ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
Prologue
The world held its breath that fateful day when, on the morning of April 23, 2019, American soccer star Alex Morgan was reported missing from her vacation villa off the western coast of Italy, vanishing in the dead of night without a trace. No expense was spared by the Italian government in tracking her whereabouts, dispatching a small army to uncover every scrap of evidence left at the scene. Bit by bit they pieced together the chain of events, from the sedative used to incapacitate her husband, to her scratch marks adorning the hallway walls, right down to the tire tracks left in the dirt outside the villa front gate. Each discovery provided yet another glimmer of hope that they may lead to her rescue but, by the end of a month-long investigation, all their efforts brought them nowhere...
...that was, until, several months after her disappearance, an anonymous post in an online chatroom led to a break in the case. Beginning with a single thread, a clandestine user began posting details of a young woman in his possession matching the description of the victim. As time progressed, details soon became pictures, pictures became clips, and clips became videos, finally revealing a distraught young woman clearly identifiable as the missing athlete. Three hours after the final post, with law enforcement having traced the location of the user, a raid was ordered by national police on the estate of one Bartholomew V. Rigsby, affluent heir to the digital security fortune. By the time the dust had settled, the victim had been relinquished from her confinement, and the suspect was apprehended without incident.
It is now two months later, the media frenzy incited by her rescue turning its attention to the perpetrator himself and his ensuing day in court. Though the crime had been committed on Italian soil, it was negotiated by the consulate that the case be tried in the United States, an outcome assured by Mr. Rigsby's revealed manipulation of Italian law enforcement to procure the athlete in the first place. With mounds of evidence, primarily of his own creation, stacked against him, the defendant had no choice but to plead no contest to the charges, those that would surely have sent him to prison for the remainder of his life. However, adding insult to injury, it was discovered that Mr. Rigsby's legal team is preparing an "affluenza" defense for their client, arguing that his endless wealth was the only thing giving him the capacity to commit such a heinous act, and that now, with his fortune having been stripped from him, he is incapable of performing such offense again, making him a prime candidate for early release.
Working as a paralegal for the district attorney prosecuting the case, you have been assigned the task of organizing evidence in a manner that concludes the defendant is a persistent threat to society, and that, given the opportunity, he would commit the same crime again without hesitation. Amidst the piles of materials gathered from his estate as evidence, you have discovered a small journal, its cover decorated with a large plume atop a photograph of the victim herself. Within its pages, indisputably filled with the decorated calligraphy of the defendant, you find, rendered in disturbingly painstaking detail, a first-person account of her harrowing ordeal in the possession of the deranged sadist.
These are just some of the entries found during your research...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday January 5, 2019
11:27 AM
She is the epitome of perfection, her angelic image adorning this paltry little journal within which I hope to spin a most tantalizing of tales: Alex Morgan, international soccer star and America’s pride and glory. She is the measure of all things, a true Vitruvian woman if there ever was one. Standing a modest five feet seven inches, her svelte physique renders her a toned 137 lbs., with every ounce of muscle highlighted upon this voluptuous vixen. Her chestnut locks cascade tenderly atop her subtly bronzed shoulders, framing a demeanor that sits precariously between gently sweet and intensely poised. From the tip of her nose right down to her succulent size eight feet, their angelic form gracing the very ground she walks upon, her body is but a machine perfected for domination both on the field and off it. She is the apple of the world’s eye…
…and I must have her.
How this thought has crossed my mind time and time again, making it no easy task resisting temptation up until this point. Such a perpetual desire had forced my hand, driven to seek ways in which to satisfy my desires in the meantime, and just what problem could not be solved with the smell of my personal fortune wafting in the right direction I haven’t the slightest clue. The calls were made to the appropriate entities: brothels, mistresses, modeling agencies, all supplied with a laundry list of requirements for obtaining a specimen closest to the real thing. They came in droves, a horde of young ladies delivered unto my doorstep without the slightest idea of their fate. Enticing them with a month’s pay for but a single night’s company, they unwittingly relinquished themselves into my possession, forced to endure my special brand of unadulterated pleasures the moment they signed on the bottom line.
Eventually, they were led to my chambers, and I don’t mean my bedroom, for located underneath my mansion in these secluded hills lies a clandestine playroom, its formidable interior lined wall to wall with the means in which to inflict an ungodly display of tickle torture upon their person. No expense was spared in crafting the most diabolical contraptions known to man, designed for the exact specifications of their intended visitor, and one by one, these poor young women received but a mere taste of everything I desired. They never saw it coming, my divine quarters being met with stark hesitation time and time again. But, I have my ways of convincing those most stubborn, making sure they understood exactly what breaking our contract would entail. So they stayed, for the duration of my liking, being the most obedient companions I hired them to be.
While they were there, it was essential that they dress the part, clad in every uniform she had ever worn, from every year and every competition, right down to her signature headband. It was never easy for them, bound in the myriad of bondage devices designed for their physique, with every inch of their toned bodies exposed for a merciless tickling beyond all hope and reason, with even the most tempered of athletes crumbling underneath my fingertips. Some cried, some even begged for mercy, but they all were never quite the same the moment they left my clutches. What a few dollars here and there couldn’t do in silencing them or their mistresses, making the entire process seem as though it could go on endlessly. But it was never enough: never enough to satisfy that need for my precious darling to be here herself, indulging in my wares regardless of consent. It wasn’t until recently that I found that key element always missing:
Power.
Despite the circumstances surrounding each of these young ladies entering my chambers, it could not compare to those that would deliver that athletic superstar into my grasp, for what amounted essentially to the bartering of power could never replace it being ripped from her possession, a world-class athlete being reduced to nothing but a pitiful little tickle pet for my amusement. To render her completely helpless, fully incapable of resisting me no matter how hard she could resist, was that which I could never achieve through the common escort no matter how resilient they turned out to be. Having reached the end of my ropes, unable to quell my urge for my love any longer, it was now time to set the wheels in motion, concocting the scheme in which to deliver my love into my arms by any means necessary.
By the time I revisit you, my paltry little notebook, I hope to find you decorated with a new portrait of my love, taken right here in the confines of her new home.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday April 9, 2019
8:49 AM
Oh and just look at what a naughty little boy I have been…
Three months is all it took: three months of planning and conspiring, carefully laying down the foundations of my diabolical scheme brick by brick, has led to this very moment in all its glory. Nothing in all existence could compare to the bliss I felt when, upon my doorstep just at the crack of dawn, Alex Morgan, that untouchable goddess amongst us mere mortals, was delivered right into my clutches. I took her into my arms, carrying her limp body down into my chambers, the likes of which she will find herself staying in for quite the duration.
