ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
I gaze upon these most wondrous of circumstances, satisfying every one of my senses in this utterly tantalizing sight laid right before me, a delectable predicament if you could find but one word to describe it. Stowed away in my private abode, far away from the forces that might hinder my most despicable fun, lies a pretty little captive, my captive to be exact, just waiting for me to take advantage of her how she lies. Her voluptuous female form perfectly intermingles with the inescapable bondage I have assembled just for her, the likes of which she could have never possibly imagined, let alone expected to experience even once in her innocently tender lifetime. But, here in my desolate chambers, she hasn’t one choice in the matter, and it is going to stay that way so long as she provides me the entertainment I seek, and given how much enjoyment she has given me as of yet, without even one shred of effort on her part, it would seem there lies a long road ahead of her.
She is encased in a tight leather suit, with every inch of her sun kissed skin, from the top of her crown, all the way down to the very ends of her ankles far below, enclosed within its stark black design. Thick leather straps secure her to the padded leather table underneath, with a mere three inches of space between them, each one nullifying even the most vigorous of struggles into near unnoticeable wriggles to the naked eye. Her toned arms lie crisscrossed over her chest, with their mittened hands clipped to shining nickel studs ejecting from out of the table just above her shoulders, highlighting the only movement she has left being the steady rise and fall of her chest from her breathing underneath.
Tracing my eyes down her helplessly rendered form, I approach the formidable wooden stocks, nestled at the foot of this thorough setup, encasing her delicate ankles in plush padding that keep them snug in place. Thick nylon string keeps her sumptuous size seven soles stretched taut and completely vulnerable, binding each one of her long tender toes back to the top of the board, with heavy metal studs keeping them locked square into place regardless of any futile struggle. Had she the ability to glance down to her feet, she would just barely be able to catch a glimpse of the very tips of her wiggling toes, protruding out just above this wondrous device. However, with even her forehead rendered immobile, trapped against the plush surface of the table by a lone leather strap, she doesn’t even have the option.
As though it would matter, as placed upon her delicate face lies a thick leather blindfold, nestled atop her shimmering dark chocolate eyes, cutting off every scrap of light from her vision as she lies in total darkness. A thick panel gag is attached underneath, placed over her supple lips, with a thick piece of padded leather wedged in between her glistening white teeth, transforming even the most vocal of shrieks into muffled whimpers at best. Between these two dastardly devices is but a small opening for her nose to peek through, the subtle hiss of air going through her nostrils seemingly the only sign that she is still with us in this world. To top it all off, a set of noise cancelling headphones are set atop her leather-covered ears, the only sound left for her to hear being the deafening fear of just what is to happen next, an appropriate sensation given just what I have in store for her. Only her long chestnut locks, jettisoning from the crown of her head, cascading behind her in lush fashion, are left for the naked eye, the only shred of identity she has left visible for anyone to see, and there is good reason for that.
It is only I who knows that, lying helpless before me, is none other than Victoria Justice.
So just how did such a sultry sought-after creature end up in my inescapable clutches, far away from the glitz and glamor of Hollywood Boulevard she knows oh so well? Well, let’s just call it patience and persistence, along with just that extra bit of luck: good luck on my part, and bad luck on hers. It wasn’t easy capturing the poor girl, mind you, as months of prowling around her Instagram, Twitter, and personal webpage yielded but a fragmented picture of her daily life that, alone, would not be enough to track her down. Luckily for me, upon acquiring her personal email account by clandestine means, her rudimentary understanding of internet security left her wide open for a Trojan horse to be implanted unto her laptop, enabling me to record every scrap of correspondence she would have with those closest to her. Combine all this with regular updates from paparazzi sites, along with residual ping data from her electronic devices, and you’re left with a near perfect map of her daily routine, a carefully curated roadmap of each location she frequented during the day, including all the times she would find herself most vulnerable to my apprehension.
No amount of extra security or careful precautions would protect her from me finding her in just the right place at just the right time.
It was this morning, a Monday if you could believe it, that I was able to do just that, coming upon her exiting the backway out of a downtown apartment complex. To say this location was perfect for a midday snatching is an understatement to say the least, the complete lack of Hollywood types frequenting this nonchalant building meaning that the prying eyes of photographers would not capture her abduction. It was an escape for her, as I had gleaned from her correspondences, as she was visiting a childhood friend, just wishing to get away from being so visible for but a moment in the day.
