Marqis_de_Sad
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February, 1945: Somewhere along the Western front.
Jane Cooper, only eighteen years of age, was now in the war.
Slight of build, short of stature (all of 5’2”), eminently shy, no soldier was she. She was an All-American girl from Dayton, Ohio, with a pretty face, an earnest disposition, mousy brown hair, and a talent for singing. With two brothers already serving in the Pacific, she wanted to do her part for her country. Somewhere along the line, someone got the idea that she should sing for the USO, entertaining the troops. This had landed her in a singing group, the Ladies Liberty, that made a tour of England and France, performing star-spangled shows for the exhausted warriors of the Normandy campaign.
There were two other ladies in this group. Dolores Kane, thin, pale, with long raven hair (think Krysten Ritter). Dolores, twenty-five, was an ex-cigarette girl from the clubs in the Big Apple. She was sweet on stage of course, and more than sweet with any quartermaster with a line on extra cigarettes, chocolate, brandy. But Jane found her to be sour backstage. It was Dolores always reminding Jane that the men the audience only wanted her for one thing, and she was graphic in describing what that was.
The other was Mattie Darling. Her actual name was Martha Dowd, but Darling fit her image. The twenty-four year old was their headliner, a buxom blonde who captivated crowds (think Jayne Mansfield). A California girl who had been in pictures, she loved everyone, and everyone loved her.
The three women boarded a plane headed to Paris. It was going to be a big show, all or some of the brass would be there. Dolores and Mattie were calling dibs on Charles DeGaulle; they envisioned themselves evidently as French first ladies. For Jane, this show was going to fulfill one specific desire. She was going to meet a man whom she greatly admired, perhaps even loved. That would be Steve Rodgers, the man they called Captain America. He was supposed to be there. She didn’t know what she’d say to him, if she got the chance, but he was the kind of man every girl hoped to marry, strong, brave, handsome as anything.
The plane never made it to Paris. Or more accurately, it made it well past Paris. The ladies, dressed in their Uncle Sam outfits, with red and white striped pants and hat, and a blue blazer with white stars, had grown concerned when they began their descent without the lights of the city in view. They were downright panicked when two ME-109s escorted their transport down to an unmarked airfield. And finally, they despaired as the door to their plane opened, and instead of being greeted by thousands of cheering GIs, they were instead greeted by six men in black uniforms, speaking German, brandishing submachine guns.
Hands bound behind their backs, blindfolded, the ladies were loaded into trucks, to be taken God knows where.
“Did you notice anything strange about their uniforms,” Jane whispered. “They had an octopus insignia.”
“I was smidge preoccupied with the guns in our faces,” Dolores replied.
“I saw that too,” Darling said. “I’ve read about them in the paper. That’s the sign for Hydra. It’s some kind of, I dunno, elite unit.”
“Wow, Mattie,” Dolores said with feigned surprise. “I didn’t know you could read.”
“I’ve heard of Hydra,” Jane said. “Captain Rodgers has been giving them fits all across the continent.” Perhaps he would come looking for them, she thought. Surely they would have been missed.
After at least a day on the road, the three women were taken off their truck, and hustled down many flights of stairs, and stood in a line, Dolores. All despaired when the blindfolds were removed. They appeared to be in a castle dungeon, retrofitted as a kind of laboratory. A mix of modern and medieval, with torture racks, chains, and stockades, ringed with machinery for untold purpose.
Before them stood an imposing woman, who introduced herself as Mistress Argos. She was six feet tall, eyes that looked straight through you, clad in black leather, to match her black hair and black heart. Her face and figure were perfect and angry, sharp, as though by design.
“Velcome, my dears, to my humble home. Ve are going to have such fun together.”
“Please,” Mattie said, “we’re just singers. Silly girls. We don’t have any information, except maybe on the quality of microphones.”
The Mistress stepped forward “But you devalue yourself, Darling. You girls all hold a wealth of information.” She reached forward and ran her gloved hands over Mattie’s curves, making Mattie and Jane shiver.
“Information about ze body.”
She stepped right, and grabbed Dolores’ face around the chin.
“Information about ze mind.”
Finally she moved left, staring down Jane. Jane tried her best to look defiant.
“Information about ze spirit.”