Just what price is right for such a catch, I wonder: would $1.4 million suffice? I’d call that quite the bargain, if you ask me, for the time we are to spend together will be nothing short of priceless. First on the list was tracing her location, leading me to a vacation villa off the western coast of Italy. It was easy enough to pinpoint given the flimsy password on her tablet, letting me access her GPS location remotely at the touch of a button. Next was assembling the extraction team: ex-military, trained in infiltration tactics, all discreet and all with quite the hunger for the finer things in life. It didn’t take much to convince them to take the job, but to assure me she be delivered “untouched” meant forking up another wad of unmarked bills on top of that. Finally, there was the preparation stage: from the floor plans to the villa to the suppression tools for both her and her husband, all was laid before me the night before. It was per special request that each member of the team be equipped with a high definition body camera, positioned perfectly to record every moment of my love’s procurement.
With preparations complete, it was now time to put the plan into action.
Infiltration was child’s play as you could imagine, the reliance on such antiquated security systems as locked gates and police patrols laughably penetrable. I had to make sure that no pesky officers would be intervening tonight, a wise investment despite it turning out to be half the budget. Entering the villa, the soles of their boots lined with felt, they wandered silently into their bedroom, coming across the two right where they slept. A single dart, filled to the brim with a fast-acting sedative, was shot into the husband’s left bicep, incapacitating him near instantly. I was asked beforehand if I wish the same be done to her for ease of transportation.
My response: “Where’s the fun in that?”
I wanted to watch through livestreamed video as her eyes turned wide as saucers, having been suddenly wrenched out of her lover’s arms from the comfort of her bed unto the cold hard floor. I wanted to hear the moment she let out an almighty shriek, only to have a wadded cleave gag placed between her gleaming white teeth, muffling her cries for help. I wanted to see her bulging muscles strain against their grasp, fighting as her wrists and elbows are swiftly zip tied behind her back. I wanted to hear her nails scrape desperately against the villa walls, grasping for anything to keep her from being taken away, only for a thick leather mitten to be bound over them. Above all, I wanted to feel every ounce of desperation spilling out of her, growing to a climax the moment she spots the unmarked white van waiting for her in the driveway.
It was only when they reached the van that the distraught young athlete, exhausted from such a valiant fight for freedom, would be sedated for transport. A small canister of knockout gas was waiting for her inside, fed by a breathing mask placed over her mouth and nose. Per my request, her futile attempt at resisting the gas was met with a strategic pinching of her sides, the ticklish annoyance enough to send her gasping for breath as, little by little, she fell out of consciousness, feeling the engine rev underneath as she is driven right to my doorstep.
Now, here she lays, in her new home, my little torture chamber of ticklish delights designed especially for her, and nothing could be worth more than that.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday April 10, 2019
7:13 AM
It was about time I welcomed my esteemed guest to the Palazzo de Rigsby, for it is to be her home for the imminent future.
I laid her atop the first of many contraptions designed especially for her: The Gingerbread Man. A padded leather table in perfect proportion to her body, it is a device I hope to prove both deceptively comfortable yet deviously effective. With arms straight out to her sides, legs splayed two feet apart, not one inch of her toned figure is left inaccessible to me. Medical grade leather cuffs bind her at the wrists and ankles, with thick leather straps securing her at the elbows, knees, and waist. A single strap, its interior lined with thick fuzzy padding, is bound atop her forehead, buckled down behind her as to ensure maximum immobility. I gazed upon her statuesque form, having dressed her in the same gold bikini from the magazine clipping that adorns this very page. However, in my infatuation, I had nearly forgotten the piece de resistance: a thick leather muzzle, strapped up and around her head, with an inflatable butterfly gag nestled between her teeth.
Now, she is ready.
I entice her awake, calling out her name, delicately stroking her cheek as a parent would their child. Furrowing her brow, she slowly wakes from her slumber, the grogginess from the sedative slowly subsiding, adjusting to the bright spotlight above. It is only after a few moments, the recollection of her kidnapping slowly coming back to her, that she begins to recognize the true peril she is in. Feeling her way around her binds, her confusion quickly morphs into panic, followed closely by indignant rage. Predictably so, she begins yanking at her restraints, not one inch of slack giving her leverage as she wrenches with every fiber of her being. It is only after an amusing struggle that she resigns to another tactic, cursing and sneering at me behind her gag, a jumbled heap of verbiage which, duly translated, would make a sailor blush.
I admire her tenacity, having no idea who I was yet acting so defiantly in the presence of her captor, and though I thoroughly enjoyed this little moment of resolve from my little princess, I felt it necessary to quell her little temper tantrum. Leaning just above her, I reveal to her that which she should have known all along: that she is trapped, taken from the comfort of her lover’s arms to this horrid place, the likes of which she will never escape. I tell her to forget everything she knows of her past life, for it will make it that much harder acclimating herself to her new one. I tell her of all the fun we are going to have, at her expense of course, and that there is nothing she can do to stop it. Leaning closely to her ear, I whisper that most dastardly of questions right into her very soul: are you ticklish?
She lets out an almighty screech, exerting a pulse of energy as she struggles for freedom one last time, letting me know full well just how much of a challenge it will be quelling such a feisty spirit. I can see her jaw clenching, biting into the padded material of her gag in hopes of dislodging it. I let her fight, watching as the energy is gradually syphoned out of her, chest heaving as the air hisses through her nostrils. Having finally gotten her full and undivided attention, I felt it time now to finally get started, but not before preparing one last thing: hoisting the small pump attached to the end of her gag right before her eyes, she can only gaze in horror as I begin filling the rubber nestled in her mouth with air, her powerful grunts slowly giving way to subtle mews, taking away that very last vestige of power she will never recover.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday April 10, 2019
12:39 PM
When confronted with the most stubborn of young ladies, the key to breaking down their barriers is simple patience: deliberate unyielding patience, my friend, is all it takes to tear down the most tenacious of resolves, I guarantee it.
It began with a gesture, a subtle motion as I placed my fingers gently atop her wrists and, with absolute ease, begin caressing my way towards her vulnerable underarms. Her brow furrows, gradually processing the sensations that can morph from sheer annoyance to ticklish agony in the blink of an eye. Streams of air exit her flaring nostrils like a cornered bull, trying with all her might not to let me get the upper hand or, at the very least, see how much agony she is already feeling. Given what little sight she had left, her head completely immobilized along with the rest of her body, she could do nothing but watch the delight in my eyes as I eventually reached her freshly shaved armpits, ravaging them with wild abandonment much to her utter chagrin.
