits are, and you are going to tear them to shreds. Whatever glimmer of hope she sought is soon about to escape her, as you begin, without an ounce of mercy, clawing your way into her underarms.
“MRRRRRRRRRRRRRPHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! RRRRRRRRRMPH!!” A hapless wail, piercing the fresh knot you placed not ten seconds ago, echoes against these concrete walls. Scraping across their tender flesh, you indulge in the utter helplessness of your victim, thrashing back and forth with every ounce of energy she feigned not to have. Kneading up and down her sides, digging between each and every rib, not one moment is spared driving her batshit insane.
“PHLEEEEEEEEEEEEEPH!!” Juxtaposed against desperate wails and abysmal cackles, her incoherent babbling proves the most satisfying. You didn’t know her most adorable British accent could come through the gag, just icing on the hellish tickle cake you are serving up to her at this very moment.
How she must feel knowing the very last possible way of gaining her escape has been robbed from her. Had she just searched a little harder, communicated with you just one minute longer, she might have found that one button to push, that one spark of sympathy that would have saved her from this hellish ordeal, but that was the point. You don’t wish for her to talk; you only wish for her to suffer, for only through her intense, mindboggling suffering can she be broken and rebuilt to your design: a devoted tickle pet for your infinite pleasure just on the horizon.
Yes, you had planned to release her back into her life, back to the red carpets, leading actress roles, the potential of a career filled with awards and accolades just over the horizon. But you changed your mind, and she is distinctly to blame. Everything about this woman has tantalized you the moment you laid eyes on her, but you couldn’t in your wildest dreams imagine just how perfect she would fit into your fantasies the moment she arrived. Her reactions are too perfect, the way she flails about, begs and pleads for mercy, is all just too precious to let fall through your fingers. Right down to her French tipped toes, crunching and curling as you ravage her upper body, nothing that she does is anything but absolutely exquisite to you right now. No, you’re going to keep this one, taming her, molding her into a submissive little Emma devoted to you for the rest of her precious lifetime.
And you’re not going to stop until the metamorphosis is complete.
Hours seem like weeks to this poor creature, robbed of all senses short of the ones that currently drive her mad. She cannot see, she cannot speak, she can only feel the ruthless tickling you inflict upon her flawless skin. The only sounds that accompany her are those horrifying noises you extract from her, growing evermore demonic as her voice becomes increasingly hoarse. Not even her bonds make a sound, fitting her snugly into place without even acknowledging their own presence. Whatever movement she has left has been employed through possible escape, bucking against the leather table, muscles straining against her cuffs. Even the stocks, as much as she tries, will not even creak to acknowledge her efforts. Someone had gone to great lengths to remind her, throughout this whole ordeal, just how pitiful it would be to resist.
However, despite all the preparation that had gone into her confinement, it didn’t even dawn on this girl the depths of your perversion, the very roots of your desire to inflict such torments upon her, and the utter humanity you suppress to satiate your most base of primal urges. All this became clear to her as, kneeling before her angelic feet, you tenderly run the tip of your tongue up the length of her left sole.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!” Her strained voice ascends yet another octave, the shock of such a maneuver catching her completely off guard. Like a ravenous animal, you devour every inch of her tender feet: gnawing the pads of her heels, up and down the sides of her feet with wild abandonment, only stopping to rest your jaw and begin yet again. Had you not blindfolded and gagged her, the expressions she’d be making would strike you as a pure Kodak moment: her eyes like saucers, gone blank with horror to your gorging; her mouth agape, able to only vocalize a single scream before dissolving into silent breathy laughter; her face muscles, curling and stretching to compensate the myriad of emotions she is tenuously balancing at every turn. Having had to manually hold her feet into place, her utter helplessness renders her submissive to your torments, giving you full reign over her most succulent of body parts.
It is here you begin teasing the beauty, your tongue gently caressing every inch of their perfect design. Most likely out of sheer terror, her toes have been left splayed for you, your tongue flossing between each of them, a light nibble of their pads thrown in from time to time. You cannot help it but savor every square inch of her supple soles, her tender heels, and her sumptuous little toes, those which you had only admired through the computer screen now enveloping all five of your bodily senses. What is it about these most lowly of appendages that turns you into a ravenous animal? You dare not say, but as far as she knows, you live for nothing but to syphon her life energy right through her feet.
