ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
If there is a Hell, then surely she is in it.
Agent Natasha Romanoff, SHIELD operative and first official female Avenger, finds herself in yet another diabolical contraption, the nature of which she couldn’t have possibly imagined: she has been placed in a large glass container, hanging upside down from her ankles, nestled in two padded holes atop the device. Clad in a thick white straitjacket, its stalwart design pinning her arms to either side of her torso, she finds all but the most minute upper body movement impossible at best, only retaining the ability to hoist herself all the way up to her bare milky white legs, thereby relieving some of the pressure atop her head from being placed in such an uncomfortable position. The device’s walls being completely transparent, she peers about her surroundings, witnessing in its unobscured entirety the extent of Dr. Lyla’s lab, that which she has become very acquainted with during her long and arduous stay.
Over this extended period of time, the duration of which she hasn’t the slightest clue of, Agent Romanoff has been continuously subjected to onslaught after onslaught of mind-numbing tickle torture, all perpetuated by the myriad of devices all by this woman’s hellish design. She can still remember it as though it were yesterday: bound in that small cylindrical chamber, having been stripped down to nothing over the course of her torments, now being slowly guided towards that torturous chamber where dozens of tentacles would ruthlessly tickle her in stark silent darkness for the rest of the night. Just as she was to turn around to plead her way out of her torments, she was stopped dead in her tracks by a gag placed precariously atop her lips, followed by this ominous assurance by her heinous captor: that she was there to be broken, into tiny little pieces, and that nothing she said would stop her from her ultimate fate.
She didn’t believe it at first, thinking it to be a psychological ploy to further strip her of her mental fortitude, enduring her subsequent tortures as though they were merely punishment for her defiance. However, over the course of her trials and tribulations trapped in this woman’s inescapable lair, she has now found that the good doctor’s words have indeed come true, for not once has she been questioned as to what valuable information she could divulge. Yes, it is apparent to her now that she has been thrust into a world of perpetual torments for no other reason than that, and that now she will have to endure merely for the sake of her own sanity.
However, what has amounted to the most degrading element of being in Dr. Lyla’s captivity is wearing what is essentially a chastity device, one that was placed around her sex the moment before she awoke from her initial torments. Consisting of but a smooth silver surface, with no discernible marks as to denote its manufacturer, its specially crafted design does not inhibit her when nature calls, but regarding any form of self-stimulation, it is a force to be reckoned. However, just how much masturbation the woman expected Agent Romanoff to be engaging in during her limited time by herself is beyond her, but the idea alone of being restrained in such an intimate manner is infuriating to the seasoned spy, especially when placed atop the rest of the ways she is limited both while in Dr. Lyla’s presence as well as out of it. It is only through her persistent sense of modesty, both as a spy as well as a Russian woman, that she can keep composure being subjected to such a degrading device.
She has found her day-to-day routine all but too predictable: collapsing in her bedchamber after a long and arduous torture session, only to wake up in yet another of her wild contraptions. She can still feel her ears ringing from the night before, having been trapped in a coffin-like device as her midsection was ravaged by a collection of pulsating nobs across her body, all the while being silently observed by the sensually inquisitive Dr. Lyla, tweaking the settings on the device every few moments as to capitalize on the most effective methods of tormenting the poor secret agent. Such is the reality Agent Romanoff exists in, with each ordeal she has to go through that much more unbearable than the last, her ability to adapt to any situation being pushed to its absolute limits. It seemed at that point she would finally break, giving in to her captor’s expectations to be turned into a faithful tickle slave as far as she could see, but she wouldn’t be in the precarious position she is now had that in fact happened.
She hears those familiar footsteps making their approach, turning her glaring gaze towards the leggy form of Dr. Lyla. It seems that, with each passing day, the deranged woman strips away yet another layer to her professional facade, flaunting the inherent sexuality of the sultry woman underneath: her bulky white lab coat has been replaced by a tight-fitting burgundy blouse that highlights her trimmed physique, with a sports bra nestled underneath prominently displaying her perky C cups for the captured spy’s pleasure. Her tightly bound ponytail has been done away with, letting her thin straw blonde locks fall atop her shoulders, with her comically large glasses perpetually placed atop her head as thought they weren’t really even necessary. Sporting a tight black pinstriped skirt and black nylons, she carries her skimpy black stilettos behind her, her usually casual demeanor in stark contrast to that of her subject.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Romanoff?” Dr. Lyla asks her, such a blatantly indifferent question, having her dire predicament be apparent right in front of her eyes.
