ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
“SOMEBODY HELP ME!!”
Her scream of terror echoes off these concrete walls, reverberating through this desolate chamber, ultimately falling on deaf ears. Olivia Holt, America’s sweetheart gracing television screens across the country, has been plucked from the prime of her life into this hellish ordeal. She couldn’t tell you where she is, or how she got here, isolated from all she held familiar. All she can remember is a thick white rag being thrust over her face, a pungent odor swiftly filling her nostrils. Legs flailing, screaming at the top of her lungs, she struggled against the unknown assailant. Yet despite such valiant efforts, arms pinned, voice muffled, she slowly faded out of consciousness. Now she is here, trapped underground, beneath a secluded cabin hidden deep in the woods, a lonesome basement, without even the roots of the trees to pity her.
Thick leather cuffs bind her wrist and ankle, stretched taut across a wooden rack without an inch of slack left for her. As if it would matter: leather belts, extending from underneath the wooden platform at every conceivable angle, bind her at the elbows and knees, leaving no room form auxiliary movement whatsoever. If that weren’t enough, a thick Velcro strap, the inside lined with soft furry padding, is wrapped tightly around her forehead, pinning her head against the board. She can’t move or see, and soon, she won’t even be able to hope.
Such a fate, stripped of all awareness of her surroundings, forced to peer upward at the dim fluorescent lights above would seem maddening as it is. However, had she the capacity to take even one glance around the room, it may have just thrown her straight over the edge: horrendous contraptions, occupying this space wall-to-wall, the purpose of which she couldn’t possibly imagine. Medieval stocks, wooden pillory, dentist chairs, x-frames, bondage beds, and racks upon racks of chains, cuffs, and assorted accessories keep her company, all to host an eternity of ruthless tickle torture beyond compare.
“PLEASE!! ANYBODY!!” Her strained voice slowly begins to betray her desperation, a slight crack on its tail end signifying the encroaching feeling of hopelessness she has been fighting up until now. Poor thing, what little she knows, and what soon she is to learn.
“CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?!”
“Nobody can hear you my sweet.” A voice, cold and belittling, echoes unexpectedly through the room. The shock of its sudden presence thrusts a knot is thrust up into Olivia’s throat, unable to make one peep as the sound of impinging footsteps make her heart sink down to her stomach. A figure enters from the shadows, the young starlet unable to get but a mere glimpse at his silhouette as he continues to speak. “Nobody can hear you at all.”
“Please!” she begins to beg, meek and helpless, tears welling up behind her doughy brown eyes, the first of many to come. “What do you want with me?”
“Discovery my dear,” he says, feigning tenderness as he softly strokes her cheek with the back of his left hand. Her eyes lock on to his, the only feature of his face left naked by his woolen black mask to match his clothing. “You see, I am a very curious person, always open to learning new things. I bet you’re the same way, am I right?”
His eyes break from hers, diverting down to the middle of the table. Slowly he moves away, toward her vulnerable midsection, Olivia straining to watch his movement despite being unable to move an inch from her bondage. Taking the bottom of her knitted blue shirt in his hands, he begins ever so slowly rolling it up, gently pushing and pulling just until the very bottom of her belly button is exposed, two inches of flesh protruding from atop her stained blue jeans.
“That very moment our eyes met, I just knew there was something special about you,” he states, running the tip of his left index finger just above the top of Olivia’s jeans. A sudden gasp escapes her, the realization of his true intent coming into full view. “Something told me I just had to get to know you a little bit better.”
“And I know just how to do it.”
Ever so slowly, he begins tracing his fingers over her mid drift, drawing figure eights as he goes, catching the indentation of her belly button ever so often. Such sensations grow, from utter annoyance to maddeningly ticklish in a near instant. He knows her weakness, buried deep in the recesses of her childhood brought front and center for his indulgence. She is ticklish, but as far as Olivia is concerned, if it’s a reaction he wants, then he is not going to get it.
“PPPPPPPPPPPFHFHFHFFHF!!” she stifles her giggles, lips pursed with unimaginable pressure, trying with all her might to repress the first of many to satisfy her captor’s pleasure. Puffing out her cheeks, the residue of quashed laughter collecting itself in her mouth, she has no choice but to merely resist his tender touch for as long as possible.
