ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
A heavy sigh falls from his lips as he shoves open his bedroom door, making a beeline for his bed after a long nine-hour shift at the movie theater. Stripping off his red velvet vest, tossing it haphazardly atop the growing pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room, he collapses face first into his pillow, figuring he has a full fifteen minutes to himself before logging onto his online world history course for his midterm. Having to work a full-time job was hard enough for 19-year-old Daniel Montoya, forced to support himself financially as a newly made independent young adult. However, even with his parents paying for him to take classes at the local community college, Daniel couldn’t help but find himself falling behind one way or another, and if by chance he was both keeping up with grades as well as paying his rent on time, then his social life was surely to suffer. In fact, the term “girlfriend” hasn’t entered his vocabulary since before he was legally able to hold down full-time employment in the first place, and still being the horny teenager he finds himself to be, he inevitably turns to the one thing that has always been there for him through thick and thin: the internet. Blindly reaching into his backpack laid atop his desk, he removes his laptop, placing it atop the flat surface, still laying face-first into his pillow. Opening the screen, he is confronted with two profile icons, clicking on the one titled “School” whose purpose is for anything but.
You see, it would be no surprise to anyone to find out Daniel was no angel regarding his internet activity. However, what would surprise, as well as most likely disturb, even his closest relatives is what you could describe as a teeny tiny tickling fetish, and by that, I mean an all-consuming obsession with everything related to the topic. To judge the scope of his fixation, one would only have to look at but an hour of browsing history, as lining his browser at this very moment was a minimum of fifty active tabs, each a pipeline into yet another account devoted to all that is tickling. As much as he was focused on indulging in his desires, he was equally paranoid of being ousted through the same means. Be it the fear of having his most recent tab spring forth atop a frozen screen right in the middle of class, or unwittingly sharing a tickling picture to his friends and family on his personal account, Daniel chooses instead to keep all of his “special interests” locked away in a secluded location on his computer, one which even his little sister couldn’t inadvertently open through her own curiosity.
Scouring through the dozens of pages lining the top of his screen, Daniel soon makes his way unto the group page of a forum website he had been perusing these last six months. Titled “Vintage Laughter,” the group consists primarily of its members sharing images and clips from now-defunct tickling websites. Though most participated in the exchange to revel in what they felt as the heyday of tickling content, Daniel was only interested in making sure whatever he found would stay there for good, a higher chance of that happening if its original owner was no longer in business. However, upon glancing up at the top right corner, he catches sight of an icon indicating a new message in his inbox, something that was a rarity for him despite his frequent activity there. Clicking on the new message, he finds its contents to be nothing more than a link to an off-site location, a ploy which Daniel has known to never trust, knowing that there may be any number of viruses waiting for him on the other side. However, an accidental slip of the hand has him inadvertently clicking on the link, bringing him to a live feed video before he has even chance to spam the reverse arrow key. Gazing upon the video, consisting of a large red velvet curtain very similar to those at the theater, Daniel is certain he is risking his only method of accessing his course just by being there. However, just as he is about to close the page, a voice suddenly interrupts him:
“Greetings and salutations, my friends!” Its source coming from offscreen, Daniel is unaware of its possible identity despite having a fairly wide knowledge of the prominent producers online. “I’m so glad that you have decided to join us for what will surely be the greatest moment in the history of the internet!” For anything else, this would have been overkill, yet for what was probably a scam to begin with, it certainly wasn’t going to hold Daniel’s attention any longer.
“But before we begin, you must ask yourselves this one question: what if your favorite tickling model never went away?” the voice asks, right before Daniel fully closes his computer, pushing it back open in curious fashion. “What if they were only waiting for the chance to return to delight us once again?” Obviously, this man is playing off the desires of many like himself, the roster of tickling models Daniel would like to see return for one more video seemingly endless, with even his favorite model Sadie Jinx announcing her retirement just one week prior. Given that they are on the vintage tickling group, that chance becomes astronomically smaller with each passing year. However, he has nothing better to do for thirteen more minutes, so lifting himself up from his bed, Daniel seats himself in his desk chair, resolved to see this video through until he must log on for class.