“Why don’t you come in here, and let me show you just how comfortable I am?” she tersely answers, trying still to get underneath the skin of her captor, having not fully grasped just how futile all her efforts have proven to be up to this point.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary sweetie!” Dr. Lyla answers cutely, addressing her as though she were but a helpless child under her watch. “I’m sure we’re going to have so much fun today, you just wait!” She takes to the side of the device, mounting herself atop a small ladder leading up to the top of the mechanism where, right in front of her eyes, sit the vulnerably bare, freshly pedicured feet of Agent Romanoff, a sight she has looked forward to since the contraption itself was just in its design phase. To say she was infatuated by their upturned spot, that which she could never be treated to at the movies, would be a complete understatement.
“Oh, aren’t they just lovely?” she coos, their creamy pale surface dotted in pockets of pink atop the heels and toes of their size seven shape. “Oh yes: these surely are the key to getting through that pesky little resolve of yours, Agent Romanoff. I’m just so glad you’re letting me play with them: that’s very generous of you my dear!” A fire begins churning in Agent Romanoff’s stomach, her disgust towards this figure knowing no limits, and her perpetual desire to show it not stifled by the helpless situation she finds herself in.
“I don’t know how many times I have to keep telling you this: you’re never going to break me,” she spits back, her stalwart defiance on full display for her captor, knowing nothing less than what she had been taught to do during her advanced training as a world-class spy. Yes, despite the myriad of torments she has been forced to endure thus far, Agent Romanoff has held strong against everything the deranged madwoman has thrown at her, surely proof to anyone that she is the most effective Avenger of any of them, and no doubt proof to her captor that she is going to provide a great deal of fun for her in the meantime.
“Oh don’t be so quick to assume so,” she responds, perching herself next to the exposed appendages ripe for exploiting for her pleasure. “You haven’t even heard just what I plan to do with you: you see, this little predicament you’re in is all about testing your will power. However, it will not be testing the will you have to resist your torments, oh no, but your will to confront them. Case in point: by flexing your feet backwards, you come in contact with a thin proximity strip, one that will detect the very moment you pull them away in response to your torments.”
“And just why do I give a rat’s ass about that?” Agent Romanoff asks, wondering just why she would keep her feet perfectly accessible to her captor’s tickling.
“Well, that’s because if you’re not careful, then this will happen,” Dr. Lyla says, flicking a hidden switch placed adjacent to her captive’s feet, initiating a small device she has placed just atop Agent Romanoff’s belly button out of her awareness.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!” Agent Romanoff calls out, feeling an abrupt shock across her entire abdomen the likes of which she could have never expected. Its current strong and unhindered, the electricity coursing through her muscles is so effective, so foreign to her, that it is unbearable, screaming in agony being subjected to it for more than a few seconds. It is only after several agonizing moments that she finally gets the picture, flexing her feet enough as to initiate contact with the top of the device, turning it off for the moment as she looks back up at her captor, a look of rejuvenated hatred scrawled across her face.
“Yes, what you have is a little mechanism that will promptly shock you the moment you try to scrunch up those pretty little toes of yours to protect yourself. It will also make it difficult to keep yourself upright with your abdominal muscles having to deal with that too.” She opens her mouth, only slightly, just catching the inevitable question that was to exit her gullet, fearing the answer that was waiting for her. Unfortunately, it was as though Dr. Lyla could read her mind, answering that unspoken thought for her.
“And just why will you be holding yourself upright, you ask?” Dr. Lyla rhetorically asks her. “Well, I’ll show you.” She reaches back down, initiating another switch right next to the captive heroine’s feet. Suddenly, Agent Romanoff hears the sound of water flowing through pipes underneath her, glancing below to find the enclosed chamber quickly filling up with water. Her eyes wide as saucers, she thinks for a brief moment the woman is going to drown her, only to remind herself that she is going to keep her alive no matter what. Just as the water is about to touch her crown, she pulls herself upright, waiting for the moment the water sits just below her lower back as she is just out of its reach. Now she gets the true nefarious intent of this device: not only must she keep her feet fully flexed, ripe for being taken advantage of by any device or technique inflicted upon her helplessly rendered feet, but that by having to hold her upper body out of the water, she is inevitably bringing her face that much closer to them, forced to watch as her torments unfold right before her very eyes, and she has absolutely no way of stopping it.
“And, while you’re hanging around down there, you get to enjoy my newest invention!” Dr. Lyla exclaims, reaching behind her, taking out a small metal chest roughly one foot wide and six inches deep. Placing it just behind Agent Romanoff’s toes, she activates the device, its small mechanisms churning just above her head as she watches in horror its contents unfold: a small periscope jettisons out of the top, its red lens looking about until it locks unto Agent Romanoff’s soles, focusing in on their smooth tangible form. Just as a small light illuminates atop its surface, a set of mechanical arms come out its sides, each holding a small spinning brush akin to those that ravaged her soles that very first day.