Unfortunately for her, it was that same quiet that made it so easy to come up right behind her, the bottoms of my shoes lined with silent felt as I placed a thick cloth atop her mouth and nose. Wrapping my arm around her midsection, trapping her arms to her sides as she kicked frantically into thin air, it was almost too easy as I swiftly carried her into the adjacent alleyway, with the back of a soundproofed white van wide open, waiting just for her. Her muffled cries were just barely audible underneath my gloved palm, but once inside, and the doors closed behind me, no amount of frantic shrieks kept me from bundling her up for the ride, stuffing her into an enclosure in the floor of the van, where a six-point restraint system was waiting for her. A lone strip of black duct tape was just what the doctor ordered, muffling her pleas as I closed her in for the ride, nonchalantly making my escape as though nothing even close to this had befallen such a delectable creature as she.
Now here she is, completely at my mercy, or lack thereof, just waiting helplessly for my next move which, possibly much to her utter dismay, includes a camera.
I approach my personal camcorder, set atop a tripod just before her delectable bare feet, gently pressing down upon the top switch, watching as the red light comes on to record her overdue suffering. Gazing towards my desktop placed in the corner of the room, I watch as the video screen lights up, providing a framed view of her helplessly rendered feet nestled in my formidable stockade, that which is to be viewed by far more than the dastardly villain that stands before her. Little could she know the totality of her misfortune this very moment, for not only had she fallen victim to a mad kidnapper like myself, subject to whatever tortures lying in wait for her down her in this hellish pit of mine, but that the entirety of her ordeal would be live streamed over the world wide web, giving a crowd of strangers all across the globe access to a sight they won’t soon forget.
However, even with the dozens of spectators watching her from the comforts of their own home, they would be none the wiser as to just who they were witnessing get the torture of their life: even with the video on, they would have no access to her identity, being completely unaware as to who this young woman is, where she is, and just why she is here. It would only be her most lowliest of appendages that they would have access to which, even if they had access to the extensive digital archive of their tantalizing form as I do, still would not be enough to ascertain her true identity. It is as much for my safety, not wishing to have federal agents blasting in my door for her rescue, as it is theirs, not wishing to entangle them in a moral quagmire of enjoying this young woman’s perilous suffering, knowing that she is all but completely unwilling as far as they are concerned.
They would not see her. They would not hear her. And, most especially, they would not pity her.
I take position right beside the device, watching her toes gently wiggle about as she struggles in vain against her bonds. Reaching into my back pocket, I reveal a small placard to the screen, displaying to my viewers her impending fate in two simple words: “The Brush”. Just as it is pulled out of view, I reveal the bulb-studded device to their eyes, its prominent size surely the perfect tool in which to inflict upon her dainty virgin soles, thereby breaking her tickle torture cherry for good. Placing myself atop the table, kneeling just above her ankles, I have a bird’s eye view of my work as, taking the brush in my left hand, I begin dragging it vigorously across her vulnerable soles.
It begins with a jerk, kicking as hard as she can against her restraints, as her toes begin mightily straining against their bonds, beginning to turn a shade of red from her valiant struggles. Left to right, up and down, I drag the perilous brush across her foot bottoms, keeping up speed while alternating direction from time to time. To my visitors all around the world, it would seem as though the sound had malfunctioned on their end, unable to hear her vocal reactions underneath my dastardly technique. Such is merely the result of the wedge of foam nestled underneath the thick leather keeping her completely mute as not to give off any sense of identity from my darling’s voice. If only they knew I had installed a microphone, placed mere inches from her gag, feeding every sonic reaction she emits right into an earpiece I wield this very moment.
Her reactions, to put it mildly, are absolutely delicious: frantic shrieks of terror preceded cackling wails of horrid dismay the moment the brush plunged into her supple soles, with screams of apocalyptic horror bombarding my eardrum me as I descended into her tender heels, proving mighty fruitful in tormenting the poor girl even further. With every swipe of the brush against the side of her foot, ravaging the tender tops of her lowliest of appendages, a hapless squeal escapes her straining gullet, having probably never had anyone exploit such a tumultuous tickle spot at any point in her life, let alone for such an extensive period of time. However, the moment I begin raking over her toes, all Hell breaks loose: horrid primal cries nearly pierce through the gag itself, the fiery wrath of a thousand suns behind the righteous indignation she feels as it digs underneath her supple toe pads with ease. Only after several moments does the beast within her finally quell, leaving the whimpering sobs in their wake, no doubt drenching the inside of her blindfold in her pathetic tears I do not care one bit to pity.