“Well, look no further, for behind this curtain lies one of the greatest tickling models to ever grace the small screen” he says, as Daniel Montoya watches the curtain slowly pull back. The moment the curtain opens in full, a spotlight illuminates what is surely a sight for sore eyes: by the look of her figure, it appears to be a woman, her identity hidden by a thick burlap sack placed over her head. She is seated in a large wrought iron chair, bound with zip ties at every joint across her arms and legs, with a belt wrapped around her midsection. Her muscles bulging, with her knuckles turning pale white, she is obviously struggling to free herself, with Daniel just barely able to make out exasperated grunts coming from underneath the sack. Even if this was all staged, her spot-on acting alone was worth the risk of another virus, not knowing if the video would be later accessible to download.
“Just who could be underneath this sack, you may ask?” the voice inquires, just as a figure wanders onscreen, its stubby figure clad in all black with a ski mask over his face. “Why none other but the illustrious…Sandra Blake!” Reaching over above the bound woman, he tears the sack off her head, revealing the face of Demi Lee Mathers. Having been in Marvin’s captivity for at least three weeks now, this new ploy of her husband’s boss surely was going to be the last straw for her. The hell that she has been put through by his doing is unspeakable, with every waking hour consumed by an unyielding onslaught of tickle torture across the entirety of her body. Bound in the myriad of contraptions at his disposal, she has been driven to her absolute limits time and time again, yet not once did she give in to his demands to shoot another tickling video by her own free will. Such was a resilience she thought could never be broken by the pathetic little man who thinks he can control her. But now it seems, Marvin has chosen to employ a new tactic to achieve that which he wants the most.
She glares at her captor, hair disheveled, face turned red in anger being in such a compromising position. A bright red cleave gag wadded in between her teeth, she can only emanate muffled grunts of indignation as she struggles valiantly against her restraints, yet not one of them will loosen for her. Having her now in full view, Daniel is absolutely stunned: staring blankly into his computer screen, he is trying in vain to wrap his mind around that which has been revealed to him. Much did he know of Sandra Blake, the model who was rumored to have only done one full video that would never see the light of day. The elusive nature of the video was what intrigued him the most, having only caught glimpse of it through the grainy screen captures that littered the web. He was even able to find the first ten minutes of the video on a Russian website a few years back, but lost it when he found the file to be corrupted and unviewable. However, even with what little information he had, the similarities were there: her hair and skin tone were all the same, as well as her general body type, and having been clad in the same tank top and workout shorts that she was in fifteen years ago, Daniel could only conclude that this was the real deal...
…and his pants were dropping this very moment.
“Yes it is true: the one and only Sandra Blake!” the man repeats, making her huff in frustration, knowing for sure anyone watching this could recognize that she has obviously been kidnapped and is being held against her will, making her think that Marvin is just pretending to address a live audience in front of the camera. “Now I know, for some of our viewers, this is a sore spot for them, having never seen her tickling video in the first place, being robbed of the opportunity. Well, our delightful Sandra here knows this, and though she cannot go back in time, she has graciously agreed to return to us for the sake of treating her fans to the tickling we know she deserves! But, she’s going to need your help.” Suddenly, thrust across Daniel’s screen is a box, its contents a poll consisting of the myriad of torments that are available to her.
“The choice is yours, my viewers: vote now to decide her fate!” Glancing over the small collection of torments, Daniel spots an open text box at the bottom, one in which to input his own custom request, that which he capitalizes on with minimal success. It is no easy feat, trying to type out the totality of his fantasy one-handed, his gyration just feet away making it come out to be a typo-riddled mess of a description. If only they knew that the results were being displayed on a large television screen, that which was out of his view but fully in Demi’s. Watching the results light up like a Christmas tree right in front of her eyes, little could Demi stomach that even one person was out there watching her like this without already being on the phone with the cops. Just how deranged someone could be to believe she would take any part consensually in this ploy was out of the question, even when a message popped up denoting their 100th visitor to the stream. However, by the time Demi has stopped questioning the unquestionable, a heaping spoonful of reality is fed to her.
“We have a winner!” Marvin exclaims, making Demi jump in surprise, having been ambushed by this decision far too soon. “And the winner is: the stocks!” Suddenly, the screen goes black, with merely the message “we will be back momentarily” typed across the screen. Having been stopped mid-pump, Daniel is absolutely livid: he hasn’t time to start another video, given his class begins in three minutes, but with the prospect of being treated to the most tantalizing tickling shoot of his life, the temptation to keep online is just too great to ignore.
Just what is a man to do?