“Someone will come for us. We don’t abandon our own,” Jane shot back.
Mistress smiled a frightening smile. “Ve vill see. But, now, you vill sing for us.”
What ensued was nothing short of hell. All three women were striped naked, their clothes burned in the furnace on the far wall. They were strapped down to wide, padded tables, spread-eagle, restraints on the wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. Little sticky pads were connected to their temples and chests, to monitor some aspect of body function. These three women became subjects in experimental tickling.
Each singer had a different torturer, all women, assigned to identify their most ticklish spots. Each torturer lingered over a spot for what seemed to be hours, probing, teasing, and attacking, looking for the biggest reaction. Dolores was worked over by a cruel German officer, with short blonde hair. The German knew how to extract the utmost sensation from poor, ticklish Dolores. She started at the top, digging into Ms. Kane’s underarms, then striking farther down. Eventually, she discovered that Dolores’ feet were her most sensitive spot, and from then on those feet were almost never untouched. Mistress joined in, going up and down Dolores’ soles over and over again, using special gloves with pointed tips, made for that purpose. Dolores wailed like a banshee under this torment.
“HAHAHAHA. NOOO. NO MOOOOOOOREEEE! I’LL DOOOO ANYTHINAHAHAHA!”
In her desperation, Dolores promised any number of obscene favors. She would let the whole garrison take her, if only to pause her torture. But the tickling on her feet was unabated.
Mattie Darling was double-teamed by two Japanese women in Imperial army uniforms. They were almost mechanical in their precision as their fingers probed Mattie. They worked in unison without words, as though very well practiced. The vivacious blonde with the extraordinary measurements represented to them the character of America: glamour and excess. They wanted to break her resolve. The women explored her body throughly, and in doing so discovered an incredible sensitivity in her voluptuous chest and soft underarms. She would writhe and scream at even lightest stroking in these places.
“PLEEEEEEEEAASE. IT’S TOOOOOO MUUUUCH. MERCY! MERCY!”
She would call for mercy thousands of times, but received none. Her breasts heaving and shaking as she tried to dodge the tickling onslaught made for an alluring sight. The guards watched hungrily from above, as did Mistress, as the two women ran their nails over those tits, and as they used feathers to tease the nipples.
Jane had never been naked before another, nor had she ever engaged in carnal relations. She was in a state of shock was she was secured to her table, arms and legs open wide, her inexperienced body vulnerable to leering eyes and destructive touch. Her torturer was an Italian beauty, love skin and dark hair, in her early twenties. Jane was in tears; seeing this, the Italian chided her, “come now, I know what will put a smile on your face.” With that, she pulled back the toes of Jane’s left foot and fluttered her hand over the sole.
The feeling was electric. Jane had always been ticklish. Growing up, her friends would tease her about it, they loved to pull a laugh out of her every now and then. This was much different. Now she was utterly defenseless. There was nothing she could do but react like an animal: shriek, recoil from touch as much as her bonds allowed.
As the foot tickling opened a second front, Jane pleaded with any air she could gather, “NOOOOOO. NOT MY FEEEEEET. I CAN’T TAAAAAAAAKE ITTTTTTT.”
“Of course you can,” the Italian teased. “What choice do you have.”
After what felt like an eternity spent on her feet, Jane was somewhat relieved when the fiendish woman finally worked her way up. She began tickling Jane’s thighs and hips. Jane bucked as much as she could, but to no avail. The touches were gentle, but maddening and unceasing. This tormentor truly enjoyed her work.
The Italian turned her attention inward, and began to tease the area around Jane’s untouched womanhood. Jane couldn’t understand what was happening to her. To have her innocence violated by this woman should have been revolting, but was instead revealing. Could it be she was enjoying. Her heart fluttered with each stroke of her labia. Jane gasped as the Italian bent and placed a kiss upon those lips. Mistress yelled something to the Italian. The Italian’s response was to slip two fingers inside Jane. Jane moaned with pleasure despite herself, and Mistress grinned. She walked over, and bent so that her face was inches from Jane’s. “You are mine, American. You don’t know it yet, but you are mine.”