I let the poor thing rest, reminding her that there is a heart in this husk of a human being in her midst. Gazing upon her ravaged soles, I indulge in their tender milky skin having been adorned with a sheen of red tint, with the tips of her toes turning white from her strain, only to slowly go back to red as she begins to relax them, the strain they embody alone too much for even the average seductress. Her chest heaves in exhaustion, a reservoir of youthful energy just not enough to sustain her underneath a torrent of relentless tickle torture I have perfected just for her visit. Looking back to my computer, I take count of the number of visitors I have: 37 so far, nothing to envy, but nothing to bat an eyelash over. It just takes time for them to get on track is all, and let me say that I have all the time in the world.
“Mindless Tickle Slave Gets Her Feet Tickled” is what I named this little live stream of mine, a fitting title for those spectators to tune in to, as that is all she is for the time being. To all those watching, they might think nothing of this, believing me to be yet another person lucky enough to live out their darkest of fantasies in secrecy, capitalizing on the myriad of bondage tools I was able to free up a pretty penny to spend on for my own indulgence. And for her: maybe she was a bondage model, being paid just a little bit more to add in some tickling into her usual shoot. Maybe she was a high-priced call girl, being paid top dollar to satisfy the perverted desires of her client. Maybe we are lovers, BDSM enthusiasts who take it upon themselves to share with the world our nightly escapades for the benefit of those tuning in. Little would they know that it was, in fact, that delectable starlet that has graced our television screens just long enough to inhabit our darkest fantasies that had to be lived out, and who is now blessing the small screen in her “spare” time, as they can see.
Having felt a reasonable time had passed, I reach into my back pocket, taking out another placard to show the video recorder, that which reads “Ice Torture” scribbled on its surface. Reaching down underneath the table, I reveal a small tin cooler, containing a dozen cubes of ice straight from my freezer. Taking one in hand, perched just at the side of her bare reddened soles, I every so carefully place it atop the ball of her left foot, gradually dragging it down the length of her sole with excruciating pace. Her reaction is instantaneous: a torrent of forced grunts begin flooding my earpiece, as I watch her toes once again turn white trying so hard to break their bonds, yet not one sound from the leather above no matter how hard she fights. The joy I derive from such an effective form of tickle torture being so ubiquitous is indescribable: the sheer dismay she must be feeling, having such a coldly indifferent implement dragged down her feet to drive her to such dismay, is palpable to say the least, and having it derived from such a common household item must make it doubly so.
However, if she thinks this is bad, then I can only take pride in myself in proving her wrong.
Reaching once again underneath the table, I take hold of a small hairdryer, turning it to its highest setting before directing it right towards the bottoms of her feet. The sensation is gradual at first, as a slow warming becomes a rapid heating, with the moans of discomfort being usurped by howls of pain underneath her gag, right before my very ears. The sensation must be driving her wild, having to feel her soles be heated far past their point of discomfort, as though she is being forced to stand barefoot on hot blacktop in the middle of a bright summer day. After a bit, I yield to her complaints, dragging away the dastardly implement much to her liking. However, it is then, just as she sighs a breath of relief, do I reveal the true dastardly nature of the plot, plunging a fresh ice cube deep into her right sole, truly solidifying just what I mean when I say “Ice Torture”.
I can feel the table shaking now as she bucks against the belts, with the wrath of a woman scorned now on full display, giving off enough effort as her legs tremble right below her inescapable bonds regardless of how tightly I buckled her down. Over and over, I drag the cube across her glistening bare soles, plunging their temperature down to just above freezing right before starting back up the hairdryer, throwing her back into that hellish cycle such a poor creature like herself couldn’t possibly hope to handle. I can see her jaw clenching high above, hoping to chew through that dastardly gag, risking choking just to have the chance to tell me exactly what she thinks of me: that I am horrible and pathetic, that I have no right to even kiss the ground she walks on, let alone torment her in such delicious fashion, and that if I have any sense left in me, I will free her at once before they find my skull busted open, left for dead in an abandoned parking lot somewhere in West Hollywood.
