ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
A gentle moan falls precariously from her lips, just as she begins to rouse herself from a long and unexpected slumber. She tightens her eyelids, the sudden flood of bright fluorescent light stirring her senses, as she slowly but surely begins to peel them open. Her fiery red hair, haphazardly tossed over her downward-turned face, begins to part ways as she gently lifts herself upright, ultimately revealing a look of indisputable dread atop her trimmed yet supple façade. Such an unflattering expression, replacing her usual seductive gaze and collected demeanor, is not unwarranted mind you, for given she now finds herself standing completely upright, and not by her own accord, she has quickly come to recognize the potentially perilous situation she finds herself in today.
Agent Natasha Romanoff, SHIELD operative and first official female Avenger, finds herself locked in a containment cell all by her lonesome. She is encased in its small cylindrical design, standing mere inches from the sleek marble white wall placed behind her. Staring into the green energy shield in front of her, she can just barely make out her faint reflection, all the while the rest of her surroundings remain obscured. Thick metal cuffs, each lined with plush yet inescapable padding, ensnare her wrists and ankles, hoisting her upright into a perfect x-position, giving her just enough slack for her to stand flat atop her black leather boots. Gazing upon their design, hovering motionless in the air, indifferent to how much struggle she can muster up, she can only surmise that they are held in place by some type of magnetic force, a detail that should be the least of her concerns.
She peers all around her, seeing nothing else out of the ordinary, a detail that in and of itself is unsettling to her, having nothing to go on as to the identities of those who brought her here. Her tight leather jumpsuit clings to her body, highlighting every inch of tone across her hidden flesh, an oddity for her to still possess given just how eager her former captors have been in stripping her down to nothing for the sake of an “effective” interrogation. Yes, given the fact that she hasn’t been disposed of yet, Agent Romanoff can only presume her capture to be for the purpose of extracting the myriad of secrets she keeps locked away inside of her. Such an endeavor, however, has proven all but futile up to this point, given her stalwart resistance to any and all forms of physical coercion that your typical would-be comic book villain could inflict upon her. However, given her tight quarters and seemingly purposeful isolation, it appears as though this is not going to be your typical interrogation.
Suddenly, she hears a sound, followed by another, that which she discerns to be footsteps slowly making their approach. By their crisp sound, she determines these steps to be coming from a pair of high heels, with their sparse volume denoting only one figure in her midst. As she stares intensely into the energy shield, she finds it slowly but surely becoming transparent, revealing the full form of a woman standing before her: she is young, barely into her thirties, as suggested by her full yet youthful features. Her pale alabaster skin shimmers in the radiant glow of the containment cell, with her long platinum blonde hair sitting tightly bound in a ponytail behind her, swaying to and fro with every step she takes. Clad in a white lab coat and long black skirt, with a pair of black stiletto heels atop her feet, Agent Romanoff determines her to be a researcher of some kind, a far cry from the burly thugs she is most used to dealing with in her line of work. To the outside observer, this young woman would have most certainly struck them as very attractive, even sexy if your will. But, given that she doesn’t swing that way, what Agent Romanoff finds herself most concerned with is what is lying behind that subtle yet noticeable smirk laying across her lips.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting Miss Romanoff,” the woman casually addresses her captive, pressing the thick rims of her glasses further atop her thin pointed nose. “Or, should I call you: Black Widow.” She gazes upon the helplessly rendered heroine, admiring her outstretched form with a look that is as inquisitive as it is tantalizing. Given that she has not been gagged or anything of the sort, Agent Romanoff can only assume that this woman expects a response out of her, something which she always finds her pleasure to capitalize on.
“It’s not like I had any plans or anything,” she quips, tersely blowing a loose strand of hair from the side of her cheek. “Well, actually, I did have a dinner reservation tonight, but I’m more than happy to spend my valuable time off with a ditzy little lab assistant like yourself. Actually, why don’t you slip off, get yourself into a nice cocktail dress, and be my right-arm gal for the night, hmm? Just so you know: I’m not one for kissing, if you catch my drift.”
“I’ll have to take a raincheck on that, but thank you for the offer,” the woman responds, her soothing feminine voice giving off no hint of impatience towards her defiant subject. “And besides, I find us both appropriately dressed for this little girl-on-girl time we’ll be spending together, if you catch my drift.” She turns away, approaching a small control panel protruding out of the floor, fidgeting with the various diodes out of her prisoner’s view as though she for the moment doesn’t even exist.