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She peels her eyes open, having been knocked unconscious by Marvin’s special chloroform mixture the moment the cameras went dark. Unaware that she has been out for a mere hour, the initial grogginess from the compound quickly wears off the moment she recognizes her predicament this time. She is seated in a large leather chair, with two sets of belts forming X’s around her chest and legs, keeping her pinned to its plush surface. Her wrists encased in thick padded cuffs bolted down on either side of her, she can only take solace in the fact that her underarms won’t be getting any attention as a result. Peering forward, she catches sight of her ankles, inserted through a pair of holes in a device she has come to know and despise as the stocks. She has become used to this infernal contraption of medieval origins, hiding most of what befalls her helplessly immobilized feet much to both her dismay as well as her relief. However, what is new to her is that which is placed atop the device: a small panel, one with ten small loops of string protruding from its surface. She can feel each and every one of her toes tied back to the panel behind them, stretching her soles taut and fully accessible as a result. Given the proclivity Marvin has in letting her struggle as much as possible, this was sure to become an unwelcomed change. Suddenly, she hears the sound of rusty wheels churning, looking over to find a stainless-steel cart being slowly wheeled over to her, its top shrouded in a white sheet, and its operator none other than Marvin himself, still cloaked in his black attire and ski mask.
“Are you ready for your treatment, Miss Blake?” he tenderly asks her, as though he wasn’t about to give her the horrid onslaught of tortures he has been for these past three weeks.
“Get the fuck away from me, Marvin!” she commands of her captor, taking it upon herself to reveal his identity for whomever might be listening in with one ounce of humanity left within them. “That’s right, I said it: Marvin P. Eggert, the man who KIDNAPPED me, and has held me captive in his hilltop mansion for the past three weeks, torturing a helpless woman, MARRIED at that, like the spineless little jellyfish he is. Look it up on Google Maps: the address is…”
“Oh, I wouldn’t wait for the helicopters to be flying in anytime soon dear,” Marvin patronizingly responds, stopping the cart just feet away from her position. “You must understand: your most attentive audience has been waiting fifteen years for this moment. Just imagine it: fifteen whole years to watch Sandra Blake get the tickling she deserves, that they deserve. Nothing is going to spoil this moment for them, especially not you. Now, shall we begin?” Grasping the top of the sheet, he pulls it off the cart, revealing a myriad of tools at his disposal the likes of which Demi has grudgingly become very familiar with: brushes, scrapers, pipe cleaners, pinwheels, each one more devious than the last. She bares her teeth, bulging her prominent muscles for all to see, rocking the chair in desperate attempt at avoiding what she knows to be coming, but knowing for sure she hasn’t the slightest chance of escape. Just how long she is to withstand this she hasn’t the slightest clue, but it won’t be for long if she has anything to say about it.
“GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!” she yells at the tops of her lungs, with Marvin unphased as he grasps the stiff yellow feather to begin, twirling it in between his fingers right in the middle of Demi’s view.
“Can’t hear you dear: earplugs, you know?” he says, ignoring her cries before plunging the feather atop her right sole. Such is merely an annoyance, with Demi pursing her lips, her nostrils flaring in a mixture of anger and irritation. What annoys her most is merely being forced to watch the dastardly thing do its work, knowing that is just the way Marvin prefers it. However, she is thrown swiftly into a tailspin the moment he flips it around, implement the sharpened quill atop her left sole.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” she grunts, already the intensity of her torments going up another level with merely the same implement. Clenching her teeth, she tries desperately to fight it off, the delicate instrument only effective with her feet completely immobilized in this manner. Back and forth, Marvin scrapes the device across her feet, pinpointing the spots he has found most effective in dismantling her resistance after so long. Watching the sweat accumulate atop her brow, he generously takes the time to get her input regarding the situation.
“I hope I’m not inconveniencing you in any way, my darling!” he states, watching her glare at him once more as though looks could kill. “Excellent! Just checking in before I do this.” Grasping a pair of pinwheels from the truck, Marvin swiftly places them atop her quivering soles, watching them prick over her sensitized flesh with ease.
“NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOOOO!!” she shrieks forth, shaking her head side to side, trying wake herself from this perpetual nightmare. The horrid feeling of a dozen needles into her soles is more pain than tickling, blurring the two sensations as her foot bottoms are made quick work of. However, such was merely part of the process Marvin has ascertained over the several hours with her feet: sensitizing them with the pinwheels only made them more susceptible to the dastardliest of tools at his disposal. By the time he is finished, with the entire span of her feet turned a hue of red, he determines it is just about time for her favorite implement: the brush.