Mistress motioned for the Italian to continue her examination. She moved further up, unlocking Jane’s most ticklish zone, her flat, toned tummy.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOOO! STAAAAAAHHPPPPPP!” The pleasures of the previous minutes were forgotten, as the tummy torment continued deep into the night. The ladies didn’t have any military secrets stored away, but collectively they divulged every single thing they could guess about the war, their country, and themselves.
Day two in the castle began much like the first. The women were naked, bound, and tickled. Jane was strapped upright on a kind of cross. Her arms were outstretched, 120 degrees from her sides. Her knees rested on an adjustable platform, and they were bent such that her ankles were strapped to her thighs, which were strapped to the cross. Her forehead was held in place as well. The Italian was back, running spider tickles across Jane’s desperate tummy. Sometimes she would divert to the helpless feet. She would also lick and kiss Jane’s neck, a feeling which fanned an unfamiliar flame of desire.
Jane had the view of her comrade’s torments. Dolores’ feet were locked together in stocks, each individual toe strapped in place. A box was placed at her feet. From it protruded two circular brushes on movable arms. The brushes spun as they moved up and down Dolores’ soles. Her arms were pulled over her head by a chain, and the cruel German ravaged her sides while the machine ravaged her soles. This pushed Dolores well beyond coherence.
Mattie was strapped down the same as yesterday. Her Imperial tormentors would take turns. One would sit on her face, and ride the hysterical blonde to an orgasm. The other had free reign of the body, and tickled in any and every spot. Sometimes they would move off tickling for other expressions of dominance. One liked to alternate ticking with smacking Mattie’s bare breasts and abdomen with a thin wooden rod. The other liked to take cubes of ice in gloved hands, and press them against Mattie’s nipples, which generated some of Mattie’s most desperate pleas.
Jane watched her fellow singers suffer as she endured her own torment, but with a feeling she could not contextualize. It might have been arousal. This hellish captivity was the rejection of everything good in her nature. And yet, the Italian confirmed it every time she slipped a finger into Jane’s womanhood, to feel that it was wet. Eventually, they set up Jane with her own machine, a little engine, with an extended arm, and a black rubberized piece that fit snuggly between her legs. When switched on, the engine produced a vibration that set her senses aflame and made her moan with pleasure.
Dolores liked to make fun of Jane, for having never been with a man, and for having never experienced the rush of an orgasm. This machine was like nothing she had ever experienced. It had her gasping and yelping in a voice that she barely recognized as her own, like some kind of beast. It might have pushed her over the edge, but the Italian kept up a steady pace of tickling, teasing that brutally ticklish tummy, such that Jane could not focus on pleasure.
Time was meaningless to them in the dungeon, but by what felt like day’s end, Jane had still not been allowed to orgasm. She was teased, kept on edge, bucking like an animal in heat.
The captors had accepted Dolores’ terms of surrender. Out of her bondage, she was servicing the guards, doing her utmost to please them and stay out of the stocks. At the moment she had taken the member of one guard in her mouth, while another took her from behind, in the style of a dog. Every now and then someone would come by and tease her feet or sides, but she wasn’t hooked up to a torture device, and that was enough.
“Maybe that is what you want,” the smiling Italian teased. “To be filled by all these strong men. To be fucked on floor with your friend.”
“NOOO! I DONN- HAHAHAHA.” She began scraping Jane’s armpits for the hundredth time.
“You don’t sound unhappy with that idea.”
Mattie was still in tickle hell. She was strapped in a kind of exam table, with her legs held up in stirrups. The German was working her underarms, while each of the Japanese women scratched at one foot. Mistress, her own voluptuous chest bared, wore a harness of sorts around her waist and pelvis, one that held a large, black, artificial male organ. Jane thought this attached pecker was more befitting a horse than a human, but perhaps that was the point. Mistress penetrated Mattie with this monstrosity. Through the coercion of tickling made Mattie scream that she loved it, that she wanted it harder, that she loved to be fucked by Hydra. Mattie choked out these debasements through her laughter.
The Italian was teasing Jane’s privates again, as she licked her neck. “Do you like how we treat your Darling friend. Do you want me to fuck you like that?”
Jane bit her lip. She fully intended to say no, like any good girl would. Yet, her body’s response was at odds with her logic. All she could do was moan “Oh God.”