She lets out a guttural shriek, my skittering nails making quick work of her supple flesh that gives me no friction whatsoever. Pulsating my way up and down her sides, I throw her into a tailspin, the unpredictability of it all throwing her off her game time and time again, with each new round seemingly more horrendous than the last. How pathetic she must feel, that most childish of weaknesses exploited for maximum suffering upon a world class athlete such as she. Yet despite this, I knew for sure she would not laugh, not one giggle or guffaw, nothing but the ravenous grunts and groans of purely futile resistance. Pitiful thing, believing herself to be greater than her fate, not knowing the extent to which I had planned to break her will no matter how long it would take, and believe me, I had planned for the long haul.
Everything about her made this horrendously delectable fate so perfectly destined, a detail that must surely have crossed her mind. What muscle tone she had shaping her into the ultimate striker on the field has only doomed her when subjected to my ways, giving me leverage to trace in between her rippling muscles as though they were truly a map for her torments. Obviously, math was never her strong suit, finding it hard to follow as I massage into each of her prominently displayed ribs, counting them dutifully for posterity. Had she not interrupted me with her invariable shrieks of resentment, I may have just finished before the seventh time counting, watching them turn red under my fingertips by the end. As I peel away her fortitude, inch by agonizing inch, her pathetic whimpers slowly take hold, revealing the ticklish little girl I had always known her to be hiding.
It was only fitting that I leave her after a full four hours, giving her repose having fully worked over her upper body. Even given the time to rest, she is not spared her torments: going over to my small toolbox out of sight, I reveal a set of vibrating eggs, attached to each of them a small plume of fluffy feathers. Wielding a spool of electrical tape, I attach each of them across her upper body: two at her underarms, two at her ribs, and one just atop her belly button. Exiting stage left, I remind her of just how nice I am being by giving her a break, activating the wireless devices on my phone just before leaving. Now, enjoying my cup of afternoon tea, I can watch through surveillance video her writhing in ticklish agony, changing intensity at the press of a button remotely from my humble perch.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday April 12, 2019
3:01 PM
It certainly hasn’t been easy for my dear, forced to become acclimated to her new life in such a short time but, then again, I’m not exactly helping the situation. Surely, she must have felt it to be a bit overkill, being subjected to this exquisite chamber, lined with the dastardliest of bondage contraptions known to man. She must loathe the thought of waking up strapped yet again into one of these, thrown into an endless maelstrom of ticklish torments completely out of her control. However, she will come to understand that it is only out of love I throw her headfirst into my world, and that I only felt it fitting she have a go at every one of my contraptions built especially for her, just so long as she is here.
I call it The Meat Hook, a most gruesome name fitting for a most devious device: she is hung upside down, chained to the ceiling by her ankles as she is hoisted up into place. She is bound with thick leather cuffs at her ankles, their interior lined with soft padding as not to cut off circulation. Her knees are bound together with a thick leather strap, whilst her arms are nestled behind her in a large lather sack, and a leather bit gag strapped between her glistening white teeth. I decided to dress her today in more functional attire: her classic red jersey, black bottoms, and signature pink headband, a choice based on just how extraneous her little session today would be.
Standing upon a small platform, placed perfectly adjacent to her bare feet, I am given full access to their quivering form. Upon her wrinkled soles, I inflict a set of bronze talons, finely sharpened to pierce through any and all resistance she may have left in her. Having preemptively lubricated her soles with hot baby oil, they prove a most exquisite canvas for inflicting her daily dose of deranged tickle torture upon. Shrieking into her bit gag, biting down with all her might just to alleviate one iota of her suffering, she can only rock gently back and forth as I ravage the bottoms of her feet with absolute impropriety. With every swipe of the soles, clawing of the heels, or gentle brush of the sides of her feet, I discover a brand-new primal cry she has been hiding from me. By the time I reach her toes, she is livid, grunting and cursing with every fiber of her being as I glide my way easily into their clenching surface. Her reddening flesh is the only battle scar left after an extraneous two hours of torment, her sweat and tears dripping unto the floor below as she is left gasping for breath having finally received a break.
However, if for one moment she thought me cruel beyond reason by that alone, she would soon be disappointed: pulling a lever upon the wall out of her sight, I reveal a trapdoor opening underneath her, its contents a seemingly bottomless pit that will soon be her new home. She can only fight pathetically against her bonds as she is slowly lowered into its contents, the cavernous space large enough for her to fit without being able to touch a thing. Having been lowered sufficiently, her ankles are locked into place through two holes in the trapdoor, choking any stream of light from her surroundings. Now, encased in utter darkness, she is only accompanied by her desperate cries as I ravage her flailing feet now sticking right out of the ground, inflicting upon them a myriad of tools at my disposal the likes of which she can neither predict nor even see. Hairbrushes, combs, pipe cleaners, you name it, I used it, enjoying the silent twitching of her helpless feet in lieu of her pitiful shrieks below…
…and this was only day three.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday April 20, 2019
8:43 AM
It’s so hard to get these young ladies to pay attention these days! All this technology, making it impossible to focus on anything for even the shortest window of time. Well, we have ways of fixing that, now don’t we?
Lying her atop a medical gurney, a remnant from last night’s asylum-themed tickle session, I wheel her limp body into my cinema room, the sedative giving me a mere 30 minutes to prepare her. I seat her upright in a sturdy high back chair, clad in a straitjacket with her ankles and knees cuffed to its legs. A thick leather muzzle is bound over and around her head, buckled into place by the time she is slowly coming to. Keeping her silently bemused, I prepare a large television screen in front of her, knowing for sure this is one presentation she wouldn’t want to miss. Taking position behind her, dictating not three inches from her ear, I present to her that which I have been preparing the moment of her arrival. From her precarious perch, she is first subjected to an extended slideshow, detailing the process of creating her surroundings in all its glory. I watch as her eyes turn wide as saucers, seeing her exact body measurements plastered atop the screen, only to cut to those exact parameters being used to craft her surrounding furniture, some of which she has yet to experience firsthand (but soon enough will). Beads of sweat begin dripping from her forehead, my tender tone shaking her to the very core, knowing just how much pleasure I derive from ruminating on such a horrific subject.
Next, I show her what I like to call the Preliminary Testing Phase: scores of young women, each with eerily similar appearances to her, are presented right in front of her eyes, bound in some of the same contraptions she has been in during her relatively short time here. She watches with horrid fascination as they meet the same fate she has, bombarded with a relentless tickle torture she knows oh so well. Even had she averted her eyes, she could not have escaped the tortured cries emanating from their strained gullets as they suffered under my fingertips. Some screamed for mercy, like poor Dijana, an aspiring Croatian model who was just waiting to break into the industry before she met me. Others broke down into uncontrollable tears, such as French journalism student Madeline, who just needed some extra cash to pay down her tuition that semester. And a few of them were even forced to “relieve” themselves in their binds, take a spunky little escort named Candy, whose pleas for help went unanswered as her mistress sat idly by, bribed into letting her favorite call-girl be broken by seven hours of unadulterated tickling in the stocks.