“You got quite the setup here little missy,” Agent Romanoff states, taking the tone of a patronizing authority figure, trying her best to get the woman flustered enough to inadvertently divulge her plans as she always finds them doing. “So, where exactly are we, Miss…”
“It’s Doctor dear: Dr. Lyla,” the woman abruptly responds, cutting off the redhead while still not betraying one shred of exasperation towards Agent Romanoff. “And where you are exactly isn’t much of your concern, but that of whomever has been tasked with your rescue which, as you will come to understand quite clearly, is highly improbable at this point. But, if you must find yourself so curious, then I will have no choice but to tell you: you are in my laboratory, nestled thirty miles within the side of a mountain, in a remote corner of the globe, where not even the worms below us have any clue you are here. You are alone, far away from your fellow agents and their futile efforts to find you. Why you are here, well: let’s just say I thought we should have some quality time together. I mean, since you haven’t even tried to escape yet, it must mean you’re just dying to be here. What do you say?”
“Hmm, not exactly one for facials and pedicures there girlie,” Agent Romanoff cheekily states, pursing her lips to pretend as though she is intensely thinking about it. “I’m more of a break-your-back-in-three-places kind of girl, you know.”
“Oh yes, I’m well aware of how hands-on you can be, Miss Romanoff,” Dr. Lyla says, turning towards her captive, tracing her finger across the exterior of the energy shield. “But, that’s why I built this special little cell for you: just to make the procedure goes according to plan.” Procedure? What could she mean by that? Surely, it is all related to getting her to spill all her secrets, as why else would she be here? Whatever concern that statement incited within her was quickly disposed of, knowing that she must keep composure in front of her captor as not to give them any sense of power or influence over her.
“I don’t suppose you expect me to talk,” Agent Romanoff inquires, making it crystal clear as to just how much it is going to take to break her into submission. It does not escape her the probable peril she is in, or the fact that she might truly be all alone to handle this one, knowing her fellow agents would have blown the doors in had they even one inkling of where she was. However, until that happens, and she is sure it eventually will, she must withstand whatever this leggy blonde can muster up which, by the looks of it, seems to be even less than she had considered before walking in.
“If you wish, then you are more than welcome to,” Dr. Lyla responds, turning away as she addresses her captive to the open air. “But, for the time being, I only expect you to laugh.” Reaching her right hand up, Dr. Lyla snaps her fingers, just as Agent Romanoff recognizes the subtle sound of tiny churning mechanisms coming from behind her. Peering to either side, she catches the sight of four small compartments opening up in the wall behind her, and what seems to be a set of four metallic tentacles protruding out of them, slowly but surely making their way towards her.
She tries to jerk away, hoping to make the process as difficult as possible for her captor but, given her immobile situation, is unable to have any influence over what is about to happen to her. The moment they finally reach her outstretched form, the autonomous tentacles begin snaking their way underneath her suit, inserting themselves through the openings at her wrists and ankles. She prepares herself for the ensuing pain, expecting these devices to either begin constricting her, or to shock her through receptors embedded in their design, something she has been well conditioned to endure to an extraordinarily high degree. However, gradually over time, she feels something different, something strange to her hardened senses: it begins with an itch, followed by a reverberating irritation, building across the entire length of her body until, after several moments, she realizes exactly what is happening to her.
“Get the picture?” Dr. Lyla asks her, standing right in front of her test subject as though she were observing a caged animal. “Oh, I almost forgot the magic words: coochie coo.” She heard that right: they are tickling her. Had she been less careful, Agent Romanoff would have most surely laughed at the idea of being subjected to such methods of coercion. However, knowing that is exactly what the woman wants out of her, she suppresses her desire, opting for indifference towards her predicament instead.
“So, you brought me out here just to tickle me?” Agent Romanoff casually asks her, staring deep into her captor’s eyes, struggling nonetheless to form her words as coherently as possible without showing any of its effect. “You could have bought me dinner first, maybe a drink or two.” She can’t believe it: of all the tortures to inflict upon her, this deranged figure would choose tickling, inventing machines for the sole purpose of taking advantage of that most pitiful childhood weakness. Yes, she is fully aware of her own innate ticklishness, disregarding it as something she most surely had grown out of, now being made aware that it may have, in fact, intensified through her willful ignorance. She wonders, as these devices are strewn across her body, caressing her bare flesh without any regard for her jumpsuit, just what type of person would invest such energy in crafting these devices, hopelessly believing this to be an effective way of making a world class spy like herself spill her most well-guarded secrets.
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for drinks afterwards” Dr. Lyla responds, her tone of voice shifting to a more seductive one towards her prisoner, watching the spy’s body slowly succumb to the growing sensations that are enveloping her. “And besides: I bet you’re just dying to find out just what my little inventions can really do, huh?” Unfortunately for Agent Romanoff, it doesn’t seem as though this is going to be as easy as she had hoped: she has been trained to withstand anything and everything, or at least she has come to believe. However, there is something sinister about her captor that she just can’t quite put her finger on, something that makes her uneasy as to just how long she is going to have to outlast her.