The Italian then went face to face with Jane, and paused mere inches from her face.
“Do you want to fuck me like that?”
Then the Italian went in for the kiss, using her hand to pleasure Jane. Jane kissed back, reflexively at first, and then consciously. She got on a plane as an All-American sweetheart, but was consumed by a deviancy she could barely understand. The duress of the tickling had broken down every standard to which she held herself. She longed to get satisfaction at the hands of a woman who tortured her. Jane rejoiced in the lips of the enemy, and in the hand that had entered her.
That hand betrayed her however, as the kiss was broken, and the ticking of her sides resumed.
“NOOOOOOOOO. WHY DID YOU STAAAHHHP? WHYYYY MEEEEEE. AHAHAHAHA!”
Day three was different. Jane was retrieved from her cell by the cruel German.
“Get up, fraulein,” she barked. “ve have surprise for you.”
The Ladies Liberty were brought in to the dungeon together. In the very center of the room was a man, bound and naked, face covered with a sack. He was restrained on a pole, with his arms over his head, and his waist held with a leather strap. His knees were bent so the lower legs were parallel to the ground. The knees and ankles were stopped down, so that the feet could not move. One of the Japanese women teased the right foot while the other slowly ran a feather up and down the shaft of his erect organ. The man was in superb shape.
The three women were tied to plain wooden chairs in front of this male display, and gagged. Mistress entered from behind them, banging a piece of metal like a drum. As she came into Jane’s field of view, oh no, Jane gasped. She would recognize the shield of Captain America anywhere.
“So you see my dears, here is your knight, vithout his shinning armor.” The sack was removed, revealing the blushing face of Steve Rodgers. He was twitching, surprising the laughs from the tickling of his foot.
“Girls,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I thought I could save you, but they got the drop on me. Stay strong, help is on…” The tickling picked up, with the German harassing the other foot.
“Yes. Ve rather hoped you would come for them, Mr. Rodgers. You Americans are so predictable. You think you can save all ze damsels. And now, girls, you vill see how a hero breaks.”
The ladies watched as all the villains set to work on Captain Rodgers’ defenseless body. He was strong as anything, but strength could do nothing here. The Japanese pair patrolled his sides, the German devastated his arm pits, and Mistress, with her special gloves, hyper focused on the feet. All the while, the Italian stroked and teased his massive, hard cock. Their combined efforts reduced the super soldier to a blubbering mess, persisting for God knows how long.
Dolores and Mattie watched with despair, that their greatest rescuer had failed. Jane watched the tickling itself. Here was the man she saw as the ideal, laughing like a fool, begging a few strange women. On Mistress’ orders, Jane was set up with that insidious vibration machine, which again was igniting powerful feelings within her.
The Italian said something, and Mistress ordered the guards to bring over Mattie. Mistress stepped up, and took control of Captain Rodgers’ cock. Mattie was held on her knees, just in front of it. The ticklers slowed to a lighter tease.
The Italian skipped to Jane’s chair, and kicked the vibration machine up a level or two. “Isn’t this splendid,” she said. “He’s so cute when he laughs, I see why you American girls like him.” She began spider tickles on Jane’s pert breasts. The words barley registered with Jane, who was overwhelmed with the feeling between her legs.
Mistress was about to bring Rodgers off, and poor Mattie was in the line of fire, staring down the barrel of his arousal. “Zat is it, Captain. Be a good soldier and cum for Mistress.”
“Argh,” he said through gritted teeth. This was it. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m so sorry.”
Mattie tried to pull away from the men holding her, but it was no use. He spent his seed furiously, and it landed on her face, dripping down to her luscious breasts.
This was all Jane needed. “Oh. Ohhh. OHHH!” The first orgasm of her life ripped through her petite body as she watched Mistress draw an orgasm from the man she had so admired. She turned to look at the Italian, and was grateful to receive a passionate kiss.
“This is supposed to be torture, you know,” the German chastised, pulling a panicked Dolores to a rack on the other side of the room.
When Jane broke lips with the Italian, she was face to face with Mistress. “Did zat feel good, my dear.”
“Yes,” Jane moaned meekly, unable to lie.
“And vhat do ve say to those who make use feel good?”