“This is the portable cousin to my tickle chamber you experienced oh so long ago,” Dr. Lyla teases, watching Agent Romanoff’s eyes widen in horror as she witnesses the spinning brushes slowly inch towards her vulnerable soles. “And don’t you worry: this little device is a swift learner. Every twitch, every tremor you don’t want him to see, he’ll recognize instantly, always adjusting to find the best way to torment these sumptuous little feet of yours.” She can only watch as the spinning brushes finally make contact with her upturned soles, throwing her into a maelstrom of ticklish agony the moment they make contact.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” Agent Romanoff grunts to herself, clenching her teeth shut as she tries to stifle the laughter from escaping her gullet. She can feel every bristle atop her smoothened soles, moving unpredictably across her supple flesh, keeping her always on her toes (or off them, if you will). She felt this to be bearable enough, but eventually, it happened: her left big toe twitches, a response to one of the brushes caressing the ball of her foot. Catching such a subtle response, the mechanism changes gear, focusing its efforts right on the balls of both of her feet much to her dismay.
“NNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” she spews forth, the torturous device making quick work of her as though it were nothing. “MOTHERFUAAAAAAAAAAACK!!” Just as one of them goes underneath her toe, she loses focus, thrusting her foot forward, initiating the proximity strip, shocking her midsection as she falls backwards into the water. She fights with herself, trying to pull herself up out on the water, with the device shocking her abdominal muscles into submission. Even in her submerged state, fighting to get her feet back in position, the tickling doesn’t cease, making it near impossible to find within her the willpower to put herself back in that vulnerable position, even as she feels the oxygen within her lungs slowly being depleted. Finally, forcing her feet fully flexed, the electrical pulse ceases, giving her enough leeway to pull herself out of the water.
“Refreshed?” the woman mocks her from above, sitting cross-legged merely observing her effective devices. “Good, because you’ve got a long way to go my dear!” Gasping for breath under the clear glass, Agent Romanoff pitifully watches from her position below as another set of devices exit from the machine, those tipped with tiny spinning tendrils that make their way right towards her trembling toes. If there was a field designed around such psychological distress being inflicted upon her by the sight of such a device, then surely Dr. Lyla would head the research department of said field.
“WWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” Agent Romanoff wails at the tops of her lungs, her face turning red from the force of her cackling laughter, not knowing if her strength is soon to fail.
“Oh don’t worry dear: it’ll be all over soon!” the woman reassures her, resting her hand atop her chin in awe of her invention. “I mean, you only have four hours left!”
“FFUUUUUUUUUUUUUHUHUHUHUCK YOUUHUHUHUHUHUHU!!” Agent Romanoff spews back, now done with trying to act anything but what she feels to be now.
“I’m sorry: is this Deadpool?” Dr. Lyla quips, placing her hands atop her legs as she indulges in the sight of her resilient captive turned to rubble right in front of your eyes. “Because I don’t think I captured an R-rated superhero. Now, you better watch that mouth of yours, missy, else I’ll have to turn up the intensity on you!”
She tries to hold on, forcing herself to watch each and every toe as it twitches relentlessly under such torments. Eventually, though, her resolve fails her, thrusting her feet forward as she once again is thrust backwards into the water. It is harder now, even harder than before, a full minute passing before she is able to find herself once again above water, spewing excess water from her throat having almost reached her lungs. However, the moment she resurfaces, she finds Dr. Lyla gone from her presence, giving her hope that she has been left a few moments to breathe.
Unfortunately for her, those few moments were just not enough.
“If you want something done right, then you’re just going to have to do it yourself,” Dr. Lyla calls out, making her way back up the small ladder, putting herself into view just above her captive. “I hope you enjoy these new toys of mine: I designed them especially for you.” As Agent Romanoff gazes up towards her, she notices what she is talking about: placed upon both of her hands is a set of purple leather gloves, the finger of which are tipped with long brass talons that, at a press of a button, begin vibrating at supersonic speeds, being slowly guided towards her feet without anything she can do about ut. She gazes upon those menacing devices, now just inches from her already reddened feet, just wondering how she is going to resist it this time.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” the woman exclaims, pulling away at the last moment, kneeling down to speak clearly to her captive. “It’s time for you to cum, my dear.” She cannot comprehend just what she just said: did she really say that? Now? How is that going to happen? What control does she have over if she has an orgasm? It’s not like she can just reach down and…oh no.