If I just hold on for as long as I can, she considers, the pressure behind her clenched teeth slowly building, then he’ll think I’m not ticklish and get bored, and then he’ll have to let me go!
Wishful thinking from a foolish girl.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” he asks, the speed of his fingers slowly gaining, now tracing across the entire span of her exposed midsection. Again, pausing for a moment, he begins rolling up her shirt inch by inch, now revealing the entirety of her belly, stopping just below her first rib.
“Actually, there’s something I forgot to ask you before we began that I hope you can answer for me…”
Are you ticklish?”
Without warning, he strikes: digging his thumbs into her hips, pulsating up and down her sides, he catches Olivia by complete surprise. Breaking her composure, her defenses shattered in a split second, she dissolves as her captor sends her into a maelstrom of ticklish agony.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she screams at the top of her lungs, a shriek dissolving into cascades of force laughter, music to the unknown figure’s ears. Frantically he tickles the entirety of her midsection, skittering his nails across the tender flesh of her belly, poking and flicking at her most vulnerable of spots. The wood of the rack creaks underneath her, revealing the intensity of her struggles as she attempts to gain but one moment of repose. But she cannot, and with every passing moment, her captor is taking inventory, pinpointing every method that drives her completely out of her mind.
“AAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! LET ME OUT!!”
“Oh there’s no escape for you,” he tenderly dictates, his face hovering a mere foot over his captive, her mouth agape in forced mirth as this hellish torment commences without an end in sight. Between the wild cackles and hapless cries of his guest he taunts her, relishing in the absolute power he wields over her body. “We just started, and you’re already a blubbering mess girlie.”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! I’LL DO ANYTHING!! JUST STOP PLEASE!!”
“You want me to stop?” he asks, pausing for a well-earned moment from his captive’s perspective. Olivia is a wreck, the sweat from her brow matting her luscious hair against her face. Her tears, collecting in pools underneath her, do nothing but remind her of what hell she is trapped in. Her captor, again rolling up the end of her shirt, stops just below the line of her bra, leaving the entirety of her midsection open to his assault.
“I’m sure that break was long enough don’t you agree?” he asks, placing his fingers just above her tender rib cage. Just as she is about to answer, sputtering a line of pleas in search for her captor’s buried humanity, he begins again.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!”
He begins tickling in earnest, his fingers performing acrobatics over every inch of her tender flesh as she descends deeper into madness. Nothing escapes her heightened sense of touch: the way he digs his index finger into her belly button, swirling and pulsating as though he’s searching for lost treasure, makes her mind go numb in an instant. Or, the way he grazes over her entire belly, holding her on edge with anticipation, a careful predator searching for the right spot to strike, is without question a ploy of psychological torture.
“ANYTHING BUT THE BELLY!!”
But, above all else, it is that one spot, that one slab of flesh right underneath her belly button, that makes her go completely out of her mind, and he knows it. He teases her with it, grazing over it as though he’s forgotten, only to attack, massaging his fingers in between the cracks and crevices of her ab muscles. Olivia’s eyes turn to saucers through sheer ticklish terror in response, her silent screams unable to vocalize such maddening torment.
There is no fiber of her being that gets to escape this torment, from the synapses in her brain over-saturated by sensory stimuli, to the very tips of her French tipped toes, curling and clenching as her body is laid waste upon, every part of her body is immersed in the tickling no matter where it may lay.
Her hands, when they aren’t tinted white clenched in fists of helpless wrath, are frantically grasping at air, a futile attempt at relieving just one moment of her torment. The heels of her delicate size six soles hammer against the hardwood rack, what little motion she has left using it to express her utter frustration. At any moment she will buck like a bronco, her buttocks smacking against the hardwood, the last ounce of energy she has attempting to free herself to no avail. But it is no use, her captor’s surgical precision too much for the poor creature, ticking her until she is far beyond broken and then some. She cannot turn away, she cannot bite or snap, her captor reveling in her myriad of facial expressions cycling through endlessly.