“These tentacles have a very special design I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate,” Dr’ Lyla notes, watching their prominent form pulsate across her entire body underneath her jumpsuit. “Their interior is lined with thousands of little strands, each tipped with a thin layer of material that works in a manner opposite to vibranium: rather than absorb the vibrations emanating across its subject, they intensify them, creating little pulsating tendrils that endlessly tantalize the subject.” The more the crazed woman explains her contraption, the more real the sensations become to the tempered agent, trying her best to fight off her methods of breaking her composure, be they physical and psychological. She purses her lips, sealing them as tight as they can be, with the occasional sputter of suppressed giggles demonstrating just how futile her effort may seem to be. As the devices begin exploring down the length of her legs, spreading across a greater surface area, her body starts to betray her, with the unforeseen twitch and fit of ill-timed struggles showing just how quickly this procedure is getting underneath her skin.
“Now, the exterior of each device is lined with microscopic serrated teeth, very similar to that of shark skin,” Dr. Lyla further explains, running her fingers over her own lab coat as if Agent Romanoff really needed a visual aid. “Over time, as the tentacles begin to rub against your jumpsuit, they will slowly tear away at its materials, shredding it into pieces right before your very eyes. In fact, I think they’re starting to work their way through right now.”
She can hear it, as though it were coming through an amplifier right below her: the sound of each thread of her battle-worn jumpsuit being torn apart, gazing down as she can see the metallic sheen of the tentacles slowly tear through her clothing bit by agonizing bit. Just what dastardly mind would come up with such a design is beyond her, having no concept as to the depths of her dastardly methods despite being put up against some of the most nefarious entities across the galaxy. As she knows, such an act of stripping her is merely cosmetic, meant to both degrade her as well as satisfy the leering eyes of her captive, knowing for sure she is deriving some perverted pleasure from watching her quivering flesh reveal itself.
“Rrrrrrrmphphphph!” Agent Romanoff barely is able to utter, fighting off a grin of forced mirth, while replacing it with a grimace she can just barely hold on to for the time being. “You won’t… get…anywhere…with this!”
“Are you sure about that?” Dr. Lyla teases her, rubbing her finger against her lower lip, indulging in the sight of such a powerful operative writhing in her inescapable clutches. “Just think: you could end up a howling blubbering mess, and I wouldn’t have had to even lift a finger. In fact…” Just as the woman speaks, Agent Romanoff finds her tightened lips slowly begin to peel open, revealing a prominent toothy grin as she gazes up to the ceiling, looking for just one means of escape she might have missed. How pathetic she feels, knowing just how powerless she is to this perpetual onslaught: she can feel each one of these tentacles, pressed up against her entire midsection, encircling her legs down to her ankles, caressing her trembling flesh with those horrendous implements she cannot even see. It is as though a thousand tiny fingers are going to town with her body, tantalizing every nerve ending to an unfathomable degree.
Soon, but not soon enough as far as she is concerned, her stifled breaths morph into teetering giggles, turning into a continuous stream of woeful guffaws that she can no longer hold back. She can feel the sweat collecting atop her brow, her mental fortitude and physical resilience being tested in tandem through such simple means. Tiny droplets begin forming at the sides of her eyes, demonstrating just how low she feels, and how frustrated she is swiftly becoming. After several moments, she once again gazes down her person, witnessing her entire suit left in tatters, having falling to her feet all around her. Now, wearing nothing but her leather gloves and boots, along with the pale pink lingerie she was wearing underneath, she can see in unobscured fashion the horrible implements at work, these seemingly innocuous devices driving her out of her pretty little head as though it were nothing special.
“This…is…pathetic!” she spurts out, jerking once again against her restraints, hoping that there would be a power outage of some kind so she could make her escape, something she had found most convenient in her previous adventures. Unfortunately, as she is about to find out, there are no bad writers crafting this ticklish little tale of hers today.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Dr. Lyla exclaims, making Agent Romanoff regret ever opening her mouth. “Thanks for reminding me!” She reaches her hand up once again, snapping her fingers to initiate the second phase of our poor hero’s torments. Much to her dismay, she can feel her extremities being guided towards one another, slowly but surely until she is standing in a perfect I position, with each of her limbs completely parallel to one another. Suddenly, jettisoning out of the wall behind her, a half cylindrical device begins pushing against her back, forcing her midsection to be guided forward until near uncomfortable. Now, standing up on the toes of her boots, with her hips and ribs protruding from her toned flesh for the tentacles to begin taking full advantage of, Agent Romanoff feels more vulnerable than ever.