Jane looked up now, with tears in her eyes.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
Jane Cooper, only eighteen years of age, was now in the war.
Slight of build, short of stature (all of 5’2”), eminently shy, no soldier was she. She was an All-American girl from Dayton, Ohio, with a pretty face, an earnest disposition, mousy brown hair, and a talent for singing. With two brothers already serving in the Pacific, she wanted to do her part for her country. Somewhere along the line, someone got the idea that she should sing for the USO, entertaining the troops. This had landed her in a singing group, the Ladies Liberty, that made a tour of England and France, performing star-spangled shows for the exhausted warriors of the Normandy campaign.
There were two other ladies in this group. Dolores Kane, thin, pale, with long raven hair (think Krysten Ritter). Dolores, twenty-five, was an ex-cigarette girl from the clubs in the Big Apple. She was sweet on stage of course, and more than sweet with any quartermaster with a line on extra cigarettes, chocolate, brandy. But Jane found her to be sour backstage. It was Dolores always reminding Jane that the men the audience only wanted her for one thing, and she was graphic in describing what that was.
The other was Mattie Darling. Her actual name was Martha Dowd, but Darling fit her image. The twenty-four year old was their headliner, a buxom blonde who captivated crowds (think Jayne Mansfield). A California girl who had been in pictures, she loved everyone, and everyone loved her.
The three women boarded a plane headed to Paris. It was going to be a big show, all or some of the brass would be there. Dolores and Mattie were calling dibs on Charles DeGaulle; they envisioned themselves evidently as French first ladies. For Jane, this show was going to fulfill one specific desire. She was going to meet a man whom she greatly admired, perhaps even loved. That would be Steve Rodgers, the man they called Captain America. He was supposed to be there. She didn’t know what she’d say to him, if she got the chance, but he was the kind of man every girl hoped to marry, strong, brave, handsome as anything.
The plane never made it to Paris. Or more accurately, it made it well past Paris. The ladies, dressed in their Uncle Sam outfits, with red and white striped pants and hat, and a blue blazer with white stars, had grown concerned when they began their descent without the lights of the city in view. They were downright panicked when two ME-109s escorted their transport down to an unmarked airfield. And finally, they despaired as the door to their plane opened, and instead of being greeted by thousands of cheering GIs, they were instead greeted by six men in black uniforms, speaking German, brandishing submachine guns.
Hands bound behind their backs, blindfolded, the ladies were loaded into trucks, to be taken God knows where.
“Did you notice anything strange about their uniforms,” Jane whispered. “They had an octopus insignia.”
“I was smidge preoccupied with the guns in our faces,” Dolores replied.
“I saw that too,” Darling said. “I’ve read about them in the paper. That’s the sign for Hydra. It’s some kind of, I dunno, elite unit.”
“Wow, Mattie,” Dolores said with feigned surprise. “I didn’t know you could read.”
“I’ve heard of Hydra,” Jane said. “Captain Rodgers has been giving them fits all across the continent.” Perhaps he would come looking for them, she thought. Surely they would have been missed.
After at least a day on the road, the three women were taken off their truck, and hustled down many flights of stairs, and stood in a line, Dolores. All despaired when the blindfolds were removed. They appeared to be in a castle dungeon, retrofitted as a kind of laboratory. A mix of modern and medieval, with torture racks, chains, and stockades, ringed with machinery for untold purpose.
Before them stood an imposing woman, who introduced herself as Mistress Argos. She was six feet tall, eyes that looked straight through you, clad in black leather, to match her black hair and black heart. Her face and figure were perfect and angry, sharp, as though by design.
“Velcome, my dears, to my humble home. Ve are going to have such fun together.”
“Please,” Mattie said, “we’re just singers. Silly girls. We don’t have any information, except maybe on the quality of microphones.”
The Mistress stepped forward “But you devalue yourself, Darling. You girls all hold a wealth of information.” She reached forward and ran her gloved hands over Mattie’s curves, making Mattie and Jane shiver.
“Information about ze body.”
She stepped right, and grabbed Dolores’ face around the chin.
“Information about ze mind.”
Finally she moved left, staring down Jane. Jane tried her best to look defiant.
“Information about ze spirit.”