She can only suffer, endlessly.
“GO SOMEWHERE ELSE ALREADY!! WAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” How pitifully helpless she must feel, begging him to substitute another ungodly spot for her midsection, hoping with all her might it doesn’t turn out as ticklish as it has.
“If you insist,” he casually mutters, ceasing his relentless tickling just one more time. A swift gasp of air enters her lungs, followed by an abrupt cough as she regains what is left of her shattered composure. Surely there’s nothing left in her to give, no ounce of energy to syphon out of her across what has seemed to be hours of relentless tickling.
“Let’s get you more comfortable,” he says, making his way out of her limited view. Not a moment later he returns, nestled between his fingers are a set of large fabric scissors. The sound of the sharpened metal scraping against itself makes her dissolve, her breathless pleas going unanswered as he slowly strips her of her protective clothing. Slicing through the thick denim of her jeans, carefully weaving around her inescapable bonds, he disposes of her favorite jeans with ease. Sheering into her blouse, stripping her of the very last vestige of protection she may have had left in this world, he tosses the scraps of her clothing off to her side, merely her bra and panties left for the sake of modesty. Her deepest darkest fears are coming true right before her eyes: he is going to strip her naked, taking advantage of her helpless state, and…
“I have no intention of having sex with you dirty girl,” he says, staring deep into her soul as tears run freely down her blushed cheeks. Between her terror and loathing, a sense of shock envelops her, utterly at the mercy of someone who has all the power in the world over her young body.
“No, no intention. Instead, I’m going to tickle you until you can’t take it anymore, and then I’m going to tickle you more, until you’re broken, until there’s nothing left within your delicate little body, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Her heart is now skipping over itself, each and every breath growing faster in attempt to save some oxygen for her next trial by tickles. She knew she was ticklish, unbearably so, something that had cursed her since its first discovery. But she couldn’t have possibly imagined the intensity, the pure ticklishness she thought she left behind as a girl, only to be used against her by an unknown assailant as this.
“And if you think you’ve been to hell and back, think again little girl.”
Suddenly, he lunges into her underarms: skittering his nails across her tender underarms, pressing deep into her flesh, turning her hapless screams into silent breathy laughter yet again. Her energies renewed, she begins frantically begging for release, swaying back and forth between hellish turmoil and that slight glimmer of hope slowly fading by the wayside.
“Just wait until I get you locked in the x-frame Livvie,” he taunts, his captive barely able to hear him underneath her wails for mercy. “I’ll get to tickle these little armpits for hours at a time, while you bounce up and down on the tips of your toes, unable to escape.”
As though it couldn’t get any worse, he reveals in his right hand a single hairbrush, heading straight for her vulnerable bare feet. Prying her toes back, leaving her soles taut, he digs straight into them, pressing every bristle across her plump heels. “Have you ever been locked in a set of stocks? Your ankles bound, having no choice but to watch your feet being tickled right before your very eyes? I won’t even have to hold your toes back, once each one is tied back to the board.”
“I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!” she cries, one final desperate attempt at securing her freedom. “MERCYYYYYYYYYY!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAAAAAAA!!”
It is only three hours later, after one hellish implement after another, she is finally able to rest. Not one ounce of energy left in her, she lies motionless but the heaving of her chest after such strain on her. Gazing over her helpless body, he takes inventory: the red tint of her feet and underarms, but especially that of her entire midsection, revealing a vigorous dose of tickle torture. As far as she knows, this is her life now, her mind consumed with echoes of her plight as we speak. Residual giggles escape her, remnants of her torture echoing into the present. She has been broken, nothing but a plaything to him the moment she fell into his grasp.
“I must say Miss Holt, you have been a most uncooperative guest,” he states, an air of indifference in his voice. Exiting from her view, he returns, a familiar scent entering her nostrils.
Approaching her is the same smell, from the same rag, that brought her here in the first place. Unable to resist, too exhausted to argue, she can only whimper as the rag is slowly placed over her face.