“RRRRRRRRRMPHHHHH!! UUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMPH!!” Her screams of horror are slowly substituted, moans of erotic ecstasy escape her bit by bit. Arching her back to compensate such pleasures bestowed upon her lowliest of appendages, her lower body rocks in response, attempting to satisfy these sensations that are completely foreign to her. But you will not let her enjoy release, for it is your satisfaction that you seek, not hers, keeping her in sexual limbo for the duration of an entire hour. As you indulge one last moment, her grunts of frustration obviously betraying her sense of decency, you gaze upon her statuesque form: a mere instrument in which to perform a concerto of fantasy and nightmare, of heaven and hell, of peril and pleasure, all with you as maestro. Emma Watson, by the time the last note is written upon the page, will be transformed, and the global celebrity will be no more.
Two hours prior, having given her a short break from her erotic torments, you prepared her for the breaking. Lathering her feet with a thick coat of lotion, you slipped upon her angelic feet a pair of thick wool socks, subsequently encased in plastic wrap. Perched in front, a small heating unit is prepared, set on high, aimed directly at them. You leave her, letting her feet stew in the arrangement, for with each passing moment, as the heating unit interacts with her feet, they will soon become unfathomably sensitive.
As you re-enter your playroom, her wails of agony first greet you, jerking against her bonds in desperate escape from the discomfort. As you unwrap her soles, gazing upon her sweat drenched body, you reveal them to the cool dungeon air. A breath of relief escapes her, but it will be her last, for the moment you gently blow upon her left sole, a frantic yelp it becomes, one with greater intensity than the moment you began. Smearing her feet in hot baby oil, you reveal you most dastardly of tools: a vibrating hairbrush, its bristles pulsating with malicious intent. The moment it makes contact with her, digging deep into her horrendously ticklish and tender heels, all hell breaks loose.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!” She screams like a banshee, thrashing mightily against her bonds one final time. Biting into her gag her only relief, she can do absolutely nothing but suffer her torments. Her hands turn white, clenching tight only when they are unable to grasp at anything but empty air. As the vibrating hairbrush digs into her soles, a large comb begins sawing in between her toes, further driving her into the depths of tickle hell.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! MMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
As time goes by, she begins to resist less, her screams for mercy become less and less until they all but disappear, and the energetic captive you had taken in is stripped of everything she was, for just as soon as it began, it was over. Was half an hour of this too much for the girl? Most likely, but the deed is done to your satisfaction. Whatever resolve she may have possessed has been torn to shreds, her resilience burnt to a crisp, her humanity stripped away from her. A sputtering, tear-soaked, sweat drenched, giggling mess she lays, as the transformation has completed. As confirmation, the process continues, witnessing what you know as success: no resistance, no fighting, complete submission in and out. There she lays, finally accepting any and all torments as her inevitable fate, a tickle pet she has become forevermore.
You have broken her.
Three weeks later…
You cradle her in your arms, gently caressing her cheek with the back of your hand. Atop her bed, she welcomes your tender touch, the love in which you show her knowing no bounds. She embraces you, pulling herself into your protection. Not three weeks ago you had this creature, captured and processed into the devoted tickle pet she is today. Now, as the tag on the collar round her neck shows, she is yours, now and forever.
Over time she has come to know your diabolical dwelling as her home, indulging in each and every device like none before. Night after night you both plan out the next day’s adventure, right down to the very costumes to procure to do it. Every fantasy she will fulfill, every role she will play, every character and plot she will realize to your ultimate pleasure.
Will the knowledgeable doctor punish the forgetful nurse for not ordering the blood tests? Will the CIA operative interrogate the captured British spy for crucial information? Will the exotic dancer try to seduce her wealthy patron by any means necessary, even if it means revealing her greatest of vulnerabilities? No expense is wasted in realizing all these fantasies into reality.