“GET THAT FUCKING THING AWAY FROM ME!!” she screams at him, watching the bane of her existence be pressed deep into the heel of her left foot, scraping its way into her padded flesh with ease. “WWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” Thrusting her head backwards, she lets out a hearty wail, now fully immersed in the torments she could just barely resist up until now. Having had her defenses be dismantled piece by agonizing piece, Demi is thrust into the next phase of Marvin’s tactics, driven wild in forced mirth. Such is formulaic, as her entire body could be manipulated by his careful hand, trained to act in a manner only pleasing to him as well as her adoring fans on the other side of the internet.
Speaking of her fans, even with the cameras rolling, and the entirety of her ordeal being projected on the flat screen just ten feet in front of her, she had all but forgotten up until now that there was a small army of spectators indulging themselves in her ordeal. Yes, she knows exactly what they are doing, those perverts getting their rocks off on a dignified woman as herself being put through such harrowing circumstances. How she was forced to listen in as Marvin would pleasure himself just after tickling her for hours on end every night, even relieving himself upon her bare soles as though they were a dirty sock at the bottom of the hamper. No, she knows just what she is dealing with here: a bunch of lowlifes, taking part in her suffering just by logging on and viewing it themselves. She is a woman on the edge, and she’s not going to take it anymore.
“FUUUUUHUHUHUHUCK ALL OF YOUHUHUHUHUHUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!” she belts forth, glaring straight into the camera directed solely at her face, capturing every contorted expression she is forced to manifest. “HEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEEEEEE!!” To many, it may seem that her cry for help was sign that she was finally succumbing to her torments. However, such was merely a strategic ploy meant to pull at their heart strings, for if even one person watching her felt conflicted with their decision, then maybe they would be swayed to take action.
Or, it could backfire.
“That’s a great idea!” Marvin exclaims, rising from his perch, leaving Demi breathless atop the chair as he goes to retrieve his newly acquired inventions. “I’m so glad you agree Miss Blake: let’s let them help!” Returning from the other room, Marvin holds in both hands a pair of special devices, shaped in the form of sandals with straps around each side. However, as Demi looks closer, she finds the interior of the devices lined with countless circular brushes, that which makes her try once again to wriggle herself out of her bonds to no avail. Having them forcibly strapped to each of her feet, she can feel the firm bristles pressed up against near every inch of their surface, as well as the color being syphoned from her face.
“Lining the insides of these specially-designed devices are three dozen spinning brushes, each pressed up against Miss Blake’s sumptuous feet,” Marvin details, holding up a prototype to the camera in front of them. “Through an app on my phone, I can control the duration and intensity of any of these brushes at will. By the push of a button, I can activate one, two, three, as many as I like, manually changing the speed with the level adjustor provided. But, why should one person have all the fun, when we all can join in? I have just sent a link to three dozen randomly chosen viewers where, upon downloading the program, you will gain access to one of these brushes, putting the power in your hands. Thank you, Miss Blake, for suggesting such a delightfully creative solution! I will leave you along with your adoring fans and return in…say, eight hours, maybe?” Gazing as though she were looking straight into the void, Demi takes one last opportunity to tell her “fanbase” exactly what she thinks about them.
“YOU’RE ALL GOING TO FUCKING PRISON!!” she screeches at the screen, watching it light up with confirmatory messages the moment the link is downloaded. “I’LL TRACK ALL OF YOU DOWN ONE BY ONE, AND PUT YOU THERE MYSELF!! YOU HEAR ME?!?!” Gazing to her left, she sees another screen light up, this time showing the levels for each of the individual brushes, with a piece of Demi’s soul dissipating into thin air the moment she watches them increase to maximum intensity.
“AAAAAAAAHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” she lets out a breathless wail, feeling half of the spinning brushes start up instantly, followed by the other half begin by a minute later. Screeching and cursing at the nameless participants most likely a world away, poor Demi is finally confronted with how utterly hopeless her situation is, left up to the devices of those who would blindly watch a woman like herself being tortured in such a manner, she who had moved on with her life from her tickling shoot so many years ago, just to fulfill one little fantasy of theirs. It must have been no accident that of all the video shoots she would do, it would be tickling she felt to be the most torturous, now being proven right.