“Someone will come for us. We don’t abandon our own,” Jane shot back.
Mistress smiled a frightening smile. “Ve vill see. But, now, you vill sing for us.”
What ensued was nothing short of hell. All three women were striped naked, their clothes burned in the furnace on the far wall. They were strapped down to wide, padded tables, spread-eagle, restraints on the wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. Little sticky pads were connected to their temples and chests, to monitor some aspect of body function. These three women became subjects in experimental tickling.
Each singer had a different torturer, all women, assigned to identify their most ticklish spots. Each torturer lingered over a spot for what seemed to be hours, probing, teasing, and attacking, looking for the biggest reaction. Dolores was worked over by a cruel German officer, with short blonde hair. The German knew how to extract the utmost sensation from poor, ticklish Dolores. She started at the top, digging into Ms. Kane’s underarms, then striking farther down. Eventually, she discovered that Dolores’ feet were her most sensitive spot, and from then on those feet were almost never untouched. Mistress joined in, going up and down Dolores’ soles over and over again, using special gloves with pointed tips, made for that purpose. Dolores wailed like a banshee under this torment.
“HAHAHAHA. NOOO. NO MOOOOOOOREEEE! I’LL DOOOO ANYTHINAHAHAHA!”
In her desperation, Dolores promised any number of obscene favors. She would let the whole garrison take her, if only to pause her torture. But the tickling on her feet was unabated.
Mattie Darling was double-teamed by two Japanese women in Imperial army uniforms. They were almost mechanical in their precision as their fingers probed Mattie. They worked in unison without words, as though very well practiced. The vivacious blonde with the extraordinary measurements represented to them the character of America: glamour and excess. They wanted to break her resolve. The women explored her body throughly, and in doing so discovered an incredible sensitivity in her voluptuous chest and soft underarms. She would writhe and scream at even lightest stroking in these places.
“PLEEEEEEEEAASE. IT’S TOOOOOO MUUUUCH. MERCY! MERCY!”
She would call for mercy thousands of times, but received none. Her breasts heaving and shaking as she tried to dodge the tickling onslaught made for an alluring sight. The guards watched hungrily from above, as did Mistress, as the two women ran their nails over those tits, and as they used feathers to tease the nipples.
Jane had never been naked before another, nor had she ever engaged in carnal relations. She was in a state of shock was she was secured to her table, arms and legs open wide, her inexperienced body vulnerable to leering eyes and destructive touch. Her torturer was an Italian beauty, love skin and dark hair, in her early twenties. Jane was in tears; seeing this, the Italian chided her, “come now, I know what will put a smile on your face.” With that, she pulled back the toes of Jane’s left foot and fluttered her hand over the sole.
The feeling was electric. Jane had always been ticklish. Growing up, her friends would tease her about it, they loved to pull a laugh out of her every now and then. This was much different. Now she was utterly defenseless. There was nothing she could do but react like an animal: shriek, recoil from touch as much as her bonds allowed.
As the foot tickling opened a second front, Jane pleaded with any air she could gather, “NOOOOOO. NOT MY FEEEEEET. I CAN’T TAAAAAAAAKE ITTTTTTT.”
“Of course you can,” the Italian teased. “What choice do you have.”
After what felt like an eternity spent on her feet, Jane was somewhat relieved when the fiendish woman finally worked her way up. She began tickling Jane’s thighs and hips. Jane bucked as much as she could, but to no avail. The touches were gentle, but maddening and unceasing. This tormentor truly enjoyed her work.
The Italian turned her attention inward, and began to tease the area around Jane’s untouched womanhood. Jane couldn’t understand what was happening to her. To have her innocence violated by this woman should have been revolting, but was instead revealing. Could it be she was enjoying. Her heart fluttered with each stroke of her labia. Jane gasped as the Italian bent and placed a kiss upon those lips. Mistress yelled something to the Italian. The Italian’s response was to slip two fingers inside Jane. Jane moaned with pleasure despite herself, and Mistress grinned. She walked over, and bent so that her face was inches from Jane’s. “You are mine, American. You don’t know it yet, but you are mine.”