Finally comes the Acquisition phase of the presentation, as I like to call it: in painstaking detail, I outline every element that went into her kidnapping, right down to the sedative used to incapacitate her husband. I take extra time explaining how much it cost to bribe Italian law enforcement, and how easy it was to implant tracking software on her tablet from the password she uses on all her devices. Much to her dismay, I play for her the video from that night, capturing the exact point when she was wrenched out of bed until she was sedated in the van. I can feel her shiver in fear as she is forced to bear witness to her valiant struggle, the shaky camera documenting her expressions of terror that fateful night. Not once did she avert her eyes, forcing herself to imprint into her mind just how evil someone in this world could truly be. By the time she reaches the end, breathing heavy, tears streaming down her cheeks, the totality of her fate has become crystal clear.
The presentation finally over, I wheel her back to her room, where she may let it all sink in before our afternoon session.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday April 24, 2019
2:49 AM
It may have come across her mind during her long and arduous stay in these most wondrous chambers: just who is this deranged man with the resources to construct an elaborate dungeon such as this, filled to the brim with a seemingly endless array of demonic bondage devices, with all the time in the world to inflict an endless torrent of relentless tickle torture upon her time and time again? If only I could tell her the truth: that I, Bartholomew V. Rigsby, heir to the Vanguard Digital Securities fortune, am a man of means, able to construct within my private estate such an extravagance while maintaining utmost secrecy (a necessity given the types of visitors I am able to acquire). It is with my endless wealth that I may afford myself such leisure time, operating one of the most ubiquitous private companies on the West with a mere three conference calls a week.
As far as the tickling, well, let’s just say I have quite the vivid imagination, that which she is experiencing in full as of late.
It has been a most exhausting day today, her resilience finally showing its limits after an elongated upper body session this afternoon. As such, I felt it proper for her to have an early bedtime tonight, tucking her in at precisely 7:30 PM as to ensure her ample rest for a grueling day tomorrow. However, given how restless she gets at night, fruitlessly searching for a means of escape from her bedchamber, I felt the need to remedy that for the sake of a good night’s sleep. I call it The Sleeper: a large leather sack, extending from her ankles all the way up to her neck, bound atop a plush leather table with thick straps extending from underneath. Padded leather cuffs lock her wrists to her sides, and a set of thin metal cuffs bind each of her toes back to her ankles, keeping every inch of her bare feet stretched taut and completely accessible. Along with a blindfold and panel gag buckled around her head, a set of noise-cancelling headphones are duct taped over her ears, feeding impenetrable white noise endlessly on loop, forcing her to lay in blind silence as I prepare her for bedtime.
I douse her bare soles in a thick coating of baby oil before placing a standing heater adjacent to them. Her feet turn a shade of deepening pink as they are slowly brought up to temperature, her groans of discomfort morphing into muffled cries of utter frustration as she is unable to move even a centimeter out of the way. It is only when they are fully primed that I switch it off, opting for a small bowl of ice cubes I then scrape against her hypersensitive foot bottoms. She is beyond incensed, the juxtaposition of such extremes making her shriek in agony, struggling valiantly against the utter horror of such torments that merely cycle again and again. What she must be imagining at this very moment, the sensory deprivation making her primed for hallucinations as they had with my previous victim Myra, an energetic junior Olympian who I heard after our night together never went out in public barefoot again.
It is only after a full three hours that I replace this torment with an even greater one: two Wartenberg pinwheels, gently caressing the bottoms and sides of her feet. The tips of her toes turn a pale shade of white, straining against her binds without hope for escape. Lunging forward to try and break her bonds, she can only slump backward in subdued might as the prickly devices make quick work of her ticklish soles, rolling over every square inch of their quivering flesh with laughable ease. Maybe had she been more appreciative of the thought put into her humble abode, she wouldn’t find herself reeling until 2 AM, finally falling unconscious after such torments.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday April 20, 2019
8:13 PM
Today I had planned a trio of trials to test my love’s physical fortitude, knowing for sure she would not disappoint when put to the ultimate test. I wouldn’t want her to lose her cherished physique, that which she has trained her entire career to maintain, but who said it couldn’t be done with a set of “modified” exercises, I wonder.
First was the pull-up bar, something she may not have had much experience with as a soccer player but, with her wrists cuffed to the bar high above, what choice does she have. She is to keep herself elevated, using only her upper body strength to raise herself up off the floor. That alone may have been feasible for such a fit young woman, if not for the large ankle weight pulling her towards the floor, and especially if I had not been caressing her vulnerable underarms with two fine painter’s brushes from behind, teasing her endlessly about just how poorly she maintains her composure. For extra incentive, I installed a large electrified mat below her bare feet, shocking her the moment her strength fails her time and time again. Obviously after two exhausting hours of tantalizing fun, she is primed for the next phase.
The second activity involves the plank position, keeping herself horizontal on her elbows and toes for as long as possible. She is placed over a small pad that, like the previous one, is electrified, making her core strength her only saving grace given her wrists and ankles are chained to the floor. Taking to her feet this time, I implement an array of feathers from my vast collection, from the large peacocks to caress the backs of her legs and knees, to the tiny razors that saw their way in between her trembling toes. Little did she know I had been soaking them in itching solution overnight, the tingling sensation further crumbling her resolve as she collapses again and again unto the device, shocking her rippling abs as she curses to the high heavens. Two rounds in, and she’s already faltering, sure to make our final activity the hardest of them all.
I bind her spread eagle to the floor, placed over a hidden trapdoor the likes of which she will never forget. She can hear rustling just below her as, using a hidden remote, I reveal its contents: a shallow pit lined to the brim with beetles, countless creepy crawlies derived straight from her nightmares. She lunges forward, taking hold of the slack in the rope left for her, just barely able to hoist herself by each arm from their grasp. Taking a large feather duster, I begin coating her in an unknown substance, her assumption of it being itching powder as before only idealistic thinking. Taking a small tray, I show her just what is waiting below: large African beetles, their most prominent feature long antennae atop their heads. I tell her that she has been coated with a special compound emulating the pheromones females produce, and that these males will scour her body endlessly in search for their mate, making it imperative that she keeps her strength up lest she fall into the pit with all of them. It was only fair I up the challenge as, one by one, I place a single beetle in strategic locations across her body: feet, underarms, belly, ribs, watching as they begin frenetically caressing her quivering flesh with their antennae in love lust. She goes ballistic, shrieking at the tops of her lungs as their tiny antennae tickle her beyond all hope and reason. I revel in how these tiny creatures are unwitting participants in her suffering, a diabolical ploy that allows me to stand back and admire her torments in full.