So, her torments would continue through the night, given not one moment of rest, bound helpless in the same position as her feet are toyed with endlessly. Glancing at the screen from time to time, she would confirm the roughly three dozen participants having control over her torture, varying speed and intensity at whim. By around three o’clock in the morning, the bulk of the participants would log off for the night, placing her brush on an infinite loop to continue tickling her. However, there would be one participant that would continue up until dawn, when Marvin would relieve her of the dreaded devices atop her freshly exfoliated feet. Yes, one person, having control of the brush atop the fourth toe of her left foot, would commit to manually driving her out of her pretty little head all night long.
His name: Daniel Montoya.
His grade for last night’s midterm: F.
End of Chapter Two
You see, it would be no surprise to anyone to find out Daniel was no angel regarding his internet activity. However, what would surprise, as well as most likely disturb, even his closest relatives is what you could describe as a teeny tiny tickling fetish, and by that, I mean an all-consuming obsession with everything related to the topic. To judge the scope of his fixation, one would only have to look at but an hour of browsing history, as lining his browser at this very moment was a minimum of fifty active tabs, each a pipeline into yet another account devoted to all that is tickling. As much as he was focused on indulging in his desires, he was equally paranoid of being ousted through the same means. Be it the fear of having his most recent tab spring forth atop a frozen screen right in the middle of class, or unwittingly sharing a tickling picture to his friends and family on his personal account, Daniel chooses instead to keep all of his “special interests” locked away in a secluded location on his computer, one which even his little sister couldn’t inadvertently open through her own curiosity.
Scouring through the dozens of pages lining the top of his screen, Daniel soon makes his way unto the group page of a forum website he had been perusing these last six months. Titled “Vintage Laughter,” the group consists primarily of its members sharing images and clips from now-defunct tickling websites. Though most participated in the exchange to revel in what they felt as the heyday of tickling content, Daniel was only interested in making sure whatever he found would stay there for good, a higher chance of that happening if its original owner was no longer in business. However, upon glancing up at the top right corner, he catches sight of an icon indicating a new message in his inbox, something that was a rarity for him despite his frequent activity there. Clicking on the new message, he finds its contents to be nothing more than a link to an off-site location, a ploy which Daniel has known to never trust, knowing that there may be any number of viruses waiting for him on the other side. However, an accidental slip of the hand has him inadvertently clicking on the link, bringing him to a live feed video before he has even chance to spam the reverse arrow key. Gazing upon the video, consisting of a large red velvet curtain very similar to those at the theater, Daniel is certain he is risking his only method of accessing his course just by being there. However, just as he is about to close the page, a voice suddenly interrupts him:
“Greetings and salutations, my friends!” Its source coming from offscreen, Daniel is unaware of its possible identity despite having a fairly wide knowledge of the prominent producers online. “I’m so glad that you have decided to join us for what will surely be the greatest moment in the history of the internet!” For anything else, this would have been overkill, yet for what was probably a scam to begin with, it certainly wasn’t going to hold Daniel’s attention any longer.
“But before we begin, you must ask yourselves this one question: what if your favorite tickling model never went away?” the voice asks, right before Daniel fully closes his computer, pushing it back open in curious fashion. “What if they were only waiting for the chance to return to delight us once again?” Obviously, this man is playing off the desires of many like himself, the roster of tickling models Daniel would like to see return for one more video seemingly endless, with even his favorite model Sadie Jinx announcing her retirement just one week prior. Given that they are on the vintage tickling group, that chance becomes astronomically smaller with each passing year. However, he has nothing better to do for thirteen more minutes, so lifting himself up from his bed, Daniel seats himself in his desk chair, resolved to see this video through until he must log on for class.
“Well, look no further, for behind this curtain lies one of the greatest tickling models to ever grace the small screen” he says, as Daniel Montoya watches the curtain slowly pull back. The moment the curtain opens in full, a spotlight illuminates what is surely a sight for sore eyes: by the look of her figure, it appears to be a woman, her identity hidden by a thick burlap sack placed over her head. She is seated in a large wrought iron chair, bound with zip ties at every joint across her arms and legs, with a belt wrapped around her midsection. Her muscles bulging, with her knuckles turning pale white, she is obviously struggling to free herself, with Daniel just barely able to make out exasperated grunts coming from underneath the sack. Even if this was all staged, her spot-on acting alone was worth the risk of another virus, not knowing if the video would be later accessible to download.