“You know what position this is really good for?” Dr. Lyla asks, taking a small screen from the adjacent console, hoisting the tablet in front of Black Widow’s face. “Your feet.” Immersed in her torments, Agent Romanoff begrudgingly directs her eyes to the contents of the screen: she sees her boots, with a small device approaching them, one that is revealed to be a laser directed right at them. She watches as the edges of her shoes are sliced open, inch by inch, until her bare heels are exposed from the material, followed closely by her tender soles. As she watches the bottoms of her shoes fall to the floor, she sees a set of spinning brushes slowly begin to make their approach, and had she only been able to take one breath before this tenuous moment, without the fear of it dissolving into uncontrollable laughter, then maybe she could have held out longer than she did.
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” she finally breaks, her cascades of laughter now unbridled, echoing into this small chamber through a speaker she never knew was there. She turns away, clamping her eyes shut as she attempts to imagine herself far away from this despicable place, not seeing the smirk atop Dr. Lyla’s lips morph into a smile on undeniable pleasure. She clenches her toes, trying with all her might to pull them back to scrunch her soles, but it is no use: pinned out of the way, she is helpless to avoid the scraping material digging into her supple soles, oscillating their coarse material as they traverse her naked flesh, working in tandem with the tentacles above to strip the heroine of both her clothing and her dignity.
“Thiiiiiihihihihis is bullshit!” Agent Romanoff exclaims, clawing her fingers into the open air above, knowing there is nothing there for her to grasp on. “Get me out of this shit!” She bucks against the device behind her, rubbing her back against its smooth immobile form, fully immersed in the endless cycle of torments that she knows she cannot shake. These mechanisms: so merciless, so unpredictable, having absolutely no method as to prepare herself for what they are to do to her next. Now, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth left perpetually agape in laughter, it seems as though she is finally primed for her questioning.
“Oh, isn’t this precious?” Dr. Lyla coos, her demeanor making it seem as though she were truly envious of those machines, hoping to join them in her torments. “The world’s most formidable spy, cackling like a little schoolgirl, as though without a care in the world. What was that? Are you trying to say something, my dear?”
“Ihihihs this the behehest you got?!” Agent Romanoff states defiantly, not letting her suffering deter her from putting up her indifferent façade, a reaction that elicits a look of unexpected joy from her captor.
“Oh no: I was just waiting for you to ask,” she responds, clapping her hands, just as Agent Romanoff hears that most familiar sound of churning mechanism coming from being her. Turning her head around, she sees the entire wall parting in two, revealing dozens of tentacles waiting for her just feet away. Her eyes turn wide as saucers, having not imagined that there could be anything lying in wait for her that would be as bad as this. Suddenly, she feels herself hovering backwards, inch by inch towards a hellish fate like no other. Surely now, it was her time to turn up the charm, convincing the woman that it would be best that she be spared from such a fate, turning back towards her captor to give feign defeat. Unfortunately, that would not be made an option for her this time.
“You don’t have to HRMPH?!” she is just able to utter before Dr. Lyla, having deactivated the energy shield without her knowledge, presses a small mechanism against her lips, sealing them shut. Taking Agent Romanoff by the chin, she begins to address her newly muted state.
“Oh I’m just about done with this little smart mouth of yours, Agent Romanoff,” she says, gazing intensely into her eyes as she begins to speak with authority. “I’m sure you haven’t gotten to figuring it out by now, so I’m just going to go ahead and say it: this is not an interrogation. I don’t care how many secrets you have, or how much you’re willing to give them up to me. You are not here to be asked a single question, oh no. You’re here for one reason and one reason only: to be broken. You’re here so I can tear you down, piece by agonizing piece, stripping away that pesky little resolve of yours until there’s nothing left. You’re going to experience nothing but pure Hell, right up until that very moment when you crack, and there’s nothing left in that pretty little head of yours: and why? Because it would give me nothing but pleasure to make Natasha Romanoff, the most fearsome secret agent in the world, into my mindless tickle slave, as obedient as she once was intimidating. Every moment will be torture as you are pushed far past the brink time and time again, only to experience it again the very next day. You will dream of your suffering, and of ways to avoid it, yet you will eventually come to recognize it as your fate, and accept it. Now, enjoy my princess: you’re going to need all the rest you can get. Don’t worry: I have ways in dealing with that little smart mouth of yours. It just takes time, like all the rest.”