It is true that, had she the chance, she would exercise no restraint in exacting her revenge upon this horrendous man who exploits her most vulnerable of ticklish weaknesses, enacting upon me a vengeance as though she were a Tarantino leading lady. It is only under these distinct circumstances that, once you are snatched off the street, strapped into a leather bondage suit, and tickle tortured to oblivion for the hordes of perverted spectators all across the globe, does your child actor sensibility give way to murderous intent without regard. However, it is imagining this sweltering fire burning inside of her that drives me to push her further, as I agonizingly drag the ice cubes up and down her soles until, little by little, the fight within her is syphoned out, and a helplessly ticklish little girl is left right before me.
I cease yet again, noting her staggered breathing as an indication to give her a moment to herself, despite just how little it is to be. Shrieks of dismay swiftly change to strained gasps for breath, followed by teetering sobs for what I can only sense to be for mercy. Just what I would give to relieve her of her blindfold, gazing into the broken eyes of my delectable darling, savoring every scrap of her suffering for my own benefit. But, I do not indulge, for it is not what I am here for, only to ensure she is completely broken for my future amusement, all the while cultivating an attentive audience that joins me this very moment.
I gaze once again over at the video: 429 visitors now. Word sure gets around fast: even without them knowing anything about her identity, just the mere thought of watching a woman be tickled far past the breaking point brings them in hordes to my domain. And would they do anything to stop this in its tracks, even if they did know? Would they go out of their way to report to the authorities the fate of America’s darling, the same one who was reported missing just six hours ago, having not shown up to a photo shoot that morning? Would they manually relieve themselves of the sight of her merciless tickle torture for even a moment as they dial the police one-handed? Just how long would they sit there, contemplating the prospect of all of it coming to an end for the sake of satiating some ill-conceived notion of morality?
I would say that, indeed, it would not matter, for they are like me: drenched in their own fantasy life, simply yearning for the moment their vivid imagination springs to life right before their very eyes, even if it seems to be a world away in this digital playground we call the internet. It is only through such a rich fantasy life that I could cultivate the ideas for such a diabolical fate inflicted upon her, immobilized to the highest degree as she suffers in total silence, with only the sound of her strained laughter filling my ears with musical delight.
It is time that I reveal to her, as well as my growing audience, the climax of the evening.
I make my way offscreen, retrieving the device only conceivable by an amateur mechanical engineer turned demonic tickle sadist: an automated cylindrical scrubber, one which latches atop the wooden stocks, locking the dastardly scrubber right into the middle of her soles. Built into the front of the device lays a silver plaque which reads “THE TAMER”, a fitting name for what it can do with just a flick of the finger. Reaching towards the top of the device I turn the contraption on, watching the device whirr up to speed, caressing her foot bottoms with extreme effectiveness. Once again, I detect a slight flinch, quickly morphing into a heroic strain as the totality of the contraption is understood. Its pointed bristles caress the soles of her feet with morbid effect, scraping their way deep underneath her protective layer, enticing the frayed nerve endings underneath.
Screaming: endless, mind-numbing wails of ticklish terror, is all I hear through the earpiece, seemingly without break, as though her mind can only process one horrid reaction and nothing else. Looking up, I find her exerting no effort to escape, none of the agonizing straining she displayed just ten minutes ago, with only her voice seeming to embody her suffering. It is as though her body knows just how futile it is to resist, how useless it is to waste even a drop of energy she must conserve just to stay conscious, all the while her mind continues to drive her to pitiful madness completely out of her control.
Flipping the switch again, I watch it begin to slowly scale the length of her soles, inch by inch, just stopping at the tops of her feet as it descends back down, having calibrated it to match her exact shoe size. Taking a small bottle from underneath, I slowly begin to drizzle a special substance over the brush, a mixture of lubricant and sensitizing solution slowly working its way into her soles. To top it all off, I reveal a set of eight pipe cleaners from my back pocket, lacing them in between each and every one of her toes as, agonizingly slowly, I begin sawing them in between the untouched flesh of her toes, extracting what may be the last ounce of stamina out of the poor creature in mere moments.