But what about this one: will the aspiring actress, captured and tickled beyond reason by her sadistic captor, ultimately resolve to resume her former life the moment she is handed the option? You wait for a response, and you get one: blushing, she turns to you, and in the meekest of voices, wishing not to disappoint her Master by any means, informs you that she would rather not realize that particular scenario.
The End
A solemn hallway, an inconspicuous door placed precariously to your left, its nonchalant presence hiding its true purpose. Unbolting its modest latch, you descend a narrow staircase, coming face to face with another door, its true purpose crystal clear to anyone standing right in front of it.
It’s here to keep something (or someone) in.
You call it The End. It is your playroom, a space in which to inflict the most ungodly displays of tickle torture upon your most unwilling of victims. Lining this space are the exact tools of the trade: bondage racks, x-frames, medieval stocks, chains, cuffs, gags, anything they couldn’t possibly imagine to maximize their suffering. As well, nestled in the corner of this expansive compartment, a small closet holds your growing collection of outfits and costumes, some purchased, most “left behind” by your guests. To them, for as long as you desire, it is their domicile, trapped in a never-ending cycle of hellish torments until your carnal desires are satisfied. And though you may relinquish them back into their normal lives eventually, it always stays with them.
They may leave The End, but The End never leaves them.
Several months have passed since your last visitor made their way into your chamber. Their stay was long, but time has only dulled these precious memories. It seemed unbearable, patiently biding your time until securing your next resident for an extended stay, but the wait has oh so been worth it. Meticulously, just like the rest of them, you have prepared for this moment: researching your capture, the time of day most vulnerable, the exact dose of sedative to render her for transport, drawing out each and every detail she is to experience down to the most minuscule detail. However, no amount of preparation would be complete without the subject of your attention, falling one night into your inescapable clutches, thrust into that most delectable situation she finds herself in now.
You unbolt the first latch, its lubricated mechanisms amounting to nothing more than the sound of a pin drop. The room is soundproofed, nothing short of a jet takeoff enough to rouse suspicion. Now the second, a short click audible only to those on the outside, followed by the turn of a specially crafted key designed only for this knob. The thick slab of wood and fiberglass swings open, a subtle swoosh its only indicator. As you make your entrance, careful up until this point not to make a single sound, you venture not three meters into the room and, there she lays.
Emma Watson, welcome home.
You gaze upon her helpless figure, but a mere plaything ripe for your entertainment. Stripped down to her bra and panties, she lays atop a padded leather table. Medical grade cuffs bind her wrists, her ankles resting in a sturdy set of padded stocks, stretching her taut without an inch of slack. What little motion she may have had is made null in void, as thick leather straps, extending from underneath the table, bind her as well: two for the elbows, two for the knees, and one large strap just below the waist.
From the corner of the room, you watch her rouse from slumber, the unfortunate turn on events slowly coming to her realization. Fidgeting her way around the restraints, she soon discovers the hopeless position she is truly in, the discovery of which is currently frightening her completely mute. A thick scarf is nestled over her eyes as well, robbing her of any chance of sight as she peers desperately about. You wish not to startle the pitiful thing, lest she discover the myriad of diabolical contraptions that lie in wait just out of view.
Suddenly, you begin to approach her. The thud of your heels against the hardwood floors startling the girl, a gasp escaping her lips as she peers blindly in your direction. Circling her as a predator would their prey, you relish the possibilities, salivating over each and every dastardly thing you can and will do to this beautiful creature. Everything up until this point has been executed with absolute perfection.
“Who…who’s there?” She finally finds her voice. “Please, whoever you are, just let me go and I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” She begins pleading towards you for her release, searching for even a sliver of humanity she is sure you have. Such will fall on deaf ears, lost in thought as you savor the lowliest, most devious parts of your delectable imagination. But it is no accident that you remain silent to her pleas: you choose not to speak to her, as you will let her body do the talking. You stop, peering one last time over the timid young woman who had the misfortune of falling into your clutches. Kneeling before her bare, freshly pedicured size six feet, you gently blow upon the sole of her left foot. Like a bolt of lightning coursing through her leg, a swift jerk confirms just what you had hoped, sealing her fate for the bulk of her time here under your control.