“It’s time we get serious about that, don’t you agree?” is the last thing she hears before falling unconscious, an endless cycle of tickle torture her only future…
Her scream of terror echoes off these concrete walls, reverberating through this desolate chamber, ultimately falling on deaf ears. Olivia Holt, America’s sweetheart gracing television screens across the country, has been plucked from the prime of her life into this hellish ordeal. She couldn’t tell you where she is, or how she got here, isolated from all she held familiar. All she can remember is a thick white rag being thrust over her face, a pungent odor swiftly filling her nostrils. Legs flailing, screaming at the top of her lungs, she struggled against the unknown assailant. Yet despite such valiant efforts, arms pinned, voice muffled, she slowly faded out of consciousness. Now she is here, trapped underground, beneath a secluded cabin hidden deep in the woods, a lonesome basement, without even the roots of the trees to pity her.
Thick leather cuffs bind her wrist and ankle, stretched taut across a wooden rack without an inch of slack left for her. As if it would matter: leather belts, extending from underneath the wooden platform at every conceivable angle, bind her at the elbows and knees, leaving no room form auxiliary movement whatsoever. If that weren’t enough, a thick Velcro strap, the inside lined with soft furry padding, is wrapped tightly around her forehead, pinning her head against the board. She can’t move or see, and soon, she won’t even be able to hope.
Such a fate, stripped of all awareness of her surroundings, forced to peer upward at the dim fluorescent lights above would seem maddening as it is. However, had she the capacity to take even one glance around the room, it may have just thrown her straight over the edge: horrendous contraptions, occupying this space wall-to-wall, the purpose of which she couldn’t possibly imagine. Medieval stocks, wooden pillory, dentist chairs, x-frames, bondage beds, and racks upon racks of chains, cuffs, and assorted accessories keep her company, all to host an eternity of ruthless tickle torture beyond compare.
“PLEASE!! ANYBODY!!” Her strained voice slowly begins to betray her desperation, a slight crack on its tail end signifying the encroaching feeling of hopelessness she has been fighting up until now. Poor thing, what little she knows, and what soon she is to learn.
“CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?!”
“Nobody can hear you my sweet.” A voice, cold and belittling, echoes unexpectedly through the room. The shock of its sudden presence thrusts a knot is thrust up into Olivia’s throat, unable to make one peep as the sound of impinging footsteps make her heart sink down to her stomach. A figure enters from the shadows, the young starlet unable to get but a mere glimpse at his silhouette as he continues to speak. “Nobody can hear you at all.”
“Please!” she begins to beg, meek and helpless, tears welling up behind her doughy brown eyes, the first of many to come. “What do you want with me?”
“Discovery my dear,” he says, feigning tenderness as he softly strokes her cheek with the back of his left hand. Her eyes lock on to his, the only feature of his face left naked by his woolen black mask to match his clothing. “You see, I am a very curious person, always open to learning new things. I bet you’re the same way, am I right?”
His eyes break from hers, diverting down to the middle of the table. Slowly he moves away, toward her vulnerable midsection, Olivia straining to watch his movement despite being unable to move an inch from her bondage. Taking the bottom of her knitted blue shirt in his hands, he begins ever so slowly rolling it up, gently pushing and pulling just until the very bottom of her belly button is exposed, two inches of flesh protruding from atop her stained blue jeans.
“That very moment our eyes met, I just knew there was something special about you,” he states, running the tip of his left index finger just above the top of Olivia’s jeans. A sudden gasp escapes her, the realization of his true intent coming into full view. “Something told me I just had to get to know you a little bit better.”
“And I know just how to do it.”
Ever so slowly, he begins tracing his fingers over her mid drift, drawing figure eights as he goes, catching the indentation of her belly button ever so often. Such sensations grow, from utter annoyance to maddeningly ticklish in a near instant. He knows her weakness, buried deep in the recesses of her childhood brought front and center for his indulgence. She is ticklish, but as far as Olivia is concerned, if it’s a reaction he wants, then he is not going to get it.
“PPPPPPPPPPPFHFHFHFFHF!!” she stifles her giggles, lips pursed with unimaginable pressure, trying with all her might to repress the first of many to satisfy her captor’s pleasure. Puffing out her cheeks, the residue of quashed laughter collecting itself in her mouth, she has no choice but to merely resist his tender touch for as long as possible.