Then, it is over: the horrid cries cease, and what is left is absolute silence, nothing but the mechanical whirring that still continues. I flip the camera a thumbs-up before powering it down, confirming that the deed has been done, and the poor girl has lost consciousness after a mere two hours, breaks included. Slowly, I begin unraveling her restraints, taking apart the layers of bondage to reveal the exhausted animal left underneath, a hard day’s effort having been finally put behind her. Taking her limp body into my arms, I gently carry her out of the room, walking down a small hallway until I enter a bedchamber with her name on it, setting her atop the mattress to rest. Tucking her in for the night, I close the door behind me, knowing she needs her peace and quiet to recover from such a traumatic experience.
The End
She is encased in a tight leather suit, with every inch of her sun kissed skin, from the top of her crown, all the way down to the very ends of her ankles far below, enclosed within its stark black design. Thick leather straps secure her to the padded leather table underneath, with a mere three inches of space between them, each one nullifying even the most vigorous of struggles into near unnoticeable wriggles to the naked eye. Her toned arms lie crisscrossed over her chest, with their mittened hands clipped to shining nickel studs ejecting from out of the table just above her shoulders, highlighting the only movement she has left being the steady rise and fall of her chest from her breathing underneath.
Tracing my eyes down her helplessly rendered form, I approach the formidable wooden stocks, nestled at the foot of this thorough setup, encasing her delicate ankles in plush padding that keep them snug in place. Thick nylon string keeps her sumptuous size seven soles stretched taut and completely vulnerable, binding each one of her long tender toes back to the top of the board, with heavy metal studs keeping them locked square into place regardless of any futile struggle. Had she the ability to glance down to her feet, she would just barely be able to catch a glimpse of the very tips of her wiggling toes, protruding out just above this wondrous device. However, with even her forehead rendered immobile, trapped against the plush surface of the table by a lone leather strap, she doesn’t even have the option.
As though it would matter, as placed upon her delicate face lies a thick leather blindfold, nestled atop her shimmering dark chocolate eyes, cutting off every scrap of light from her vision as she lies in total darkness. A thick panel gag is attached underneath, placed over her supple lips, with a thick piece of padded leather wedged in between her glistening white teeth, transforming even the most vocal of shrieks into muffled whimpers at best. Between these two dastardly devices is but a small opening for her nose to peek through, the subtle hiss of air going through her nostrils seemingly the only sign that she is still with us in this world. To top it all off, a set of noise cancelling headphones are set atop her leather-covered ears, the only sound left for her to hear being the deafening fear of just what is to happen next, an appropriate sensation given just what I have in store for her. Only her long chestnut locks, jettisoning from the crown of her head, cascading behind her in lush fashion, are left for the naked eye, the only shred of identity she has left visible for anyone to see, and there is good reason for that.
It is only I who knows that, lying helpless before me, is none other than Victoria Justice.
So just how did such a sultry sought-after creature end up in my inescapable clutches, far away from the glitz and glamor of Hollywood Boulevard she knows oh so well? Well, let’s just call it patience and persistence, along with just that extra bit of luck: good luck on my part, and bad luck on hers. It wasn’t easy capturing the poor girl, mind you, as months of prowling around her Instagram, Twitter, and personal webpage yielded but a fragmented picture of her daily life that, alone, would not be enough to track her down. Luckily for me, upon acquiring her personal email account by clandestine means, her rudimentary understanding of internet security left her wide open for a Trojan horse to be implanted unto her laptop, enabling me to record every scrap of correspondence she would have with those closest to her. Combine all this with regular updates from paparazzi sites, along with residual ping data from her electronic devices, and you’re left with a near perfect map of her daily routine, a carefully curated roadmap of each location she frequented during the day, including all the times she would find herself most vulnerable to my apprehension.
No amount of extra security or careful precautions would protect her from me finding her in just the right place at just the right time.
It was this morning, a Monday if you could believe it, that I was able to do just that, coming upon her exiting the backway out of a downtown apartment complex. To say this location was perfect for a midday snatching is an understatement to say the least, the complete lack of Hollywood types frequenting this nonchalant building meaning that the prying eyes of photographers would not capture her abduction. It was an escape for her, as I had gleaned from her correspondences, as she was visiting a childhood friend, just wishing to get away from being so visible for but a moment in the day.