“Just who could be underneath this sack, you may ask?” the voice inquires, just as a figure wanders onscreen, its stubby figure clad in all black with a ski mask over his face. “Why none other but the illustrious…Sandra Blake!” Reaching over above the bound woman, he tears the sack off her head, revealing the face of Demi Lee Mathers. Having been in Marvin’s captivity for at least three weeks now, this new ploy of her husband’s boss surely was going to be the last straw for her. The hell that she has been put through by his doing is unspeakable, with every waking hour consumed by an unyielding onslaught of tickle torture across the entirety of her body. Bound in the myriad of contraptions at his disposal, she has been driven to her absolute limits time and time again, yet not once did she give in to his demands to shoot another tickling video by her own free will. Such was a resilience she thought could never be broken by the pathetic little man who thinks he can control her. But now it seems, Marvin has chosen to employ a new tactic to achieve that which he wants the most.
She glares at her captor, hair disheveled, face turned red in anger being in such a compromising position. A bright red cleave gag wadded in between her teeth, she can only emanate muffled grunts of indignation as she struggles valiantly against her restraints, yet not one of them will loosen for her. Having her now in full view, Daniel is absolutely stunned: staring blankly into his computer screen, he is trying in vain to wrap his mind around that which has been revealed to him. Much did he know of Sandra Blake, the model who was rumored to have only done one full video that would never see the light of day. The elusive nature of the video was what intrigued him the most, having only caught glimpse of it through the grainy screen captures that littered the web. He was even able to find the first ten minutes of the video on a Russian website a few years back, but lost it when he found the file to be corrupted and unviewable. However, even with what little information he had, the similarities were there: her hair and skin tone were all the same, as well as her general body type, and having been clad in the same tank top and workout shorts that she was in fifteen years ago, Daniel could only conclude that this was the real deal...
…and his pants were dropping this very moment.
“Yes it is true: the one and only Sandra Blake!” the man repeats, making her huff in frustration, knowing for sure anyone watching this could recognize that she has obviously been kidnapped and is being held against her will, making her think that Marvin is just pretending to address a live audience in front of the camera. “Now I know, for some of our viewers, this is a sore spot for them, having never seen her tickling video in the first place, being robbed of the opportunity. Well, our delightful Sandra here knows this, and though she cannot go back in time, she has graciously agreed to return to us for the sake of treating her fans to the tickling we know she deserves! But, she’s going to need your help.” Suddenly, thrust across Daniel’s screen is a box, its contents a poll consisting of the myriad of torments that are available to her.
“The choice is yours, my viewers: vote now to decide her fate!” Glancing over the small collection of torments, Daniel spots an open text box at the bottom, one in which to input his own custom request, that which he capitalizes on with minimal success. It is no easy feat, trying to type out the totality of his fantasy one-handed, his gyration just feet away making it come out to be a typo-riddled mess of a description. If only they knew that the results were being displayed on a large television screen, that which was out of his view but fully in Demi’s. Watching the results light up like a Christmas tree right in front of her eyes, little could Demi stomach that even one person was out there watching her like this without already being on the phone with the cops. Just how deranged someone could be to believe she would take any part consensually in this ploy was out of the question, even when a message popped up denoting their 100th visitor to the stream. However, by the time Demi has stopped questioning the unquestionable, a heaping spoonful of reality is fed to her.
“We have a winner!” Marvin exclaims, making Demi jump in surprise, having been ambushed by this decision far too soon. “And the winner is: the stocks!” Suddenly, the screen goes black, with merely the message “we will be back momentarily” typed across the screen. Having been stopped mid-pump, Daniel is absolutely livid: he hasn’t time to start another video, given his class begins in three minutes, but with the prospect of being treated to the most tantalizing tickling shoot of his life, the temptation to keep online is just too great to ignore.
Just what is a man to do?
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She peels her eyes open, having been knocked unconscious by Marvin’s special chloroform mixture the moment the cameras went dark. Unaware that she has been out for a mere hour, the initial grogginess from the compound quickly wears off the moment she recognizes her predicament this time. She is seated in a large leather chair, with two sets of belts forming X’s around her chest and legs, keeping her pinned to its plush surface. Her wrists encased in thick padded cuffs bolted down on either side of her, she can only take solace in the fact that her underarms won’t be getting any attention as a result. Peering forward, she catches sight of her ankles, inserted through a pair of holes in a device she has come to know and despise as the stocks. She has become used to this infernal contraption of medieval origins, hiding most of what befalls her helplessly immobilized feet much to both her dismay as well as her relief. However, what is new to her is that which is placed atop the device: a small panel, one with ten small loops of string protruding from its surface. She can feel each and every one of her toes tied back to the panel behind them, stretching her soles taut and fully accessible as a result. Given the proclivity Marvin has in letting her struggle as much as possible, this was sure to become an unwelcomed change. Suddenly, she hears the sound of rusty wheels churning, looking over to find a stainless-steel cart being slowly wheeled over to her, its top shrouded in a white sheet, and its operator none other than Marvin himself, still cloaked in his black attire and ski mask.