If I just hold on for as long as I can, she considers, the pressure behind her clenched teeth slowly building, then he’ll think I’m not ticklish and get bored, and then he’ll have to let me go!
Wishful thinking from a foolish girl.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” he asks, the speed of his fingers slowly gaining, now tracing across the entire span of her exposed midsection. Again, pausing for a moment, he begins rolling up her shirt inch by inch, now revealing the entirety of her belly, stopping just below her first rib.
“Actually, there’s something I forgot to ask you before we began that I hope you can answer for me…”
Are you ticklish?”
Without warning, he strikes: digging his thumbs into her hips, pulsating up and down her sides, he catches Olivia by complete surprise. Breaking her composure, her defenses shattered in a split second, she dissolves as her captor sends her into a maelstrom of ticklish agony.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she screams at the top of her lungs, a shriek dissolving into cascades of force laughter, music to the unknown figure’s ears. Frantically he tickles the entirety of her midsection, skittering his nails across the tender flesh of her belly, poking and flicking at her most vulnerable of spots. The wood of the rack creaks underneath her, revealing the intensity of her struggles as she attempts to gain but one moment of repose. But she cannot, and with every passing moment, her captor is taking inventory, pinpointing every method that drives her completely out of her mind.
“AAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! LET ME OUT!!”
“Oh there’s no escape for you,” he tenderly dictates, his face hovering a mere foot over his captive, her mouth agape in forced mirth as this hellish torment commences without an end in sight. Between the wild cackles and hapless cries of his guest he taunts her, relishing in the absolute power he wields over her body. “We just started, and you’re already a blubbering mess girlie.”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! I’LL DO ANYTHING!! JUST STOP PLEASE!!”
“You want me to stop?” he asks, pausing for a well-earned moment from his captive’s perspective. Olivia is a wreck, the sweat from her brow matting her luscious hair against her face. Her tears, collecting in pools underneath her, do nothing but remind her of what hell she is trapped in. Her captor, again rolling up the end of her shirt, stops just below the line of her bra, leaving the entirety of her midsection open to his assault.
“I’m sure that break was long enough don’t you agree?” he asks, placing his fingers just above her tender rib cage. Just as she is about to answer, sputtering a line of pleas in search for her captor’s buried humanity, he begins again.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!”
He begins tickling in earnest, his fingers performing acrobatics over every inch of her tender flesh as she descends deeper into madness. Nothing escapes her heightened sense of touch: the way he digs his index finger into her belly button, swirling and pulsating as though he’s searching for lost treasure, makes her mind go numb in an instant. Or, the way he grazes over her entire belly, holding her on edge with anticipation, a careful predator searching for the right spot to strike, is without question a ploy of psychological torture.
“ANYTHING BUT THE BELLY!!”
But, above all else, it is that one spot, that one slab of flesh right underneath her belly button, that makes her go completely out of her mind, and he knows it. He teases her with it, grazing over it as though he’s forgotten, only to attack, massaging his fingers in between the cracks and crevices of her ab muscles. Olivia’s eyes turn to saucers through sheer ticklish terror in response, her silent screams unable to vocalize such maddening torment.
There is no fiber of her being that gets to escape this torment, from the synapses in her brain over-saturated by sensory stimuli, to the very tips of her French tipped toes, curling and clenching as her body is laid waste upon, every part of her body is immersed in the tickling no matter where it may lay.
Her hands, when they aren’t tinted white clenched in fists of helpless wrath, are frantically grasping at air, a futile attempt at relieving just one moment of her torment. The heels of her delicate size six soles hammer against the hardwood rack, what little motion she has left using it to express her utter frustration. At any moment she will buck like a bronco, her buttocks smacking against the hardwood, the last ounce of energy she has attempting to free herself to no avail. But it is no use, her captor’s surgical precision too much for the poor creature, ticking her until she is far beyond broken and then some. She cannot turn away, she cannot bite or snap, her captor reveling in her myriad of facial expressions cycling through endlessly.