It was my absolute pleasure to watch her grip slowly fail her, sliding closer and closer towards the lowly beetles as her desperation reaches a fever pitch. The ticklish ways of a dozen beetles across her body couldn’t compare to the hundreds placed below her, making it all the more satisfying to watch her crumble. Unfortunately for her, she couldn’t last the full three hours, falling into the pit thirty minutes short of the timer.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday May 5, 2019
11:58 PM
It has been nearly a month that my delectable darling has graced me with her presence, tantalizing me with the wonders that are her bodacious body and unbreakable spirit, and though the time has been hard on the poor girl, she seems to be finally coming around. Her tortured shrieks are no more, replaced with the helpless whimpers of a more docile creature, while her glares of righteous fury have given way to pitiful pleas for mercy. With the fight in her far less so than when we started, I felt it time to introduce her to a more passive activity, one which she may enjoy even less I’m afraid.
I make her lie on her stomach, ankles cuffed together, hands encased in a leather mitten in front of her, clad in the sexy little girl-next-door outfit I found her once in a magazine. Hoisting myself atop the bed, my nude form giving a subtle hint as to what is to come, I glaze her soles in a thick coating of lube, massaging it in between every crevice. Placing them upright, I hold them side by side and, much to her disgust, insert my throbbing member in between her decadent feet. A large mirror placed precariously in front of her, I force her to watch as I take their virginity right in front of her eyes, groaning in audible delight as I feel their supple surface caress my genitals. She can only cover her mouth, attempting to hide her disgust as her lowliest of appendages are forced to pleasure her captor against her will, an activity she would have never considered to do with her husband let alone the deranged sadist as myself. Every time she looks away, if but for only a split second, I remind her of her punishment: one extra hour added to her next tickling session, no exceptions.
What she must be feeling right now, those which have led her to dominate on the field now rendered sexual objects right in front of her eyes. That which she heard in passing being an affinity towards her feet, even to the point of having their own website of all things, came nowhere near this perversion she is forced to endure all for the sake of avoiding one grueling daily tickle session. You would think that the ideal outcome of this ordeal would be a form of brainwashing, dismantling her to the point of complete submission, molding her into a pet that not only accepts her fate, but actively desires it. But that’s not what I’m after, no: it’s about power. It’s the power she has to give up by her own will, for only when she must judge the lesser of two evils, the discomfort of a degrading sex act versus the horrendous torture of a ravenous tickle session, forgoing her disgust by willingly submitting to her fate, does she do exactly what I intend. What fun is it to have such a powerful captive as she, her ironclad will a keystone of her identity, wholeheartedly accepting her torments?
No: she must accept them, reluctant or otherwise.
Approaching climax, I remove myself from her soles, pumping every drop of my seed atop the bottoms of her feet while wiping the rest in between her quivering toes. I force her to stay there as I take high definition stills of my work, documenting the look of sheer submission from my darling. As promised, I later review the video, making sure to document every moment she dares disobey my orders.
She looked away six times. That’s six hours.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday May 10, 2019
8:47 PM
She rests before me, another grueling day of ticklish wonders put behind her. The hours grow longer and longer for her, as her ability to acclimate herself to her torments is outpaced by my growing exploitation of her ticklish weaknesses. Yes, that laundry lists of vulnerabilities she hoped hidden for all eternity, I know all about them: of how a brief swipe behind her knees can break swiftly her stalwart concentration, of how a rapid pulsation across her biceps can drive her into ticklish bewilderment, and how a gentle caressing of her toes with my tongue and teeth can subdue her into a state of suppressed ecstasy (that one I’m sure of). Oh, I’m sure that there are many others she is hiding from me, that most cruel of captors she is at the mercy of time and time again. Little did she know the preparations made for her torments were not merely of my own design, but the collective effort of a vast community of like-minded peoples who could only fantasize of being in my very position.
If only she knew of the forums dedicated to the very subject, their walls lined with countless anonymous users flocking to share their darkest of tickle fantasies with those deriving the exact same pleasure. If only she knew the extent of their imaginations, detailing in most tantalizing form what they would do to their teachers, bosses, dentists and, most especially, their favorite celebrities if given the chance. If only she knew of the torments they discuss, the techniques they detail, culminating into short novels of tickle fiction that line my hard drive. Little could she imagine the extent of their obsession that, when given the same means and opportunity as I, they would most surely capitalize on it.
Yes, but they haven’t the chance: only unwittingly adding to my princess’s torments through their fantasies they have shared with the world. If only she could learn of the extent of our perversion, knowing that there are so many out there vying for the chance to get a hold of her. If only there was some way of showing her that, making it seem as though this is all connected…although…
(several minutes later, on an unnamed tickling forum)
Username: Lexis_Tickle_Master
Thread Category: Tickling Discussion
Thread Post: Tickles for the Naughty Soccer Star
“Fellow tickle sadists! The heavens have blessed me with a most valuable prize: a ticklish little soccer player, where upon her delicate flesh I wish to perform a concerto of ticklish wonders beyond compare. Her toned physique leaves much room for unhindered exploration, and her strong size eight feet are but a smorgasbord of ticklish temptations in which to be thoroughly indulged. However, I beckon your assistance in breaking down her iron-clad will, rendering her a submissive little tickle pet for the rest of her days. I have tried all I can to command obedience, only for her to best me time and time again. Please, in as much detail as possible, describe the ways in which you would go about dealing with such a stubborn little starlet, not letting anything get in the way of your most depraved imaginations.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday May 16, 2019
11:33 AM
I was afraid of this.
Nearly a week has passed since posting my initial request, and the response has been predictable to say the least. Apart from a handful of remedial one-sentence replies, I have been inundated with expressions of doubt regarding the authenticity of my claims, questioning whether I am in possession of my fair beauty as I have detailed. As could be inferred, my declamation of my love’s capture was ambiguous enough as not to rouse suspicion, yet specific enough for such a coincidence not to go unnoticed. Some even went so far as to accuse me of exploiting her widely reported disappearance, pointing to the troves of tickling stories already written about her during this time, making my claims seem more fiction than fact. Such ingrates, taking my generous offer to participate in her suffering and turn it on its head. Granted, my claims may have come across as somewhat farfetched, opting for theatricality rather than concrete details as not to find myself in handcuffs. As a result, I tried to quell their suspicions in a subsequent post:
“Take it from me friends: there is nothing truer in this world than what I have laid before you. In fact. it was just ten minutes ago that I inflicted upon her angelic form yet another mind-numbing tickle torture which, I must say, could not have yielded better results. Could I have made up her muffled shrieks of dismay, screaming into her bright red ball gag as I caressed every inch of her toned flesh with wild abandonment? Could I have conjured up her tears of anguish, streaming endlessly down her cheeks as she is unable to process a duo of hairbrushes ravaging the soles of her helpless feet? Could I have imagined her toes turning white, straining against the ties that bind them to the stocks, or her hands turning red, clenching steadfast high above her head? I think not, my dear readers, so help me so that I may help you!”