“Are you ready for your treatment, Miss Blake?” he tenderly asks her, as though he wasn’t about to give her the horrid onslaught of tortures he has been for these past three weeks.
“Get the fuck away from me, Marvin!” she commands of her captor, taking it upon herself to reveal his identity for whomever might be listening in with one ounce of humanity left within them. “That’s right, I said it: Marvin P. Eggert, the man who KIDNAPPED me, and has held me captive in his hilltop mansion for the past three weeks, torturing a helpless woman, MARRIED at that, like the spineless little jellyfish he is. Look it up on Google Maps: the address is…”
“Oh, I wouldn’t wait for the helicopters to be flying in anytime soon dear,” Marvin patronizingly responds, stopping the cart just feet away from her position. “You must understand: your most attentive audience has been waiting fifteen years for this moment. Just imagine it: fifteen whole years to watch Sandra Blake get the tickling she deserves, that they deserve. Nothing is going to spoil this moment for them, especially not you. Now, shall we begin?” Grasping the top of the sheet, he pulls it off the cart, revealing a myriad of tools at his disposal the likes of which Demi has grudgingly become very familiar with: brushes, scrapers, pipe cleaners, pinwheels, each one more devious than the last. She bares her teeth, bulging her prominent muscles for all to see, rocking the chair in desperate attempt at avoiding what she knows to be coming, but knowing for sure she hasn’t the slightest chance of escape. Just how long she is to withstand this she hasn’t the slightest clue, but it won’t be for long if she has anything to say about it.
“GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!” she yells at the tops of her lungs, with Marvin unphased as he grasps the stiff yellow feather to begin, twirling it in between his fingers right in the middle of Demi’s view.
“Can’t hear you dear: earplugs, you know?” he says, ignoring her cries before plunging the feather atop her right sole. Such is merely an annoyance, with Demi pursing her lips, her nostrils flaring in a mixture of anger and irritation. What annoys her most is merely being forced to watch the dastardly thing do its work, knowing that is just the way Marvin prefers it. However, she is thrown swiftly into a tailspin the moment he flips it around, implement the sharpened quill atop her left sole.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” she grunts, already the intensity of her torments going up another level with merely the same implement. Clenching her teeth, she tries desperately to fight it off, the delicate instrument only effective with her feet completely immobilized in this manner. Back and forth, Marvin scrapes the device across her feet, pinpointing the spots he has found most effective in dismantling her resistance after so long. Watching the sweat accumulate atop her brow, he generously takes the time to get her input regarding the situation.
“I hope I’m not inconveniencing you in any way, my darling!” he states, watching her glare at him once more as though looks could kill. “Excellent! Just checking in before I do this.” Grasping a pair of pinwheels from the truck, Marvin swiftly places them atop her quivering soles, watching them prick over her sensitized flesh with ease.
“NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOOOO!!” she shrieks forth, shaking her head side to side, trying wake herself from this perpetual nightmare. The horrid feeling of a dozen needles into her soles is more pain than tickling, blurring the two sensations as her foot bottoms are made quick work of. However, such was merely part of the process Marvin has ascertained over the several hours with her feet: sensitizing them with the pinwheels only made them more susceptible to the dastardliest of tools at his disposal. By the time he is finished, with the entire span of her feet turned a hue of red, he determines it is just about time for her favorite implement: the brush.
“GET THAT FUCKING THING AWAY FROM ME!!” she screams at him, watching the bane of her existence be pressed deep into the heel of her left foot, scraping its way into her padded flesh with ease. “WWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” Thrusting her head backwards, she lets out a hearty wail, now fully immersed in the torments she could just barely resist up until now. Having had her defenses be dismantled piece by agonizing piece, Demi is thrust into the next phase of Marvin’s tactics, driven wild in forced mirth. Such is formulaic, as her entire body could be manipulated by his careful hand, trained to act in a manner only pleasing to him as well as her adoring fans on the other side of the internet.