She can only suffer, endlessly.
“GO SOMEWHERE ELSE ALREADY!! WAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” How pitifully helpless she must feel, begging him to substitute another ungodly spot for her midsection, hoping with all her might it doesn’t turn out as ticklish as it has.
“If you insist,” he casually mutters, ceasing his relentless tickling just one more time. A swift gasp of air enters her lungs, followed by an abrupt cough as she regains what is left of her shattered composure. Surely there’s nothing left in her to give, no ounce of energy to syphon out of her across what has seemed to be hours of relentless tickling.
“Let’s get you more comfortable,” he says, making his way out of her limited view. Not a moment later he returns, nestled between his fingers are a set of large fabric scissors. The sound of the sharpened metal scraping against itself makes her dissolve, her breathless pleas going unanswered as he slowly strips her of her protective clothing. Slicing through the thick denim of her jeans, carefully weaving around her inescapable bonds, he disposes of her favorite jeans with ease. Sheering into her blouse, stripping her of the very last vestige of protection she may have had left in this world, he tosses the scraps of her clothing off to her side, merely her bra and panties left for the sake of modesty. Her deepest darkest fears are coming true right before her eyes: he is going to strip her naked, taking advantage of her helpless state, and…
“I have no intention of having sex with you dirty girl,” he says, staring deep into her soul as tears run freely down her blushed cheeks. Between her terror and loathing, a sense of shock envelops her, utterly at the mercy of someone who has all the power in the world over her young body.
“No, no intention. Instead, I’m going to tickle you until you can’t take it anymore, and then I’m going to tickle you more, until you’re broken, until there’s nothing left within your delicate little body, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Her heart is now skipping over itself, each and every breath growing faster in attempt to save some oxygen for her next trial by tickles. She knew she was ticklish, unbearably so, something that had cursed her since its first discovery. But she couldn’t have possibly imagined the intensity, the pure ticklishness she thought she left behind as a girl, only to be used against her by an unknown assailant as this.
“And if you think you’ve been to hell and back, think again little girl.”
Suddenly, he lunges into her underarms: skittering his nails across her tender underarms, pressing deep into her flesh, turning her hapless screams into silent breathy laughter yet again. Her energies renewed, she begins frantically begging for release, swaying back and forth between hellish turmoil and that slight glimmer of hope slowly fading by the wayside.
“Just wait until I get you locked in the x-frame Livvie,” he taunts, his captive barely able to hear him underneath her wails for mercy. “I’ll get to tickle these little armpits for hours at a time, while you bounce up and down on the tips of your toes, unable to escape.”
As though it couldn’t get any worse, he reveals in his right hand a single hairbrush, heading straight for her vulnerable bare feet. Prying her toes back, leaving her soles taut, he digs straight into them, pressing every bristle across her plump heels. “Have you ever been locked in a set of stocks? Your ankles bound, having no choice but to watch your feet being tickled right before your very eyes? I won’t even have to hold your toes back, once each one is tied back to the board.”
“I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!” she cries, one final desperate attempt at securing her freedom. “MERCYYYYYYYYYY!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAAAAAAA!!”
It is only three hours later, after one hellish implement after another, she is finally able to rest. Not one ounce of energy left in her, she lies motionless but the heaving of her chest after such strain on her. Gazing over her helpless body, he takes inventory: the red tint of her feet and underarms, but especially that of her entire midsection, revealing a vigorous dose of tickle torture. As far as she knows, this is her life now, her mind consumed with echoes of her plight as we speak. Residual giggles escape her, remnants of her torture echoing into the present. She has been broken, nothing but a plaything to him the moment she fell into his grasp.
“I must say Miss Holt, you have been a most uncooperative guest,” he states, an air of indifference in his voice. Exiting from her view, he returns, a familiar scent entering her nostrils.
Approaching her is the same smell, from the same rag, that brought her here in the first place. Unable to resist, too exhausted to argue, she can only whimper as the rag is slowly placed over her face.
“It’s time we get serious about that, don’t you agree?” is the last thing she hears before falling unconscious, an endless cycle of tickle torture her only future…