Still, they do nothing but question me, brushing off all my claims that have no proof other than the weight of my own words. I knew then that words alone would not convince them, but that maybe a few carefully chosen photographs might. It was then, in my reluctance, that I would give them but a taste of my delectable darling, that which I have coveted these several weeks without even thinking of sharing. It was only proper that, over the course of her extended captivity, I had documented every moment of her ordeal, from the moment of her capture recording endlessly her time in my captivity. Returning down to her chamber as she lies unconscious through sheer exertion, I document the aftermath of our session through my high-definition camera as I always have. However, this time I kept it limited, making sure not to have anything identifiable in the pictures as to lead them back to me. It was from this session that I derived three curated stills of her angelic feet, nestled in my padded leather stocks with each toe bound back to the board. Her soles reddened from a grueling two hours of torment, evidence enough that I have a ticklish little captive in my midst, I snapped photos from every angle, knowing for sure that her feet alone would not be enough to definitively identify her.
Going back unto the forum, I note my reluctance to share anything about my darling, but to quell their doubts, I will give them exactly what they beg for. Uploading the photos into the thread, I wait patiently for their reply.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday May 21, 2019
9:39 AM
I rouse her from her slumber, hoisting her out of bed to join me in the media room, most assuredly her least favorite place on the premises. Does it possess the dastardliest myriad of tickling contraptions my dearie is subject to endlessly during her stay her? Not even close: a small theater, with eight cushioned seats placed in front of 100 inches of cinematic delight, truly fit for a lover of all things video like me. Within this space, emanating from a projector hidden in the wall, we indulge in the entertainment of the day, a carefully curated selection of that which is to surely make her toes curl every time. Yesterday, it was a two-hour film documenting my time with Lyla, a former personal assistant who, after being talked into some after-hours work down here in my chambers, promptly hopped on a plane back to Korea the moment the cuffs came off. The week before that, it was a continuous stream of newsfeed relating to her disappearance, with her former teammates pleading with the public for information regarding her whereabouts. They even had a segment detailing the Italian government’s reluctance to pursue the investigation even further, noting the probability that she merely staged her own kidnapping for the sake of evading all the pressures of being a world class athlete. That alone sent tears of despair down her moistened cheeks, securing the fact that she may be her for the rest of her life.
But just what horrendous thing could be in store for her this week? Let’s see…
I pull up the feed which, much to her surprise, consists of no video whatsoever. She gazes up at the screen, noting it to be nothing more than an online forum the likes of which she has never seen. However, the more she gleans over its contents, the more she recognizes the little photos of her plastered all over the page, documenting every part of her body that had been tickled to oblivion, followed closely by comments that seem to run endlessly afterwards. Noting her confusion, I let her in on exactly what has been going on: that, having documented every moment of her time with me, I have taken to the internet for inspiration, letting the throes of anonymous users decide the punishments that will be inflicted upon her person. I tell her of this website devoted to all things tickling, and that there are those out there more than willing to go into great detail as how they would tickle torture such a prized athlete as herself.
I note the comment attached to a photo of her pale-white toes, detailing the effectiveness of fuzzy pipe cleaners flossing their way between them. I point to another by her ribs, linking to a set of vibrating gloves they would love to see implemented on her just out of curiosity. I even show her the polls I had made, crowdfunding the ideal torments that would befall her, indulging in her horrid glance upon the screen. The more time we spend on this wondrous little corner of the world wide web, the more I see the color being syphoned right out of her face, realizing in full that there are those out there who would do the same to her as her deranged captor has these past several weeks, and that right now, her fate is in the palm of their hands. Turning off the screen, I wheel her out of my chambers back to her room.
Get ready my little pet, for the next month is really going to suck.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday May 26, 2019
6:34 PM
Oh, just what fun we are having now that I have introduced her to the wonders of the internet! Only in the digital age could you collect the most delectable of tickle tactics through a hivemind such as this, all the while remaining complete anonymous with the rest of the world none the wiser! I must say how satisfied I am in how my tickling tools are being used in ways I had yet to even think of and, surely, she could have never dreamed of.
For example, I was directed by a most helpful fellow to a site called DeviantArt that, much to my delight, was chock full of the most dazzling of fantastical illustrations pertaining to my insidious interests. One in particular, drawn by a now-retired artist, depicted something spectacular: a woman, bound to a platform suspended over a vat of water, is forced to hold herself upright lest she fall in, all the while being tickled upon her soles for a bit of extraneous incentive. Over the course of several hours, I found even more examples of such a torment, the helpless victim forced to keep themselves from being submerged while tickled relentlessly, convincing me to dabble in such a creative torment. Lucky for me, I was easily able to convert my Meat Hook device for the same purpose, lowering her over a pool of water six feet deep, her strained abdominals keeping her body above water as I floss fuzzy pipe cleaners in between her flailing toes above. The bright red ball gag nestled between her teeth, my darling snarling and sneering behind it at my evil creation, gave it the real bobbing-for-apples touch, I think.
Next was another user pointing me to an idea sprinkled across the web: the trophy mount. Just as a hunter would mount their catch upon the wall, so too could I display Alex in the same manner, her protruding head and feet making her my most prized possession. Should I keep only her feet exposed, locking her away in silence as I ravage every inch of their immobilized flesh? Or should I put them side by side with her head, forced to watch right in front of her eyes the torments that ensue? Why not have it all? So, I had commissioned a large trophy shield to be installed upon the wall, its holes customizable to any position of my choosing. Today, I opted for a most creative position: her feet placed high above her head at eye level, with her head sticking out three feet off the ground. A strap atop her forehead keeps her immobilized, while a dental gag strapped between her teeth keeps her mouth accessible for…I think you know.
Finally, there came by private message from a fellow tickle sadist detailing a most depraved concept, one which relied on a modified dentist chair lying in my collection the likes of which I had yet to use. Strapping down every limp, with her head bound to the seat, I used a specially designed ring gag to not only keep her mouth open, but to keep her nostrils accessible with two small hooks hanging from above. With tiny feathers in hand, I began tickling in her most inaccessible of spots, from her tender earlobes to her nasal cavities, right down to the roof of her mouth. As the figure had pointed out, these most intimate of areas are both hyper ticklish and rarely used, making their exploitation with maximum efficacy almost guaranteed. The horrid shrieks emanating from her gullet were like no other, such a delicate touch proving most effective in taming this wild animal. Even after one hour of such an ordeal, I found her more docile than after a full month of tickling, making me think this a suitable punishment.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday May 31, 2019
8:58 AM
“I’M YOUR LITTLE TICKLE SLUT!!! PLEASE LET ME CUM!!!”