It is this moment that, staring deep into her softened eyes, Dr. Lyla recognizes that delectable sensation, trapped deep inside behind Agent Romanoff’s unbreakable façade, that she has been yearning for this entire time: fear. Waving her captive goodbye, she watches in suppressed delight as she is slowly pulled into the darkened space, her stifled screams cut off the moment the doors close shut in front of her.
To be continued…
Agent Natasha Romanoff, SHIELD operative and first official female Avenger, finds herself locked in a containment cell all by her lonesome. She is encased in its small cylindrical design, standing mere inches from the sleek marble white wall placed behind her. Staring into the green energy shield in front of her, she can just barely make out her faint reflection, all the while the rest of her surroundings remain obscured. Thick metal cuffs, each lined with plush yet inescapable padding, ensnare her wrists and ankles, hoisting her upright into a perfect x-position, giving her just enough slack for her to stand flat atop her black leather boots. Gazing upon their design, hovering motionless in the air, indifferent to how much struggle she can muster up, she can only surmise that they are held in place by some type of magnetic force, a detail that should be the least of her concerns.
She peers all around her, seeing nothing else out of the ordinary, a detail that in and of itself is unsettling to her, having nothing to go on as to the identities of those who brought her here. Her tight leather jumpsuit clings to her body, highlighting every inch of tone across her hidden flesh, an oddity for her to still possess given just how eager her former captors have been in stripping her down to nothing for the sake of an “effective” interrogation. Yes, given the fact that she hasn’t been disposed of yet, Agent Romanoff can only presume her capture to be for the purpose of extracting the myriad of secrets she keeps locked away inside of her. Such an endeavor, however, has proven all but futile up to this point, given her stalwart resistance to any and all forms of physical coercion that your typical would-be comic book villain could inflict upon her. However, given her tight quarters and seemingly purposeful isolation, it appears as though this is not going to be your typical interrogation.
Suddenly, she hears a sound, followed by another, that which she discerns to be footsteps slowly making their approach. By their crisp sound, she determines these steps to be coming from a pair of high heels, with their sparse volume denoting only one figure in her midst. As she stares intensely into the energy shield, she finds it slowly but surely becoming transparent, revealing the full form of a woman standing before her: she is young, barely into her thirties, as suggested by her full yet youthful features. Her pale alabaster skin shimmers in the radiant glow of the containment cell, with her long platinum blonde hair sitting tightly bound in a ponytail behind her, swaying to and fro with every step she takes. Clad in a white lab coat and long black skirt, with a pair of black stiletto heels atop her feet, Agent Romanoff determines her to be a researcher of some kind, a far cry from the burly thugs she is most used to dealing with in her line of work. To the outside observer, this young woman would have most certainly struck them as very attractive, even sexy if your will. But, given that she doesn’t swing that way, what Agent Romanoff finds herself most concerned with is what is lying behind that subtle yet noticeable smirk laying across her lips.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting Miss Romanoff,” the woman casually addresses her captive, pressing the thick rims of her glasses further atop her thin pointed nose. “Or, should I call you: Black Widow.” She gazes upon the helplessly rendered heroine, admiring her outstretched form with a look that is as inquisitive as it is tantalizing. Given that she has not been gagged or anything of the sort, Agent Romanoff can only assume that this woman expects a response out of her, something which she always finds her pleasure to capitalize on.
“It’s not like I had any plans or anything,” she quips, tersely blowing a loose strand of hair from the side of her cheek. “Well, actually, I did have a dinner reservation tonight, but I’m more than happy to spend my valuable time off with a ditzy little lab assistant like yourself. Actually, why don’t you slip off, get yourself into a nice cocktail dress, and be my right-arm gal for the night, hmm? Just so you know: I’m not one for kissing, if you catch my drift.”
“I’ll have to take a raincheck on that, but thank you for the offer,” the woman responds, her soothing feminine voice giving off no hint of impatience towards her defiant subject. “And besides, I find us both appropriately dressed for this little girl-on-girl time we’ll be spending together, if you catch my drift.” She turns away, approaching a small control panel protruding out of the floor, fidgeting with the various diodes out of her prisoner’s view as though she for the moment doesn’t even exist.
“You got quite the setup here little missy,” Agent Romanoff states, taking the tone of a patronizing authority figure, trying her best to get the woman flustered enough to inadvertently divulge her plans as she always finds them doing. “So, where exactly are we, Miss…”
“It’s Doctor dear: Dr. Lyla,” the woman abruptly responds, cutting off the redhead while still not betraying one shred of exasperation towards Agent Romanoff. “And where you are exactly isn’t much of your concern, but that of whomever has been tasked with your rescue which, as you will come to understand quite clearly, is highly improbable at this point. But, if you must find yourself so curious, then I will have no choice but to tell you: you are in my laboratory, nestled thirty miles within the side of a mountain, in a remote corner of the globe, where not even the worms below us have any clue you are here. You are alone, far away from your fellow agents and their futile efforts to find you. Why you are here, well: let’s just say I thought we should have some quality time together. I mean, since you haven’t even tried to escape yet, it must mean you’re just dying to be here. What do you say?”