“That’s right princess: did you really think that little girdle of yours was just to keep you from pleasuring yourself?” she asks the distressed young spy, watching the anguish in her eyes turn to pitiful confusion. “Silly girl: you just never learn, do you? Oh well: I’m not going to punish you for being a dimwitted spy. Don’t worry, you can thank me later.”
Turning over her left glove, she flips a hidden switch, one that activates the device’s auxiliary function, inciting a slowly-building orgasm beneath much to Agent Romanoff’s bewilderment. It feels as though a dozen vibrating fingers are poking and prodding at her sex, extracting those sensations that not even her intimate lovers could wield for long. She can just feel it as the device pressed up against her clit does its job, a mixture of subtle vibrations and electrical stimulation wielding her libido like none other. It is unbearable to say the least, her will as a secret agent to keep composure under the most dire circumstances being strained by her own womanly libido, being force fed a torrent of orgasm-inducing signals that are tearing her concentration in pieces.
“And, while that’s doing its job…” Dr. Lyla states, right before caressing the bottoms of Agent Romanoff’s soles with her fingertips, eliciting a torrent of pitiful squeals from her captive down below. She felt herself able to resist anything and everything the woman could throw at her but, this time, it seems our stalwart spy is being bested at a game she never knew the rules to. Now, with the vibrating talons flicking against the bottoms of her feet, and a toe-curling orgasm sitting just over the horizon, the young spy doesn’t seem to be able to hold onto this one.
She lets it happen, feeling her eyes roll in the back of her head as it seems every muscle across her body tenses up from her much-desired climax. It eludes her just how sex-craved she had become during her captivity, her secret agent instincts always at odds with her sexual desires despite years of harsh training. If only she had known the device had been working the whole time, feeding her unconscious signals as she slept, slowly conditioning within her a highly tuned sexual response, then maybe she would not have given in so readily to it, or at least she would not have appeared so pleased when it finally came to be. However, as she lets the end of her orgasm pass under her senses, she is caught by the devious look of her captor who, up until now, has not demonstrated the true capacity of her evil as far as the captive young woman is concerned, but will now let herself go unhinged.
“Enjoying yourself?” Dr. Lyla inquires, gazing down over the tops of her glasses with unsubtle satisfaction across her lips. “Good…now suffer!” She plunges her talons once again into the poor heroine’s soles, wilding going at the tender flesh like never before, extracting a horrendous shriek from her captive like none she has heard before.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!”She could have shattered the glass around her with such force spewing from her already strained gullet, being thrust into a whole new level of suffering under her dastardly fingers. She knew herself to be sensitive after reaching climax, but nothing compared to the way it seems her mind is going haywire, with every nerve ending in her feet having been turned all the way up to 100 in an instant. Tears streaming down her face, a look of broken suffering can be discerned through the glass, having finally reached the point of no return.
“SSSSTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPP!!” she finally spews, knowing just how futile it is to try and hold on any longer, watching her toes begin rampantly twitching out of her control, being just one moment away from plunging back to her fate for the last time.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Dr. Lyla taunts her, raking her nails deep underneath the stems of her toes, finally dislodging them from the contact slip after so many horrendous moments. The device shocks her yet again, its sensation even more unbearable as she plunges back into the drink. She tries to fight it, but it is no use: with her feet flailing about just trying to avoid the tickles, and her stomach muscles being pummeled with electrical current, the weight of the soggy straitjacket alone is enough to bring her down for the count, shaking herself back and forth to try and muster up that last bit of strength she ultimately does not have left. After several agonizing moments underwater, she finally passes out…
She awakens, hours later, or so she believes, lying in her bedchamber, having no recollection as to how she’s been there. She looks about, hoping that she had finally awoken from her long hellish dream, only to realize this is but her unfortunate reality. Her modest living quarters, being but a bed placed in the middle of the room, are that which she hasn’t had time to become accustomed to, being given little time for herself. However, for the first time in her whole captivity, she feels but the slightest bit of relief that her last session was finally ov…
“I’m sorry Miss Romanoff,” Dr. Lyla’s voice suddenly enters the room, flooding the small space through the loudspeakers embedded within the ceiling. “But we still have three hours left to your session. If you would please join me in the lab, we’ll continue at your convenience.” Suddenly, she feels a force being exerted on her extremities, feeling them being pulled upward, realizing that a set of metal cuffs has been placed upon them. Lifted from her bed by an unseen magnetic force, Agent Romanoff begins levitating towards the ceiling as a panel opens for her, carrying her away to finish her torments she pathetically assumed to be over.