Those were the scrumptious words that greeted my followers this bright and sunny Friday morning. It’s always so precious putting another notch in my belt, having broken my tickle pet in yet another way, be it physical or psychological. It was only after a grueling all-night session that she could even think of spouting something as degrading as this, but when you’ve got two fluffy pink plumes caressing your tender bosom, your aching nipples begging for but a mere moment of repose from such sensual torments, it would seem you’d be primed to say just about anything to make it all stop. Yes, it appears as though my little soccer star has a voracious sexual appetite, one which has been cultivated through endless denial of her sexual urges, for when she is not tied tight to the latest bondage device, she is made unable to pleasure himself through a number of means.
First were the bondage gloves, making sure she couldn’t possess the dexterity to make her climax by her own free will. Next was the custom chastity belt I had designed especially for her, its impenetrable walls lined with various vibrating mechanisms to keep her on edge for as long as I see fit. However, such device did not keep me from implementing the procedure manually: binding her to a reverse Y table, legs splayed open giving me ample access to her throbbing kitty, she bit fiercely on her cleave gag as I edged her to oblivion without even a hint of mercy. Dastardly feathers in hand, I caressed her swollen clit, gently pushing aside the folds of her labia wielding my instruments like a true tickle master. Moans of sexual agony echoed off these chamber walls, the periodic screech of frustration not phasing my concentration. Little did she know her animalistic sounds were being streamed to the world wide web, the audio of her torments feeding into the homes of strangers around the globe, and that they too were deriving just as much pleasure from her horrendous cries as I was.
She begs to cum, but no matter how full-throated and desperate her pleas become, she never does. I let her alone, the degrading blowjob she relinquishes to her captor not enough to indulge her pitiful requests for release, but surely entertainment for her unaware audience. Yes, if she only knew the extent of their investment in her suffering, goading me into greater displays of cruelty at every turn. They beg me for a glimpse at her face the moment my throbbing manhood enters her luscious lips, forced to swallow her pride lest she lay in this dungeon for all eternity. They plead for the chance to join me down in these desolate hollows, inflicting upon her person the same cruelty I do day by agonizing day. Nothing would give them more pleasure in life than to have but a moment with her to tickle beyond all oblivion, breaking her down again and again in the same manner I do that they only can hear about over the internet.
Maybe someday my friends, but for now, she is mine for all of eternity.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday June 13, 2019
5:27 AM
Oh, how we were getting so close…so close indeed.
It has been a most uneventful stretch for my darling, not that which is void of our three daily tickle sessions without interruption, but in the manner in which her behavior follows. Ever since our little all-night session not two weeks before, she had been much more subservient than previous. It was in the way she let herself be taken away for her torments regardless of what they may be, not even scowling at me the way she had before. She seemed finally to be accepting her fate and, as a reward, was let out of her nightly binds out of trust. But, it seemed as though her feigned submission may have gotten the better of me had I not had my suspicions. Little could she have known that I had surreptitiously rigged a hidden camera in her room, feeding a livestream to a hidden website that only those most devoted fans of mine could have access to. That little midnight movie caught a mischievous little girl crawling through an air vent from her quarters, something she had no access to prior, thinking it only to be her one and only chance of escape, and had I not wedged a funnel six feet into it, trapping her in frustration until I was alerted by her audience online, it just might have been.
Now she must be punished.
Having knocked her out by a special concoction pumped into the vent, I set her atop her bed, stripping her nude while placing a fresh set of nylons atop her feet. I bind her ankles atop the headboard high above her head, with her wrists tied with thick nylon rope to the other side, unable to do anything but grasp frantically at the thin air in front of her. Strapping a ring gag in between her teeth, she has only the ability to gaze in horror at her torments that follow the moment she rouses from her slumber. A vibrator hangs precariously from above, placed gently atop her bare genitals on the weediest of settings, just enough to tease the tiny hairs atop her clit in agonizing fashion. Paralyzed she lays, having only the ability to watch her weeping womanhood be teased relentlessly, the thought of an orgasm ripped from her grasp the moment she even moans in impermissible pleasure: ravaging her tender soles with dual hairbrushes, I indulge in her rampant shrieks for release after each one lost. Streams of tears and forced drool cascade down her naked chest, trickling across her person, serving yet another reminder of how helpless she has been rendered. Mercy is not a word that has entered this room the moment she first arrived, and now, it never will.
She will be left like this, locked in perpetual chastity to be teased right to the very brink time and time again only to have her climax ripped from her possession, her reddened soles only that much more sensitive with each passing orgasm. It was by day three that her dignity escaped her, begging me to give her the fucking of her life, taking control of every hole she had just for the hope of relieving herself. Poor thing, believing that I would trust a word she says after trying to escape the amenities I crafted for her, knowing for sure I am going to have to demonstrate just how those very torments were but the tip of the iceberg.
But, if I am to truly punish her, I am going to need some help…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday June 24, 2019
11:37 PM
I dispatched a car to pick him up from the airport at the exact time specified. In cliché fashion, upon entering the vehicle, he was instructed to wear a blindfold, taking away his ability to recognize where he was going or, better yet, where he had been. I met him online, one of the many spectators to frequent my clandestine website detailing the most horrendous tickle torture inflicted on one most exquisite of soccer stars, the lovely Alex Morgan. I know nothing of this man but that from the correspondence we shared online, trading details as to the most effective methods of tickling poor Alex to absolute oblivion. It was only after a thorough background check, having gained access to his personal accounts, that I deemed him a candidate for the honor of being the first visitor to the Palazzo de Rigsby.
Upon arrival, I greet him at the door, taking him inside to my dining room just above where she lays. I made him sign a confidentiality agreement, promising the dismantling of all he knows and loves if he mentions his time here to anyone. Gleefully he signs on the dotted line, knowing the priceless nature of such an experience. Filing the form away, I lead him down to her chambers where his plaything is waiting for him. Per special request, I had her clad in the outfit of his choice: the original blue jersey and bottoms with matching beanie. To him, that “tough as nails” demeanor of hers was the very first impression he fell for, and that nothing would satisfy him more than to see her strong will broken into two.
She is seated atop the Sybian, with her ankles and knees strapped to the platform below. Her wrists cuffed high above her head, a wooden bit gag is subsequently wedged in between her teeth. She glares at him the moment he enters, delivering unto him a look of pure disdain that has him absolutely beaming. He seats himself behind her, activating the device on its highest setting before going to work. Taking a set of industrial fabric cutters, he begins slicing away at the bottoms of her cleats, removing the rubber soles to gaze upon her perfectly helpless bare feet. Scraping deep into their supple flesh with his nails, he revels in her desperation as she pulls at her restraints above, the vibrating attachment incessantly rubbing against her clit, pushing her closer and closer over the edge despite his ravenous tickling. With her sex-craved body having been primed over the last two months, she is ripe and ready for an earth-shattering climax ripping through her body in a matter of moments.