Speaking of her fans, even with the cameras rolling, and the entirety of her ordeal being projected on the flat screen just ten feet in front of her, she had all but forgotten up until now that there was a small army of spectators indulging themselves in her ordeal. Yes, she knows exactly what they are doing, those perverts getting their rocks off on a dignified woman as herself being put through such harrowing circumstances. How she was forced to listen in as Marvin would pleasure himself just after tickling her for hours on end every night, even relieving himself upon her bare soles as though they were a dirty sock at the bottom of the hamper. No, she knows just what she is dealing with here: a bunch of lowlifes, taking part in her suffering just by logging on and viewing it themselves. She is a woman on the edge, and she’s not going to take it anymore.
“FUUUUUHUHUHUHUCK ALL OF YOUHUHUHUHUHUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!” she belts forth, glaring straight into the camera directed solely at her face, capturing every contorted expression she is forced to manifest. “HEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEEEEEE!!” To many, it may seem that her cry for help was sign that she was finally succumbing to her torments. However, such was merely a strategic ploy meant to pull at their heart strings, for if even one person watching her felt conflicted with their decision, then maybe they would be swayed to take action.
Or, it could backfire.
“That’s a great idea!” Marvin exclaims, rising from his perch, leaving Demi breathless atop the chair as he goes to retrieve his newly acquired inventions. “I’m so glad you agree Miss Blake: let’s let them help!” Returning from the other room, Marvin holds in both hands a pair of special devices, shaped in the form of sandals with straps around each side. However, as Demi looks closer, she finds the interior of the devices lined with countless circular brushes, that which makes her try once again to wriggle herself out of her bonds to no avail. Having them forcibly strapped to each of her feet, she can feel the firm bristles pressed up against near every inch of their surface, as well as the color being syphoned from her face.
“Lining the insides of these specially-designed devices are three dozen spinning brushes, each pressed up against Miss Blake’s sumptuous feet,” Marvin details, holding up a prototype to the camera in front of them. “Through an app on my phone, I can control the duration and intensity of any of these brushes at will. By the push of a button, I can activate one, two, three, as many as I like, manually changing the speed with the level adjustor provided. But, why should one person have all the fun, when we all can join in? I have just sent a link to three dozen randomly chosen viewers where, upon downloading the program, you will gain access to one of these brushes, putting the power in your hands. Thank you, Miss Blake, for suggesting such a delightfully creative solution! I will leave you along with your adoring fans and return in…say, eight hours, maybe?” Gazing as though she were looking straight into the void, Demi takes one last opportunity to tell her “fanbase” exactly what she thinks about them.
“YOU’RE ALL GOING TO FUCKING PRISON!!” she screeches at the screen, watching it light up with confirmatory messages the moment the link is downloaded. “I’LL TRACK ALL OF YOU DOWN ONE BY ONE, AND PUT YOU THERE MYSELF!! YOU HEAR ME?!?!” Gazing to her left, she sees another screen light up, this time showing the levels for each of the individual brushes, with a piece of Demi’s soul dissipating into thin air the moment she watches them increase to maximum intensity.
“AAAAAAAAHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” she lets out a breathless wail, feeling half of the spinning brushes start up instantly, followed by the other half begin by a minute later. Screeching and cursing at the nameless participants most likely a world away, poor Demi is finally confronted with how utterly hopeless her situation is, left up to the devices of those who would blindly watch a woman like herself being tortured in such a manner, she who had moved on with her life from her tickling shoot so many years ago, just to fulfill one little fantasy of theirs. It must have been no accident that of all the video shoots she would do, it would be tickling she felt to be the most torturous, now being proven right.
So, her torments would continue through the night, given not one moment of rest, bound helpless in the same position as her feet are toyed with endlessly. Glancing at the screen from time to time, she would confirm the roughly three dozen participants having control over her torture, varying speed and intensity at whim. By around three o’clock in the morning, the bulk of the participants would log off for the night, placing her brush on an infinite loop to continue tickling her. However, there would be one participant that would continue up until dawn, when Marvin would relieve her of the dreaded devices atop her freshly exfoliated feet. Yes, one person, having control of the brush atop the fourth toe of her left foot, would commit to manually driving her out of her pretty little head all night long.
His name: Daniel Montoya.
His grade for last night’s midterm: F.
End of Chapter Two
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