To be continued…
Agent Natasha Romanoff, SHIELD operative and first official female Avenger, finds herself in yet another diabolical contraption, the nature of which she couldn’t have possibly imagined: she has been placed in a large glass container, hanging upside down from her ankles, nestled in two padded holes atop the device. Clad in a thick white straitjacket, its stalwart design pinning her arms to either side of her torso, she finds all but the most minute upper body movement impossible at best, only retaining the ability to hoist herself all the way up to her bare milky white legs, thereby relieving some of the pressure atop her head from being placed in such an uncomfortable position. The device’s walls being completely transparent, she peers about her surroundings, witnessing in its unobscured entirety the extent of Dr. Lyla’s lab, that which she has become very acquainted with during her long and arduous stay.
Over this extended period of time, the duration of which she hasn’t the slightest clue of, Agent Romanoff has been continuously subjected to onslaught after onslaught of mind-numbing tickle torture, all perpetuated by the myriad of devices all by this woman’s hellish design. She can still remember it as though it were yesterday: bound in that small cylindrical chamber, having been stripped down to nothing over the course of her torments, now being slowly guided towards that torturous chamber where dozens of tentacles would ruthlessly tickle her in stark silent darkness for the rest of the night. Just as she was to turn around to plead her way out of her torments, she was stopped dead in her tracks by a gag placed precariously atop her lips, followed by this ominous assurance by her heinous captor: that she was there to be broken, into tiny little pieces, and that nothing she said would stop her from her ultimate fate.
She didn’t believe it at first, thinking it to be a psychological ploy to further strip her of her mental fortitude, enduring her subsequent tortures as though they were merely punishment for her defiance. However, over the course of her trials and tribulations trapped in this woman’s inescapable lair, she has now found that the good doctor’s words have indeed come true, for not once has she been questioned as to what valuable information she could divulge. Yes, it is apparent to her now that she has been thrust into a world of perpetual torments for no other reason than that, and that now she will have to endure merely for the sake of her own sanity.
However, what has amounted to the most degrading element of being in Dr. Lyla’s captivity is wearing what is essentially a chastity device, one that was placed around her sex the moment before she awoke from her initial torments. Consisting of but a smooth silver surface, with no discernible marks as to denote its manufacturer, its specially crafted design does not inhibit her when nature calls, but regarding any form of self-stimulation, it is a force to be reckoned. However, just how much masturbation the woman expected Agent Romanoff to be engaging in during her limited time by herself is beyond her, but the idea alone of being restrained in such an intimate manner is infuriating to the seasoned spy, especially when placed atop the rest of the ways she is limited both while in Dr. Lyla’s presence as well as out of it. It is only through her persistent sense of modesty, both as a spy as well as a Russian woman, that she can keep composure being subjected to such a degrading device.
She has found her day-to-day routine all but too predictable: collapsing in her bedchamber after a long and arduous torture session, only to wake up in yet another of her wild contraptions. She can still feel her ears ringing from the night before, having been trapped in a coffin-like device as her midsection was ravaged by a collection of pulsating nobs across her body, all the while being silently observed by the sensually inquisitive Dr. Lyla, tweaking the settings on the device every few moments as to capitalize on the most effective methods of tormenting the poor secret agent. Such is the reality Agent Romanoff exists in, with each ordeal she has to go through that much more unbearable than the last, her ability to adapt to any situation being pushed to its absolute limits. It seemed at that point she would finally break, giving in to her captor’s expectations to be turned into a faithful tickle slave as far as she could see, but she wouldn’t be in the precarious position she is now had that in fact happened.
She hears those familiar footsteps making their approach, turning her glaring gaze towards the leggy form of Dr. Lyla. It seems that, with each passing day, the deranged woman strips away yet another layer to her professional facade, flaunting the inherent sexuality of the sultry woman underneath: her bulky white lab coat has been replaced by a tight-fitting burgundy blouse that highlights her trimmed physique, with a sports bra nestled underneath prominently displaying her perky C cups for the captured spy’s pleasure. Her tightly bound ponytail has been done away with, letting her thin straw blonde locks fall atop her shoulders, with her comically large glasses perpetually placed atop her head as thought they weren’t really even necessary. Sporting a tight black pinstriped skirt and black nylons, she carries her skimpy black stilettos behind her, her usually casual demeanor in stark contrast to that of her subject.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Romanoff?” Dr. Lyla asks her, such a blatantly indifferent question, having her dire predicament be apparent right in front of her eyes.