Mistress motioned for the Italian to continue her examination. She moved further up, unlocking Jane’s most ticklish zone, her flat, toned tummy.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOOO! STAAAAAAHHPPPPPP!” The pleasures of the previous minutes were forgotten, as the tummy torment continued deep into the night. The ladies didn’t have any military secrets stored away, but collectively they divulged every single thing they could guess about the war, their country, and themselves.
Day two in the castle began much like the first. The women were naked, bound, and tickled. Jane was strapped upright on a kind of cross. Her arms were outstretched, 120 degrees from her sides. Her knees rested on an adjustable platform, and they were bent such that her ankles were strapped to her thighs, which were strapped to the cross. Her forehead was held in place as well. The Italian was back, running spider tickles across Jane’s desperate tummy. Sometimes she would divert to the helpless feet. She would also lick and kiss Jane’s neck, a feeling which fanned an unfamiliar flame of desire.
Jane had the view of her comrade’s torments. Dolores’ feet were locked together in stocks, each individual toe strapped in place. A box was placed at her feet. From it protruded two circular brushes on movable arms. The brushes spun as they moved up and down Dolores’ soles. Her arms were pulled over her head by a chain, and the cruel German ravaged her sides while the machine ravaged her soles. This pushed Dolores well beyond coherence.
Mattie was strapped down the same as yesterday. Her Imperial tormentors would take turns. One would sit on her face, and ride the hysterical blonde to an orgasm. The other had free reign of the body, and tickled in any and every spot. Sometimes they would move off tickling for other expressions of dominance. One liked to alternate ticking with smacking Mattie’s bare breasts and abdomen with a thin wooden rod. The other liked to take cubes of ice in gloved hands, and press them against Mattie’s nipples, which generated some of Mattie’s most desperate pleas.
Jane watched her fellow singers suffer as she endured her own torment, but with a feeling she could not contextualize. It might have been arousal. This hellish captivity was the rejection of everything good in her nature. And yet, the Italian confirmed it every time she slipped a finger into Jane’s womanhood, to feel that it was wet. Eventually, they set up Jane with her own machine, a little engine, with an extended arm, and a black rubberized piece that fit snuggly between her legs. When switched on, the engine produced a vibration that set her senses aflame and made her moan with pleasure.
Dolores liked to make fun of Jane, for having never been with a man, and for having never experienced the rush of an orgasm. This machine was like nothing she had ever experienced. It had her gasping and yelping in a voice that she barely recognized as her own, like some kind of beast. It might have pushed her over the edge, but the Italian kept up a steady pace of tickling, teasing that brutally ticklish tummy, such that Jane could not focus on pleasure.
Time was meaningless to them in the dungeon, but by what felt like day’s end, Jane had still not been allowed to orgasm. She was teased, kept on edge, bucking like an animal in heat.
The captors had accepted Dolores’ terms of surrender. Out of her bondage, she was servicing the guards, doing her utmost to please them and stay out of the stocks. At the moment she had taken the member of one guard in her mouth, while another took her from behind, in the style of a dog. Every now and then someone would come by and tease her feet or sides, but she wasn’t hooked up to a torture device, and that was enough.
“Maybe that is what you want,” the smiling Italian teased. “To be filled by all these strong men. To be fucked on floor with your friend.”
“NOOO! I DONN- HAHAHAHA.” She began scraping Jane’s armpits for the hundredth time.
“You don’t sound unhappy with that idea.”
Mattie was still in tickle hell. She was strapped in a kind of exam table, with her legs held up in stirrups. The German was working her underarms, while each of the Japanese women scratched at one foot. Mistress, her own voluptuous chest bared, wore a harness of sorts around her waist and pelvis, one that held a large, black, artificial male organ. Jane thought this attached pecker was more befitting a horse than a human, but perhaps that was the point. Mistress penetrated Mattie with this monstrosity. Through the coercion of tickling made Mattie scream that she loved it, that she wanted it harder, that she loved to be fucked by Hydra. Mattie choked out these debasements through her laughter.
The Italian was teasing Jane’s privates again, as she licked her neck. “Do you like how we treat your Darling friend. Do you want me to fuck you like that?”
Jane bit her lip. She fully intended to say no, like any good girl would. Yet, her body’s response was at odds with her logic. All she could do was moan “Oh God.”