Unfortunately for her, it was that same quiet that made it so easy to come up right behind her, the bottoms of my shoes lined with silent felt as I placed a thick cloth atop her mouth and nose. Wrapping my arm around her midsection, trapping her arms to her sides as she kicked frantically into thin air, it was almost too easy as I swiftly carried her into the adjacent alleyway, with the back of a soundproofed white van wide open, waiting just for her. Her muffled cries were just barely audible underneath my gloved palm, but once inside, and the doors closed behind me, no amount of frantic shrieks kept me from bundling her up for the ride, stuffing her into an enclosure in the floor of the van, where a six-point restraint system was waiting for her. A lone strip of black duct tape was just what the doctor ordered, muffling her pleas as I closed her in for the ride, nonchalantly making my escape as though nothing even close to this had befallen such a delectable creature as she.
Now here she is, completely at my mercy, or lack thereof, just waiting helplessly for my next move which, possibly much to her utter dismay, includes a camera.
I approach my personal camcorder, set atop a tripod just before her delectable bare feet, gently pressing down upon the top switch, watching as the red light comes on to record her overdue suffering. Gazing towards my desktop placed in the corner of the room, I watch as the video screen lights up, providing a framed view of her helplessly rendered feet nestled in my formidable stockade, that which is to be viewed by far more than the dastardly villain that stands before her. Little could she know the totality of her misfortune this very moment, for not only had she fallen victim to a mad kidnapper like myself, subject to whatever tortures lying in wait for her down her in this hellish pit of mine, but that the entirety of her ordeal would be live streamed over the world wide web, giving a crowd of strangers all across the globe access to a sight they won’t soon forget.
However, even with the dozens of spectators watching her from the comforts of their own home, they would be none the wiser as to just who they were witnessing get the torture of their life: even with the video on, they would have no access to her identity, being completely unaware as to who this young woman is, where she is, and just why she is here. It would only be her most lowliest of appendages that they would have access to which, even if they had access to the extensive digital archive of their tantalizing form as I do, still would not be enough to ascertain her true identity. It is as much for my safety, not wishing to have federal agents blasting in my door for her rescue, as it is theirs, not wishing to entangle them in a moral quagmire of enjoying this young woman’s perilous suffering, knowing that she is all but completely unwilling as far as they are concerned.
They would not see her. They would not hear her. And, most especially, they would not pity her.
I take position right beside the device, watching her toes gently wiggle about as she struggles in vain against her bonds. Reaching into my back pocket, I reveal a small placard to the screen, displaying to my viewers her impending fate in two simple words: “The Brush”. Just as it is pulled out of view, I reveal the bulb-studded device to their eyes, its prominent size surely the perfect tool in which to inflict upon her dainty virgin soles, thereby breaking her tickle torture cherry for good. Placing myself atop the table, kneeling just above her ankles, I have a bird’s eye view of my work as, taking the brush in my left hand, I begin dragging it vigorously across her vulnerable soles.
It begins with a jerk, kicking as hard as she can against her restraints, as her toes begin mightily straining against their bonds, beginning to turn a shade of red from her valiant struggles. Left to right, up and down, I drag the perilous brush across her foot bottoms, keeping up speed while alternating direction from time to time. To my visitors all around the world, it would seem as though the sound had malfunctioned on their end, unable to hear her vocal reactions underneath my dastardly technique. Such is merely the result of the wedge of foam nestled underneath the thick leather keeping her completely mute as not to give off any sense of identity from my darling’s voice. If only they knew I had installed a microphone, placed mere inches from her gag, feeding every sonic reaction she emits right into an earpiece I wield this very moment.
Her reactions, to put it mildly, are absolutely delicious: frantic shrieks of terror preceded cackling wails of horrid dismay the moment the brush plunged into her supple soles, with screams of apocalyptic horror bombarding my eardrum me as I descended into her tender heels, proving mighty fruitful in tormenting the poor girl even further. With every swipe of the brush against the side of her foot, ravaging the tender tops of her lowliest of appendages, a hapless squeal escapes her straining gullet, having probably never had anyone exploit such a tumultuous tickle spot at any point in her life, let alone for such an extensive period of time. However, the moment I begin raking over her toes, all Hell breaks loose: horrid primal cries nearly pierce through the gag itself, the fiery wrath of a thousand suns behind the righteous indignation she feels as it digs underneath her supple toe pads with ease. Only after several moments does the beast within her finally quell, leaving the whimpering sobs in their wake, no doubt drenching the inside of her blindfold in her pathetic tears I do not care one bit to pity.