“Why don’t you come in here, and let me show you just how comfortable I am?” she tersely answers, trying still to get underneath the skin of her captor, having not fully grasped just how futile all her efforts have proven to be up to this point.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary sweetie!” Dr. Lyla answers cutely, addressing her as though she were but a helpless child under her watch. “I’m sure we’re going to have so much fun today, you just wait!” She takes to the side of the device, mounting herself atop a small ladder leading up to the top of the mechanism where, right in front of her eyes, sit the vulnerably bare, freshly pedicured feet of Agent Romanoff, a sight she has looked forward to since the contraption itself was just in its design phase. To say she was infatuated by their upturned spot, that which she could never be treated to at the movies, would be a complete understatement.
“Oh, aren’t they just lovely?” she coos, their creamy pale surface dotted in pockets of pink atop the heels and toes of their size seven shape. “Oh yes: these surely are the key to getting through that pesky little resolve of yours, Agent Romanoff. I’m just so glad you’re letting me play with them: that’s very generous of you my dear!” A fire begins churning in Agent Romanoff’s stomach, her disgust towards this figure knowing no limits, and her perpetual desire to show it not stifled by the helpless situation she finds herself in.
“I don’t know how many times I have to keep telling you this: you’re never going to break me,” she spits back, her stalwart defiance on full display for her captor, knowing nothing less than what she had been taught to do during her advanced training as a world-class spy. Yes, despite the myriad of torments she has been forced to endure thus far, Agent Romanoff has held strong against everything the deranged madwoman has thrown at her, surely proof to anyone that she is the most effective Avenger of any of them, and no doubt proof to her captor that she is going to provide a great deal of fun for her in the meantime.
“Oh don’t be so quick to assume so,” she responds, perching herself next to the exposed appendages ripe for exploiting for her pleasure. “You haven’t even heard just what I plan to do with you: you see, this little predicament you’re in is all about testing your will power. However, it will not be testing the will you have to resist your torments, oh no, but your will to confront them. Case in point: by flexing your feet backwards, you come in contact with a thin proximity strip, one that will detect the very moment you pull them away in response to your torments.”
“And just why do I give a rat’s ass about that?” Agent Romanoff asks, wondering just why she would keep her feet perfectly accessible to her captor’s tickling.
“Well, that’s because if you’re not careful, then this will happen,” Dr. Lyla says, flicking a hidden switch placed adjacent to her captive’s feet, initiating a small device she has placed just atop Agent Romanoff’s belly button out of her awareness.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!” Agent Romanoff calls out, feeling an abrupt shock across her entire abdomen the likes of which she could have never expected. Its current strong and unhindered, the electricity coursing through her muscles is so effective, so foreign to her, that it is unbearable, screaming in agony being subjected to it for more than a few seconds. It is only after several agonizing moments that she finally gets the picture, flexing her feet enough as to initiate contact with the top of the device, turning it off for the moment as she looks back up at her captor, a look of rejuvenated hatred scrawled across her face.
“Yes, what you have is a little mechanism that will promptly shock you the moment you try to scrunch up those pretty little toes of yours to protect yourself. It will also make it difficult to keep yourself upright with your abdominal muscles having to deal with that too.” She opens her mouth, only slightly, just catching the inevitable question that was to exit her gullet, fearing the answer that was waiting for her. Unfortunately, it was as though Dr. Lyla could read her mind, answering that unspoken thought for her.
“And just why will you be holding yourself upright, you ask?” Dr. Lyla rhetorically asks her. “Well, I’ll show you.” She reaches back down, initiating another switch right next to the captive heroine’s feet. Suddenly, Agent Romanoff hears the sound of water flowing through pipes underneath her, glancing below to find the enclosed chamber quickly filling up with water. Her eyes wide as saucers, she thinks for a brief moment the woman is going to drown her, only to remind herself that she is going to keep her alive no matter what. Just as the water is about to touch her crown, she pulls herself upright, waiting for the moment the water sits just below her lower back as she is just out of its reach. Now she gets the true nefarious intent of this device: not only must she keep her feet fully flexed, ripe for being taken advantage of by any device or technique inflicted upon her helplessly rendered feet, but that by having to hold her upper body out of the water, she is inevitably bringing her face that much closer to them, forced to watch as her torments unfold right before her very eyes, and she has absolutely no way of stopping it.
“And, while you’re hanging around down there, you get to enjoy my newest invention!” Dr. Lyla exclaims, reaching behind her, taking out a small metal chest roughly one foot wide and six inches deep. Placing it just behind Agent Romanoff’s toes, she activates the device, its small mechanisms churning just above her head as she watches in horror its contents unfold: a small periscope jettisons out of the top, its red lens looking about until it locks unto Agent Romanoff’s soles, focusing in on their smooth tangible form. Just as a small light illuminates atop its surface, a set of mechanical arms come out its sides, each holding a small spinning brush akin to those that ravaged her soles that very first day.