The Italian then went face to face with Jane, and paused mere inches from her face.
“Do you want to fuck me like that?”
Then the Italian went in for the kiss, using her hand to pleasure Jane. Jane kissed back, reflexively at first, and then consciously. She got on a plane as an All-American sweetheart, but was consumed by a deviancy she could barely understand. The duress of the tickling had broken down every standard to which she held herself. She longed to get satisfaction at the hands of a woman who tortured her. Jane rejoiced in the lips of the enemy, and in the hand that had entered her.
That hand betrayed her however, as the kiss was broken, and the ticking of her sides resumed.
“NOOOOOOOOO. WHY DID YOU STAAAHHHP? WHYYYY MEEEEEE. AHAHAHAHA!”
Day three was different. Jane was retrieved from her cell by the cruel German.
“Get up, fraulein,” she barked. “ve have surprise for you.”
The Ladies Liberty were brought in to the dungeon together. In the very center of the room was a man, bound and naked, face covered with a sack. He was restrained on a pole, with his arms over his head, and his waist held with a leather strap. His knees were bent so the lower legs were parallel to the ground. The knees and ankles were stopped down, so that the feet could not move. One of the Japanese women teased the right foot while the other slowly ran a feather up and down the shaft of his erect organ. The man was in superb shape.
The three women were tied to plain wooden chairs in front of this male display, and gagged. Mistress entered from behind them, banging a piece of metal like a drum. As she came into Jane’s field of view, oh no, Jane gasped. She would recognize the shield of Captain America anywhere.
“So you see my dears, here is your knight, vithout his shinning armor.” The sack was removed, revealing the blushing face of Steve Rodgers. He was twitching, surprising the laughs from the tickling of his foot.
“Girls,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I thought I could save you, but they got the drop on me. Stay strong, help is on…” The tickling picked up, with the German harassing the other foot.
“Yes. Ve rather hoped you would come for them, Mr. Rodgers. You Americans are so predictable. You think you can save all ze damsels. And now, girls, you vill see how a hero breaks.”
The ladies watched as all the villains set to work on Captain Rodgers’ defenseless body. He was strong as anything, but strength could do nothing here. The Japanese pair patrolled his sides, the German devastated his arm pits, and Mistress, with her special gloves, hyper focused on the feet. All the while, the Italian stroked and teased his massive, hard cock. Their combined efforts reduced the super soldier to a blubbering mess, persisting for God knows how long.
Dolores and Mattie watched with despair, that their greatest rescuer had failed. Jane watched the tickling itself. Here was the man she saw as the ideal, laughing like a fool, begging a few strange women. On Mistress’ orders, Jane was set up with that insidious vibration machine, which again was igniting powerful feelings within her.
The Italian said something, and Mistress ordered the guards to bring over Mattie. Mistress stepped up, and took control of Captain Rodgers’ cock. Mattie was held on her knees, just in front of it. The ticklers slowed to a lighter tease.
The Italian skipped to Jane’s chair, and kicked the vibration machine up a level or two. “Isn’t this splendid,” she said. “He’s so cute when he laughs, I see why you American girls like him.” She began spider tickles on Jane’s pert breasts. The words barley registered with Jane, who was overwhelmed with the feeling between her legs.
Mistress was about to bring Rodgers off, and poor Mattie was in the line of fire, staring down the barrel of his arousal. “Zat is it, Captain. Be a good soldier and cum for Mistress.”
“Argh,” he said through gritted teeth. This was it. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m so sorry.”
Mattie tried to pull away from the men holding her, but it was no use. He spent his seed furiously, and it landed on her face, dripping down to her luscious breasts.
This was all Jane needed. “Oh. Ohhh. OHHH!” The first orgasm of her life ripped through her petite body as she watched Mistress draw an orgasm from the man she had so admired. She turned to look at the Italian, and was grateful to receive a passionate kiss.
“This is supposed to be torture, you know,” the German chastised, pulling a panicked Dolores to a rack on the other side of the room.
When Jane broke lips with the Italian, she was face to face with Mistress. “Did zat feel good, my dear.”
“Yes,” Jane moaned meekly, unable to lie.
“And vhat do ve say to those who make use feel good?”
Jane looked up now, with tears in her eyes.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