I let the poor thing rest, reminding her that there is a heart in this husk of a human being in her midst. Gazing upon her ravaged soles, I indulge in their tender milky skin having been adorned with a sheen of red tint, with the tips of her toes turning white from her strain, only to slowly go back to red as she begins to relax them, the strain they embody alone too much for even the average seductress. Her chest heaves in exhaustion, a reservoir of youthful energy just not enough to sustain her underneath a torrent of relentless tickle torture I have perfected just for her visit. Looking back to my computer, I take count of the number of visitors I have: 37 so far, nothing to envy, but nothing to bat an eyelash over. It just takes time for them to get on track is all, and let me say that I have all the time in the world.
“Mindless Tickle Slave Gets Her Feet Tickled” is what I named this little live stream of mine, a fitting title for those spectators to tune in to, as that is all she is for the time being. To all those watching, they might think nothing of this, believing me to be yet another person lucky enough to live out their darkest of fantasies in secrecy, capitalizing on the myriad of bondage tools I was able to free up a pretty penny to spend on for my own indulgence. And for her: maybe she was a bondage model, being paid just a little bit more to add in some tickling into her usual shoot. Maybe she was a high-priced call girl, being paid top dollar to satisfy the perverted desires of her client. Maybe we are lovers, BDSM enthusiasts who take it upon themselves to share with the world our nightly escapades for the benefit of those tuning in. Little would they know that it was, in fact, that delectable starlet that has graced our television screens just long enough to inhabit our darkest fantasies that had to be lived out, and who is now blessing the small screen in her “spare” time, as they can see.
Having felt a reasonable time had passed, I reach into my back pocket, taking out another placard to show the video recorder, that which reads “Ice Torture” scribbled on its surface. Reaching down underneath the table, I reveal a small tin cooler, containing a dozen cubes of ice straight from my freezer. Taking one in hand, perched just at the side of her bare reddened soles, I every so carefully place it atop the ball of her left foot, gradually dragging it down the length of her sole with excruciating pace. Her reaction is instantaneous: a torrent of forced grunts begin flooding my earpiece, as I watch her toes once again turn white trying so hard to break their bonds, yet not one sound from the leather above no matter how hard she fights. The joy I derive from such an effective form of tickle torture being so ubiquitous is indescribable: the sheer dismay she must be feeling, having such a coldly indifferent implement dragged down her feet to drive her to such dismay, is palpable to say the least, and having it derived from such a common household item must make it doubly so.
However, if she thinks this is bad, then I can only take pride in myself in proving her wrong.
Reaching once again underneath the table, I take hold of a small hairdryer, turning it to its highest setting before directing it right towards the bottoms of her feet. The sensation is gradual at first, as a slow warming becomes a rapid heating, with the moans of discomfort being usurped by howls of pain underneath her gag, right before my very ears. The sensation must be driving her wild, having to feel her soles be heated far past their point of discomfort, as though she is being forced to stand barefoot on hot blacktop in the middle of a bright summer day. After a bit, I yield to her complaints, dragging away the dastardly implement much to her liking. However, it is then, just as she sighs a breath of relief, do I reveal the true dastardly nature of the plot, plunging a fresh ice cube deep into her right sole, truly solidifying just what I mean when I say “Ice Torture”.
I can feel the table shaking now as she bucks against the belts, with the wrath of a woman scorned now on full display, giving off enough effort as her legs tremble right below her inescapable bonds regardless of how tightly I buckled her down. Over and over, I drag the cube across her glistening bare soles, plunging their temperature down to just above freezing right before starting back up the hairdryer, throwing her back into that hellish cycle such a poor creature like herself couldn’t possibly hope to handle. I can see her jaw clenching high above, hoping to chew through that dastardly gag, risking choking just to have the chance to tell me exactly what she thinks of me: that I am horrible and pathetic, that I have no right to even kiss the ground she walks on, let alone torment her in such delicious fashion, and that if I have any sense left in me, I will free her at once before they find my skull busted open, left for dead in an abandoned parking lot somewhere in West Hollywood.
It is true that, had she the chance, she would exercise no restraint in exacting her revenge upon this horrendous man who exploits her most vulnerable of ticklish weaknesses, enacting upon me a vengeance as though she were a Tarantino leading lady. It is only under these distinct circumstances that, once you are snatched off the street, strapped into a leather bondage suit, and tickle tortured to oblivion for the hordes of perverted spectators all across the globe, does your child actor sensibility give way to murderous intent without regard. However, it is imagining this sweltering fire burning inside of her that drives me to push her further, as I agonizingly drag the ice cubes up and down her soles until, little by little, the fight within her is syphoned out, and a helplessly ticklish little girl is left right before me.