She is ticklish.
Perched just before her sumptuous soles, you gently glide your nails across her supple flesh with ease, skittering them to and fro across a surface without even the slightest bit of friction. A look of defiance encapsulates her face, scrunching her nose, pursing her lips as she attempts to fend off such maddening sensations.
“Don’t do that!” she demands, a slight giggle escaping from the tail end of that phrase. Much to your delight, despite her precarious predicament, she has somehow found the audacity to issue you instruction. “I mean it, don’t touch me!” Each jerk of her foot is matched with a stern command, ordering you to cease and desist with ever-increasing urgency. Her resistance is admirable, but misguided, as you have nothing but all the time in the world to break this delectable darling, her insolent spirit making the process even more satisfying.
It seems with each passing moment, a small strip of resilience abandons her, as her stern demeanor slowly morphs into a forced toothy grin, teetering laughter escaping her like a leak in a balloon. You’d love nothing more than to ask her just what is so funny, but you dare not spoil the atmosphere, the feeling of a silent figure holding eminent domain over her body too valuable to break merely for the sake of conversation. As delectably ticklish as her soles are, her heels prove even more maddening, tracing the tips of your fingers around their sensitive edges. They never know just how ticklish the sides of their feet are, avoiding the pressure placed on their soles and heels on a daily basis, left completely without protection.
“MMMMMMMPHPHPHPH!” Such efforts usurp her resistance, grunts of dismay dissolving into pathetic girlish giggles in a mere instant. It’s almost adorable, watching such a starlet succumb to the tender touch so readily, her submissive nature going against the sensibilities of a modern-day woman. As maddening a sensation as this is, had she been able to predict your next move, she may have begged you to continue the course.
Without warning, you lunge directly underneath her toes, scratching your nails underneath their tender little pads in earnest.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!” A piercing scream echoes through the chamber, a mixture of surprise and rage escaping her as all defenses in an instant seem to have abandoned her. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAPPP!!” Toes flailing to and fro, they are all but helpless to your touch, scraping up and down their stems, in between every crease and crevice with surgical accuracy. Frantically they scrunch together, desperately attempting to lock you out only to keep them in with comical failure.
“GET OUT OF MY TOES!!” You wish to tease her, expressing just how ridiculous she’s acting as her toes inevitably keep holding your fingers into their rightful place. However, you resist, for the moment you reveal to her any hint of humanity, even as small as the very sound of your voice, you give her power. For all she knows, you are a ghostly apparition, sent from the depths of hell to inflict upon her the torments of a thousand ticklish nights. For all she knows, she is trapped in a perpetual nightmare, one which she cannot wake herself from, and for the time being, you wish to prove that correct.
For close to half an hour you continue this back-and-forth, and it appears you’ve exhausted the poor thing. Lesser creatures would have passed out by now from such ungodly torments, but her youthful stamina, in tandem with your careful hand, has guaranteed her no repose. You gaze down at your work, for what began as a pair of creamy soft feet have now collected a dark tint of red, the vigorousness of her plight leaving its mark.
“Please…no more…I’m begging you,” she whimpers. Beads of sweat stream across her toned body, her chest heaving in desperate attempt to catch her breath. Her blindfold soaked with tears, the sputtering of her hollow pleas match that most pathetic of states she finds herself in. But you find the begging most troublesome, syphoning off any energy that could be put well into use during her torments.
Wandering over to a small dresser perched just in the left corner, you retrieve a second scarf. Knotting a large wad into the middle of it, you gently hoist her head up, binding it directly in between her gleaming white teeth. Meek whimpers escape her, the only pathetic effort she has left of gaining your sympathies. Such would seem as though you had tuckered her out, having absolutely no more pluck and energy left in her. But you know better: you know what this girl’s limits are, and you are going to tear them to shreds. Whatever glimmer of hope she sought is soon about to escape her, as you begin, without an ounce of mercy, clawing your way into her underarms.
“MRRRRRRRRRRRRRPHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! RRRRRRRRRMPH!!” A hapless wail, piercing the fresh knot you placed not ten seconds ago, echoes against these concrete walls. Scraping across their tender flesh, you indulge in the utter helplessness of your victim, thrashing back and forth with every ounce of energy she feigned not to have. Kneading up and down her sides, digging between each and every rib, not one moment is spared driving her batshit insane.
“PHLEEEEEEEEEEEEEPH!!” Juxtaposed against desperate wails and abysmal cackles, her incoherent babbling proves the most satisfying. You didn’t know her most adorable British accent could come through the gag, just icing on the hellish tickle cake you are serving up to her at this very moment.
How she must feel knowing the very last possible way of gaining her escape has been robbed from her. Had she just searched a little harder, communicated with you just one minute longer, she might have found that one button to push, that one spark of sympathy that would have saved her from this hellish ordeal, but that was the point. You don’t wish for her to talk; you only wish for her to suffer, for only through her intense, mindboggling suffering can she be broken and rebuilt to your design: a devoted tickle pet for your infinite pleasure just on the horizon.
Yes, you had planned to release her back into her life, back to the red carpets, leading actress roles, the potential of a career filled with awards and accolades just over the horizon. But you changed your mind, and she is distinctly to blame. Everything about this woman has tantalized you the moment you laid eyes on her, but you couldn’t in your wildest dreams imagine just how perfect she would fit into your fantasies the moment she arrived. Her reactions are too perfect, the way she flails about, begs and pleads for mercy, is all just too precious to let fall through your fingers. Right down to her French tipped toes, crunching and curling as you ravage her upper body, nothing that she does is anything but absolutely exquisite to you right now. No, you’re going to keep this one, taming her, molding her into a submissive little Emma devoted to you for the rest of her precious lifetime.
And you’re not going to stop until the metamorphosis is complete.
Hours seem like weeks to this poor creature, robbed of all senses short of the ones that currently drive her mad. She cannot see, she cannot speak, she can only feel the ruthless tickling you inflict upon her flawless skin. The only sounds that accompany her are those horrifying noises you extract from her, growing evermore demonic as her voice becomes increasingly hoarse. Not even her bonds make a sound, fitting her snugly into place without even acknowledging their own presence. Whatever movement she has left has been employed through possible escape, bucking against the leather table, muscles straining against her cuffs. Even the stocks, as much as she tries, will not even creak to acknowledge her efforts. Someone had gone to great lengths to remind her, throughout this whole ordeal, just how pitiful it would be to resist.
However, despite all the preparation that had gone into her confinement, it didn’t even dawn on this girl the depths of your perversion, the very roots of your desire to inflict such torments upon her, and the utter humanity you suppress to satiate your most base of primal urges. All this became clear to her as, kneeling before her angelic feet, you tenderly run the tip of your tongue up the length of her left sole.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!” Her strained voice ascends yet another octave, the shock of such a maneuver catching her completely off guard. Like a ravenous animal, you devour every inch of her tender feet: gnawing the pads of her heels, up and down the sides of her feet with wild abandonment, only stopping to rest your jaw and begin yet again. Had you not blindfolded and gagged her, the expressions she’d be making would strike you as a pure Kodak moment: her eyes like saucers, gone blank with horror to your gorging; her mouth agape, able to only vocalize a single scream before dissolving into silent breathy laughter; her face muscles, curling and stretching to compensate the myriad of emotions she is tenuously balancing at every turn. Having had to manually hold her feet into place, her utter helplessness renders her submissive to your torments, giving you full reign over her most succulent of body parts.
It is here you begin teasing the beauty, your tongue gently caressing every inch of their perfect design. Most likely out of sheer terror, her toes have been left splayed for you, your tongue flossing between each of them, a light nibble of their pads thrown in from time to time. You cannot help it but savor every square inch of her supple soles, her tender heels, and her sumptuous little toes, those which you had only admired through the computer screen now enveloping all five of your bodily senses. What is it about these most lowly of appendages that turns you into a ravenous animal? You dare not say, but as far as she knows, you live for nothing but to syphon her life energy right through her feet.