“Hmm, not exactly one for facials and pedicures there girlie,” Agent Romanoff cheekily states, pursing her lips to pretend as though she is intensely thinking about it. “I’m more of a break-your-back-in-three-places kind of girl, you know.”
“Oh yes, I’m well aware of how hands-on you can be, Miss Romanoff,” Dr. Lyla says, turning towards her captive, tracing her finger across the exterior of the energy shield. “But, that’s why I built this special little cell for you: just to make the procedure goes according to plan.” Procedure? What could she mean by that? Surely, it is all related to getting her to spill all her secrets, as why else would she be here? Whatever concern that statement incited within her was quickly disposed of, knowing that she must keep composure in front of her captor as not to give them any sense of power or influence over her.
“I don’t suppose you expect me to talk,” Agent Romanoff inquires, making it crystal clear as to just how much it is going to take to break her into submission. It does not escape her the probable peril she is in, or the fact that she might truly be all alone to handle this one, knowing her fellow agents would have blown the doors in had they even one inkling of where she was. However, until that happens, and she is sure it eventually will, she must withstand whatever this leggy blonde can muster up which, by the looks of it, seems to be even less than she had considered before walking in.
“If you wish, then you are more than welcome to,” Dr. Lyla responds, turning away as she addresses her captive to the open air. “But, for the time being, I only expect you to laugh.” Reaching her right hand up, Dr. Lyla snaps her fingers, just as Agent Romanoff recognizes the subtle sound of tiny churning mechanisms coming from behind her. Peering to either side, she catches the sight of four small compartments opening up in the wall behind her, and what seems to be a set of four metallic tentacles protruding out of them, slowly but surely making their way towards her.
She tries to jerk away, hoping to make the process as difficult as possible for her captor but, given her immobile situation, is unable to have any influence over what is about to happen to her. The moment they finally reach her outstretched form, the autonomous tentacles begin snaking their way underneath her suit, inserting themselves through the openings at her wrists and ankles. She prepares herself for the ensuing pain, expecting these devices to either begin constricting her, or to shock her through receptors embedded in their design, something she has been well conditioned to endure to an extraordinarily high degree. However, gradually over time, she feels something different, something strange to her hardened senses: it begins with an itch, followed by a reverberating irritation, building across the entire length of her body until, after several moments, she realizes exactly what is happening to her.
“Get the picture?” Dr. Lyla asks her, standing right in front of her test subject as though she were observing a caged animal. “Oh, I almost forgot the magic words: coochie coo.” She heard that right: they are tickling her. Had she been less careful, Agent Romanoff would have most surely laughed at the idea of being subjected to such methods of coercion. However, knowing that is exactly what the woman wants out of her, she suppresses her desire, opting for indifference towards her predicament instead.
“So, you brought me out here just to tickle me?” Agent Romanoff casually asks her, staring deep into her captor’s eyes, struggling nonetheless to form her words as coherently as possible without showing any of its effect. “You could have bought me dinner first, maybe a drink or two.” She can’t believe it: of all the tortures to inflict upon her, this deranged figure would choose tickling, inventing machines for the sole purpose of taking advantage of that most pitiful childhood weakness. Yes, she is fully aware of her own innate ticklishness, disregarding it as something she most surely had grown out of, now being made aware that it may have, in fact, intensified through her willful ignorance. She wonders, as these devices are strewn across her body, caressing her bare flesh without any regard for her jumpsuit, just what type of person would invest such energy in crafting these devices, hopelessly believing this to be an effective way of making a world class spy like herself spill her most well-guarded secrets.
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for drinks afterwards” Dr. Lyla responds, her tone of voice shifting to a more seductive one towards her prisoner, watching the spy’s body slowly succumb to the growing sensations that are enveloping her. “And besides: I bet you’re just dying to find out just what my little inventions can really do, huh?” Unfortunately for Agent Romanoff, it doesn’t seem as though this is going to be as easy as she had hoped: she has been trained to withstand anything and everything, or at least she has come to believe. However, there is something sinister about her captor that she just can’t quite put her finger on, something that makes her uneasy as to just how long she is going to have to outlast her.