“This is the portable cousin to my tickle chamber you experienced oh so long ago,” Dr. Lyla teases, watching Agent Romanoff’s eyes widen in horror as she witnesses the spinning brushes slowly inch towards her vulnerable soles. “And don’t you worry: this little device is a swift learner. Every twitch, every tremor you don’t want him to see, he’ll recognize instantly, always adjusting to find the best way to torment these sumptuous little feet of yours.” She can only watch as the spinning brushes finally make contact with her upturned soles, throwing her into a maelstrom of ticklish agony the moment they make contact.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” Agent Romanoff grunts to herself, clenching her teeth shut as she tries to stifle the laughter from escaping her gullet. She can feel every bristle atop her smoothened soles, moving unpredictably across her supple flesh, keeping her always on her toes (or off them, if you will). She felt this to be bearable enough, but eventually, it happened: her left big toe twitches, a response to one of the brushes caressing the ball of her foot. Catching such a subtle response, the mechanism changes gear, focusing its efforts right on the balls of both of her feet much to her dismay.
“NNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” she spews forth, the torturous device making quick work of her as though it were nothing. “MOTHERFUAAAAAAAAAAACK!!” Just as one of them goes underneath her toe, she loses focus, thrusting her foot forward, initiating the proximity strip, shocking her midsection as she falls backwards into the water. She fights with herself, trying to pull herself up out on the water, with the device shocking her abdominal muscles into submission. Even in her submerged state, fighting to get her feet back in position, the tickling doesn’t cease, making it near impossible to find within her the willpower to put herself back in that vulnerable position, even as she feels the oxygen within her lungs slowly being depleted. Finally, forcing her feet fully flexed, the electrical pulse ceases, giving her enough leeway to pull herself out of the water.
“Refreshed?” the woman mocks her from above, sitting cross-legged merely observing her effective devices. “Good, because you’ve got a long way to go my dear!” Gasping for breath under the clear glass, Agent Romanoff pitifully watches from her position below as another set of devices exit from the machine, those tipped with tiny spinning tendrils that make their way right towards her trembling toes. If there was a field designed around such psychological distress being inflicted upon her by the sight of such a device, then surely Dr. Lyla would head the research department of said field.
“WWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” Agent Romanoff wails at the tops of her lungs, her face turning red from the force of her cackling laughter, not knowing if her strength is soon to fail.
“Oh don’t worry dear: it’ll be all over soon!” the woman reassures her, resting her hand atop her chin in awe of her invention. “I mean, you only have four hours left!”
“FFUUUUUUUUUUUUUHUHUHUHUCK YOUUHUHUHUHUHUHU!!” Agent Romanoff spews back, now done with trying to act anything but what she feels to be now.
“I’m sorry: is this Deadpool?” Dr. Lyla quips, placing her hands atop her legs as she indulges in the sight of her resilient captive turned to rubble right in front of your eyes. “Because I don’t think I captured an R-rated superhero. Now, you better watch that mouth of yours, missy, else I’ll have to turn up the intensity on you!”
She tries to hold on, forcing herself to watch each and every toe as it twitches relentlessly under such torments. Eventually, though, her resolve fails her, thrusting her feet forward as she once again is thrust backwards into the water. It is harder now, even harder than before, a full minute passing before she is able to find herself once again above water, spewing excess water from her throat having almost reached her lungs. However, the moment she resurfaces, she finds Dr. Lyla gone from her presence, giving her hope that she has been left a few moments to breathe.
Unfortunately for her, those few moments were just not enough.
“If you want something done right, then you’re just going to have to do it yourself,” Dr. Lyla calls out, making her way back up the small ladder, putting herself into view just above her captive. “I hope you enjoy these new toys of mine: I designed them especially for you.” As Agent Romanoff gazes up towards her, she notices what she is talking about: placed upon both of her hands is a set of purple leather gloves, the finger of which are tipped with long brass talons that, at a press of a button, begin vibrating at supersonic speeds, being slowly guided towards her feet without anything she can do about ut. She gazes upon those menacing devices, now just inches from her already reddened feet, just wondering how she is going to resist it this time.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” the woman exclaims, pulling away at the last moment, kneeling down to speak clearly to her captive. “It’s time for you to cum, my dear.” She cannot comprehend just what she just said: did she really say that? Now? How is that going to happen? What control does she have over if she has an orgasm? It’s not like she can just reach down and…oh no.