“RRRRRRRRRMPHHHHH!! UUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMPH!!” Her screams of horror are slowly substituted, moans of erotic ecstasy escape her bit by bit. Arching her back to compensate such pleasures bestowed upon her lowliest of appendages, her lower body rocks in response, attempting to satisfy these sensations that are completely foreign to her. But you will not let her enjoy release, for it is your satisfaction that you seek, not hers, keeping her in sexual limbo for the duration of an entire hour. As you indulge one last moment, her grunts of frustration obviously betraying her sense of decency, you gaze upon her statuesque form: a mere instrument in which to perform a concerto of fantasy and nightmare, of heaven and hell, of peril and pleasure, all with you as maestro. Emma Watson, by the time the last note is written upon the page, will be transformed, and the global celebrity will be no more.
Two hours prior, having given her a short break from her erotic torments, you prepared her for the breaking. Lathering her feet with a thick coat of lotion, you slipped upon her angelic feet a pair of thick wool socks, subsequently encased in plastic wrap. Perched in front, a small heating unit is prepared, set on high, aimed directly at them. You leave her, letting her feet stew in the arrangement, for with each passing moment, as the heating unit interacts with her feet, they will soon become unfathomably sensitive.
As you re-enter your playroom, her wails of agony first greet you, jerking against her bonds in desperate escape from the discomfort. As you unwrap her soles, gazing upon her sweat drenched body, you reveal them to the cool dungeon air. A breath of relief escapes her, but it will be her last, for the moment you gently blow upon her left sole, a frantic yelp it becomes, one with greater intensity than the moment you began. Smearing her feet in hot baby oil, you reveal you most dastardly of tools: a vibrating hairbrush, its bristles pulsating with malicious intent. The moment it makes contact with her, digging deep into her horrendously ticklish and tender heels, all hell breaks loose.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!” She screams like a banshee, thrashing mightily against her bonds one final time. Biting into her gag her only relief, she can do absolutely nothing but suffer her torments. Her hands turn white, clenching tight only when they are unable to grasp at anything but empty air. As the vibrating hairbrush digs into her soles, a large comb begins sawing in between her toes, further driving her into the depths of tickle hell.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! MMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
As time goes by, she begins to resist less, her screams for mercy become less and less until they all but disappear, and the energetic captive you had taken in is stripped of everything she was, for just as soon as it began, it was over. Was half an hour of this too much for the girl? Most likely, but the deed is done to your satisfaction. Whatever resolve she may have possessed has been torn to shreds, her resilience burnt to a crisp, her humanity stripped away from her. A sputtering, tear-soaked, sweat drenched, giggling mess she lays, as the transformation has completed. As confirmation, the process continues, witnessing what you know as success: no resistance, no fighting, complete submission in and out. There she lays, finally accepting any and all torments as her inevitable fate, a tickle pet she has become forevermore.
You have broken her.
Three weeks later…
You cradle her in your arms, gently caressing her cheek with the back of your hand. Atop her bed, she welcomes your tender touch, the love in which you show her knowing no bounds. She embraces you, pulling herself into your protection. Not three weeks ago you had this creature, captured and processed into the devoted tickle pet she is today. Now, as the tag on the collar round her neck shows, she is yours, now and forever.
Over time she has come to know your diabolical dwelling as her home, indulging in each and every device like none before. Night after night you both plan out the next day’s adventure, right down to the very costumes to procure to do it. Every fantasy she will fulfill, every role she will play, every character and plot she will realize to your ultimate pleasure.
Will the knowledgeable doctor punish the forgetful nurse for not ordering the blood tests? Will the CIA operative interrogate the captured British spy for crucial information? Will the exotic dancer try to seduce her wealthy patron by any means necessary, even if it means revealing her greatest of vulnerabilities? No expense is wasted in realizing all these fantasies into reality.
But what about this one: will the aspiring actress, captured and tickled beyond reason by her sadistic captor, ultimately resolve to resume her former life the moment she is handed the option? You wait for a response, and you get one: blushing, she turns to you, and in the meekest of voices, wishing not to disappoint her Master by any means, informs you that she would rather not realize that particular scenario.
The End