“These tentacles have a very special design I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate,” Dr’ Lyla notes, watching their prominent form pulsate across her entire body underneath her jumpsuit. “Their interior is lined with thousands of little strands, each tipped with a thin layer of material that works in a manner opposite to vibranium: rather than absorb the vibrations emanating across its subject, they intensify them, creating little pulsating tendrils that endlessly tantalize the subject.” The more the crazed woman explains her contraption, the more real the sensations become to the tempered agent, trying her best to fight off her methods of breaking her composure, be they physical and psychological. She purses her lips, sealing them as tight as they can be, with the occasional sputter of suppressed giggles demonstrating just how futile her effort may seem to be. As the devices begin exploring down the length of her legs, spreading across a greater surface area, her body starts to betray her, with the unforeseen twitch and fit of ill-timed struggles showing just how quickly this procedure is getting underneath her skin.
“Now, the exterior of each device is lined with microscopic serrated teeth, very similar to that of shark skin,” Dr. Lyla further explains, running her fingers over her own lab coat as if Agent Romanoff really needed a visual aid. “Over time, as the tentacles begin to rub against your jumpsuit, they will slowly tear away at its materials, shredding it into pieces right before your very eyes. In fact, I think they’re starting to work their way through right now.”
She can hear it, as though it were coming through an amplifier right below her: the sound of each thread of her battle-worn jumpsuit being torn apart, gazing down as she can see the metallic sheen of the tentacles slowly tear through her clothing bit by agonizing bit. Just what dastardly mind would come up with such a design is beyond her, having no concept as to the depths of her dastardly methods despite being put up against some of the most nefarious entities across the galaxy. As she knows, such an act of stripping her is merely cosmetic, meant to both degrade her as well as satisfy the leering eyes of her captive, knowing for sure she is deriving some perverted pleasure from watching her quivering flesh reveal itself.
“Rrrrrrrmphphphph!” Agent Romanoff barely is able to utter, fighting off a grin of forced mirth, while replacing it with a grimace she can just barely hold on to for the time being. “You won’t… get…anywhere…with this!”
“Are you sure about that?” Dr. Lyla teases her, rubbing her finger against her lower lip, indulging in the sight of such a powerful operative writhing in her inescapable clutches. “Just think: you could end up a howling blubbering mess, and I wouldn’t have had to even lift a finger. In fact…” Just as the woman speaks, Agent Romanoff finds her tightened lips slowly begin to peel open, revealing a prominent toothy grin as she gazes up to the ceiling, looking for just one means of escape she might have missed. How pathetic she feels, knowing just how powerless she is to this perpetual onslaught: she can feel each one of these tentacles, pressed up against her entire midsection, encircling her legs down to her ankles, caressing her trembling flesh with those horrendous implements she cannot even see. It is as though a thousand tiny fingers are going to town with her body, tantalizing every nerve ending to an unfathomable degree.
Soon, but not soon enough as far as she is concerned, her stifled breaths morph into teetering giggles, turning into a continuous stream of woeful guffaws that she can no longer hold back. She can feel the sweat collecting atop her brow, her mental fortitude and physical resilience being tested in tandem through such simple means. Tiny droplets begin forming at the sides of her eyes, demonstrating just how low she feels, and how frustrated she is swiftly becoming. After several moments, she once again gazes down her person, witnessing her entire suit left in tatters, having falling to her feet all around her. Now, wearing nothing but her leather gloves and boots, along with the pale pink lingerie she was wearing underneath, she can see in unobscured fashion the horrible implements at work, these seemingly innocuous devices driving her out of her pretty little head as though it were nothing special.
“This…is…pathetic!” she spurts out, jerking once again against her restraints, hoping that there would be a power outage of some kind so she could make her escape, something she had found most convenient in her previous adventures. Unfortunately, as she is about to find out, there are no bad writers crafting this ticklish little tale of hers today.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Dr. Lyla exclaims, making Agent Romanoff regret ever opening her mouth. “Thanks for reminding me!” She reaches her hand up once again, snapping her fingers to initiate the second phase of our poor hero’s torments. Much to her dismay, she can feel her extremities being guided towards one another, slowly but surely until she is standing in a perfect I position, with each of her limbs completely parallel to one another. Suddenly, jettisoning out of the wall behind her, a half cylindrical device begins pushing against her back, forcing her midsection to be guided forward until near uncomfortable. Now, standing up on the toes of her boots, with her hips and ribs protruding from her toned flesh for the tentacles to begin taking full advantage of, Agent Romanoff feels more vulnerable than ever.