“That’s right princess: did you really think that little girdle of yours was just to keep you from pleasuring yourself?” she asks the distressed young spy, watching the anguish in her eyes turn to pitiful confusion. “Silly girl: you just never learn, do you? Oh well: I’m not going to punish you for being a dimwitted spy. Don’t worry, you can thank me later.”
Turning over her left glove, she flips a hidden switch, one that activates the device’s auxiliary function, inciting a slowly-building orgasm beneath much to Agent Romanoff’s bewilderment. It feels as though a dozen vibrating fingers are poking and prodding at her sex, extracting those sensations that not even her intimate lovers could wield for long. She can just feel it as the device pressed up against her clit does its job, a mixture of subtle vibrations and electrical stimulation wielding her libido like none other. It is unbearable to say the least, her will as a secret agent to keep composure under the most dire circumstances being strained by her own womanly libido, being force fed a torrent of orgasm-inducing signals that are tearing her concentration in pieces.
“And, while that’s doing its job…” Dr. Lyla states, right before caressing the bottoms of Agent Romanoff’s soles with her fingertips, eliciting a torrent of pitiful squeals from her captive down below. She felt herself able to resist anything and everything the woman could throw at her but, this time, it seems our stalwart spy is being bested at a game she never knew the rules to. Now, with the vibrating talons flicking against the bottoms of her feet, and a toe-curling orgasm sitting just over the horizon, the young spy doesn’t seem to be able to hold onto this one.
She lets it happen, feeling her eyes roll in the back of her head as it seems every muscle across her body tenses up from her much-desired climax. It eludes her just how sex-craved she had become during her captivity, her secret agent instincts always at odds with her sexual desires despite years of harsh training. If only she had known the device had been working the whole time, feeding her unconscious signals as she slept, slowly conditioning within her a highly tuned sexual response, then maybe she would not have given in so readily to it, or at least she would not have appeared so pleased when it finally came to be. However, as she lets the end of her orgasm pass under her senses, she is caught by the devious look of her captor who, up until now, has not demonstrated the true capacity of her evil as far as the captive young woman is concerned, but will now let herself go unhinged.
“Enjoying yourself?” Dr. Lyla inquires, gazing down over the tops of her glasses with unsubtle satisfaction across her lips. “Good…now suffer!” She plunges her talons once again into the poor heroine’s soles, wilding going at the tender flesh like never before, extracting a horrendous shriek from her captive like none she has heard before.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!”She could have shattered the glass around her with such force spewing from her already strained gullet, being thrust into a whole new level of suffering under her dastardly fingers. She knew herself to be sensitive after reaching climax, but nothing compared to the way it seems her mind is going haywire, with every nerve ending in her feet having been turned all the way up to 100 in an instant. Tears streaming down her face, a look of broken suffering can be discerned through the glass, having finally reached the point of no return.
“SSSSTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPP!!” she finally spews, knowing just how futile it is to try and hold on any longer, watching her toes begin rampantly twitching out of her control, being just one moment away from plunging back to her fate for the last time.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Dr. Lyla taunts her, raking her nails deep underneath the stems of her toes, finally dislodging them from the contact slip after so many horrendous moments. The device shocks her yet again, its sensation even more unbearable as she plunges back into the drink. She tries to fight it, but it is no use: with her feet flailing about just trying to avoid the tickles, and her stomach muscles being pummeled with electrical current, the weight of the soggy straitjacket alone is enough to bring her down for the count, shaking herself back and forth to try and muster up that last bit of strength she ultimately does not have left. After several agonizing moments underwater, she finally passes out…
She awakens, hours later, or so she believes, lying in her bedchamber, having no recollection as to how she’s been there. She looks about, hoping that she had finally awoken from her long hellish dream, only to realize this is but her unfortunate reality. Her modest living quarters, being but a bed placed in the middle of the room, are that which she hasn’t had time to become accustomed to, being given little time for herself. However, for the first time in her whole captivity, she feels but the slightest bit of relief that her last session was finally ov…
“I’m sorry Miss Romanoff,” Dr. Lyla’s voice suddenly enters the room, flooding the small space through the loudspeakers embedded within the ceiling. “But we still have three hours left to your session. If you would please join me in the lab, we’ll continue at your convenience.” Suddenly, she feels a force being exerted on her extremities, feeling them being pulled upward, realizing that a set of metal cuffs has been placed upon them. Lifted from her bed by an unseen magnetic force, Agent Romanoff begins levitating towards the ceiling as a panel opens for her, carrying her away to finish her torments she pathetically assumed to be over.
To be continued…
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