I cease yet again, noting her staggered breathing as an indication to give her a moment to herself, despite just how little it is to be. Shrieks of dismay swiftly change to strained gasps for breath, followed by teetering sobs for what I can only sense to be for mercy. Just what I would give to relieve her of her blindfold, gazing into the broken eyes of my delectable darling, savoring every scrap of her suffering for my own benefit. But, I do not indulge, for it is not what I am here for, only to ensure she is completely broken for my future amusement, all the while cultivating an attentive audience that joins me this very moment.
I gaze once again over at the video: 429 visitors now. Word sure gets around fast: even without them knowing anything about her identity, just the mere thought of watching a woman be tickled far past the breaking point brings them in hordes to my domain. And would they do anything to stop this in its tracks, even if they did know? Would they go out of their way to report to the authorities the fate of America’s darling, the same one who was reported missing just six hours ago, having not shown up to a photo shoot that morning? Would they manually relieve themselves of the sight of her merciless tickle torture for even a moment as they dial the police one-handed? Just how long would they sit there, contemplating the prospect of all of it coming to an end for the sake of satiating some ill-conceived notion of morality?
I would say that, indeed, it would not matter, for they are like me: drenched in their own fantasy life, simply yearning for the moment their vivid imagination springs to life right before their very eyes, even if it seems to be a world away in this digital playground we call the internet. It is only through such a rich fantasy life that I could cultivate the ideas for such a diabolical fate inflicted upon her, immobilized to the highest degree as she suffers in total silence, with only the sound of her strained laughter filling my ears with musical delight.
It is time that I reveal to her, as well as my growing audience, the climax of the evening.
I make my way offscreen, retrieving the device only conceivable by an amateur mechanical engineer turned demonic tickle sadist: an automated cylindrical scrubber, one which latches atop the wooden stocks, locking the dastardly scrubber right into the middle of her soles. Built into the front of the device lays a silver plaque which reads “THE TAMER”, a fitting name for what it can do with just a flick of the finger. Reaching towards the top of the device I turn the contraption on, watching the device whirr up to speed, caressing her foot bottoms with extreme effectiveness. Once again, I detect a slight flinch, quickly morphing into a heroic strain as the totality of the contraption is understood. Its pointed bristles caress the soles of her feet with morbid effect, scraping their way deep underneath her protective layer, enticing the frayed nerve endings underneath.
Screaming: endless, mind-numbing wails of ticklish terror, is all I hear through the earpiece, seemingly without break, as though her mind can only process one horrid reaction and nothing else. Looking up, I find her exerting no effort to escape, none of the agonizing straining she displayed just ten minutes ago, with only her voice seeming to embody her suffering. It is as though her body knows just how futile it is to resist, how useless it is to waste even a drop of energy she must conserve just to stay conscious, all the while her mind continues to drive her to pitiful madness completely out of her control.
Flipping the switch again, I watch it begin to slowly scale the length of her soles, inch by inch, just stopping at the tops of her feet as it descends back down, having calibrated it to match her exact shoe size. Taking a small bottle from underneath, I slowly begin to drizzle a special substance over the brush, a mixture of lubricant and sensitizing solution slowly working its way into her soles. To top it all off, I reveal a set of eight pipe cleaners from my back pocket, lacing them in between each and every one of her toes as, agonizingly slowly, I begin sawing them in between the untouched flesh of her toes, extracting what may be the last ounce of stamina out of the poor creature in mere moments.
Then, it is over: the horrid cries cease, and what is left is absolute silence, nothing but the mechanical whirring that still continues. I flip the camera a thumbs-up before powering it down, confirming that the deed has been done, and the poor girl has lost consciousness after a mere two hours, breaks included. Slowly, I begin unraveling her restraints, taking apart the layers of bondage to reveal the exhausted animal left underneath, a hard day’s effort having been finally put behind her. Taking her limp body into my arms, I gently carry her out of the room, walking down a small hallway until I enter a bedchamber with her name on it, setting her atop the mattress to rest. Tucking her in for the night, I close the door behind me, knowing she needs her peace and quiet to recover from such a traumatic experience.
The End
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