“You know what position this is really good for?” Dr. Lyla asks, taking a small screen from the adjacent console, hoisting the tablet in front of Black Widow’s face. “Your feet.” Immersed in her torments, Agent Romanoff begrudgingly directs her eyes to the contents of the screen: she sees her boots, with a small device approaching them, one that is revealed to be a laser directed right at them. She watches as the edges of her shoes are sliced open, inch by inch, until her bare heels are exposed from the material, followed closely by her tender soles. As she watches the bottoms of her shoes fall to the floor, she sees a set of spinning brushes slowly begin to make their approach, and had she only been able to take one breath before this tenuous moment, without the fear of it dissolving into uncontrollable laughter, then maybe she could have held out longer than she did.
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” she finally breaks, her cascades of laughter now unbridled, echoing into this small chamber through a speaker she never knew was there. She turns away, clamping her eyes shut as she attempts to imagine herself far away from this despicable place, not seeing the smirk atop Dr. Lyla’s lips morph into a smile on undeniable pleasure. She clenches her toes, trying with all her might to pull them back to scrunch her soles, but it is no use: pinned out of the way, she is helpless to avoid the scraping material digging into her supple soles, oscillating their coarse material as they traverse her naked flesh, working in tandem with the tentacles above to strip the heroine of both her clothing and her dignity.
“Thiiiiiihihihihis is bullshit!” Agent Romanoff exclaims, clawing her fingers into the open air above, knowing there is nothing there for her to grasp on. “Get me out of this shit!” She bucks against the device behind her, rubbing her back against its smooth immobile form, fully immersed in the endless cycle of torments that she knows she cannot shake. These mechanisms: so merciless, so unpredictable, having absolutely no method as to prepare herself for what they are to do to her next. Now, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth left perpetually agape in laughter, it seems as though she is finally primed for her questioning.
“Oh, isn’t this precious?” Dr. Lyla coos, her demeanor making it seem as though she were truly envious of those machines, hoping to join them in her torments. “The world’s most formidable spy, cackling like a little schoolgirl, as though without a care in the world. What was that? Are you trying to say something, my dear?”
“Ihihihs this the behehest you got?!” Agent Romanoff states defiantly, not letting her suffering deter her from putting up her indifferent façade, a reaction that elicits a look of unexpected joy from her captor.
“Oh no: I was just waiting for you to ask,” she responds, clapping her hands, just as Agent Romanoff hears that most familiar sound of churning mechanism coming from being her. Turning her head around, she sees the entire wall parting in two, revealing dozens of tentacles waiting for her just feet away. Her eyes turn wide as saucers, having not imagined that there could be anything lying in wait for her that would be as bad as this. Suddenly, she feels herself hovering backwards, inch by inch towards a hellish fate like no other. Surely now, it was her time to turn up the charm, convincing the woman that it would be best that she be spared from such a fate, turning back towards her captor to give feign defeat. Unfortunately, that would not be made an option for her this time.
“You don’t have to HRMPH?!” she is just able to utter before Dr. Lyla, having deactivated the energy shield without her knowledge, presses a small mechanism against her lips, sealing them shut. Taking Agent Romanoff by the chin, she begins to address her newly muted state.
“Oh I’m just about done with this little smart mouth of yours, Agent Romanoff,” she says, gazing intensely into her eyes as she begins to speak with authority. “I’m sure you haven’t gotten to figuring it out by now, so I’m just going to go ahead and say it: this is not an interrogation. I don’t care how many secrets you have, or how much you’re willing to give them up to me. You are not here to be asked a single question, oh no. You’re here for one reason and one reason only: to be broken. You’re here so I can tear you down, piece by agonizing piece, stripping away that pesky little resolve of yours until there’s nothing left. You’re going to experience nothing but pure Hell, right up until that very moment when you crack, and there’s nothing left in that pretty little head of yours: and why? Because it would give me nothing but pleasure to make Natasha Romanoff, the most fearsome secret agent in the world, into my mindless tickle slave, as obedient as she once was intimidating. Every moment will be torture as you are pushed far past the brink time and time again, only to experience it again the very next day. You will dream of your suffering, and of ways to avoid it, yet you will eventually come to recognize it as your fate, and accept it. Now, enjoy my princess: you’re going to need all the rest you can get. Don’t worry: I have ways in dealing with that little smart mouth of yours. It just takes time, like all the rest.”
It is this moment that, staring deep into her softened eyes, Dr. Lyla recognizes that delectable sensation, trapped deep inside behind Agent Romanoff’s unbreakable façade, that she has been yearning for this entire time: fear. Waving her captive goodbye, she watches in suppressed delight as she is slowly pulled into the darkened space, her stifled screams cut off the moment the doors close shut in front of her.
To be continued…
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