He lets her cum, a decision that in no way could be described as merciful.
With every new orgasm comes a flurry of cruel torments, capitalizing on her renewed sensitivity she has yet to experience until now. Scraping the pinwheels across her heels, she lets out an ear-shattering shriek before cumming once again, the horror of having to endure yet another orgasm through her endless torment too much to bear. Countless times she succumb to her womanly desires, and countless times she was punished for it, her body ravaged to no end as her captor merely looked on in utter pleasure. Be it the crevices of her ribs, the cavities of her underarms, or the indentations of her hips, nothing was overlooked as he explored her vulnerable body with a curiosity I could only admire.
After three hours of nonstop tickling and forced orgasms, I gave her a rest, pulling him out to review the footage of their little session. Gazing upon her dangling form, the vacancy in her eyes is evidence enough that he may have succeeded in his goal. Commending him on a job well done, I give him a copy of the video before accompanying him to the door, knowing for sure he would be pleasuring himself on the way back to the airport.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday June 28, 2019
8:23 AM
The cat’s pretty much out of the bag now: that I, Bartholomew V. Rigsby, have in my possession international soccer star Alex Morgan, trapped in my dastardly chambers where she suffers an endless torrent of tickle torture day in and day out. Yes, but it is not just I that knows oh so well of her tortures, but an entire community of voyeurs that have been amassing over the past two months. What began as a set of obscured photographs posted on a seemingly innocuous internet forum has expanded into a perpetual livestream of torments, documenting every moment of her misery underneath my fingertips. Little could she imagine the hordes of onlookers that pleasure themselves to her ticklish anguish, or the droves of commentators who wish only to join me in driving her out of her mind. It is only fair that she questions that, as with every passive party to this little closed network we have, there is one more person who is fully capable of notifying the authorities on her whereabouts, but who never says a word for fear of it all ending.
Today, I have the pleasure of welcoming a pair of sisters to my compound: Maggie and Maddy Harrington. These golden-haired ladies, both in their early forties, have had a healthy penchant for tickle torture since they can remember. From cousins to neighbors, it seemed every chance they got they found yet another victim to satisfy their desires. Recently, they had been preying on their housekeepers, a succession of Spanish-speaking young ladies who would have done anything to keep from losing their jobs. Tying them to their beds, they ravage their bodies endlessly together, their fun being interrupted once the screams were picked up by the neighbors. Now, they are here to have a different kind of fun.
They enter the chamber, gazing upon the delectable darling bound spread eagle across her own bed, clad in the demeaning French maid costume they had requested. Reaching behind her, Maggie begins by placing a blindfold across Alex’s eyes just as Maddy begins tracing her fingers across her bosom. They explore every inch of her, snaking their way underneath her uniform as they caress her underarms and belly, dancing their fingers over the inner flesh of her thighs as a precursor for that to come. Her teetering giggles are a far cry from the strained guffaws she is used to eliciting, the erotic torments from her female ticklers usurping her resistance instantly. However, that does not make her suffering that much less maddening, the unpredictability of the two throwing her for a loop time and time again. Little by little, tearing away at her costume with their teeth down to nothing, they have full access to every erogenous zone, capitalizing on her vulnerability as they bring her to the edge time and time again. They even force her to pleasure them, promising to let her climax once they are fully satisfied. What little dignity she has left in this world to believe them, but the more she is pushed to the brink, the more she gives in. By the end of it, soaked in her own sweat and love juices, they leave her all but completely unsatisfied.
I think now it is time to push her to the absolute limit…and then some.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday July 2, 2019
12:56 PM
It’s incredible to me that something so common knowledge in our little corner of the internet here can be completely overlooked by the world at large. I mean, think about it: here we are, with one of the most well-known soccer stars in our possession, livestreaming her ticklish suffering to the world wide web daily, and yet everyone else on this planet is none the wiser.
Such was the same phenomenon that the Longmire sisters had encountered: Darby, Tracy, Amber, Remi, and Penny Longmire or, as they had been dubbed, The Five Points. I had caught wind of their dastardly deeds while scrolling through the forums one night, reading up on the mythical tales of five sisters who took unsuspecting college girls from their dorms, dragging them into the woods to inflict a merciless tickle torture upon them. Seeming to be yet another tall tale to keep those promiscuous young ladies in their rooms at night, I was led to an article featuring rising star Jordyn Jones who, to this day, is completely mute about her time as assistant to the Longmire sisters, having “falsely” accused them of such a deed before being forced to work off her debts. I knew then and there that they were the perfect candidates to pay my precious Alex a visit.
Two days later, I welcomed them to my residence, introducing them to my captive through live video feeding from below. I let them know that they had free reign to determine her torments, as I knew they were true professionals in the matter. Asking them if there was anything I could do to prepare her for them, they said in unison merely these two words: the hunt. To them, the very process of capturing their victims, taking hold of them one by one until they are pinned helpless to the ground and ripe for their tickling, is the only way to truly break their spirit. I humbly agreed: having “forgotten” to lock up Alex’s room later that night, I sat back and watched my delectable little darling sneak out her door, rounding the corner to try and navigate the vast chambers she has just gained access to. It was moments later that she heard a noise, followed by the hushed whispers of someone slowly approaching before, right from the shadows, she felt a hand grasp her wrist, pulling her swiftly to the ground.
One by one, they pounced on her, neutralizing her one limb at a time until she was laid spread eagle across the floor, rendered helpless by their grasp alone. The moment they were finished, indulging in the thought of such a prominent starlet in their midst, they began their torments. Poor Alex, unable to even grasp at thin air as her body was ravaged by their ticklish ways, her hands having been encased in bondage mittens as an extra precaution. They were merciless: scraping their sharpened talons deep into her quivering flesh, they extracted the most guttural of shrieks out of her strained gullet the likes of which I could never imagine. No amount of clothing she wore could deter their invasive ways, tantalizing me with evermore cruel displays upon poor little Alex. They were experts in their craft, able to pin her effectively one-handed despite her formidable physique, ravaging their favorite tickle spot with the other. Little could she handle one cruel captor in this manner, let alone five, and by the end of the night underneath their grasp, it seemed as though her psyche had finally shattered in two.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday August 15, 2019
10:39 AM
I had been told growing up that I was quite rough with my toys as a child, always managing to break them before I even got going…I guess some things never change.
I lead my darling once again into my media room, a much more obedient shell of her former self in the palm of my hands. It’s understandable how three months of unyielding tickle torments could break down even the most stalwart of resolves, and I must say, watching it crumble right before my eyes was delectable to say the least. But, when the dust settles and all you’re left with is a docile little tickle pet at your beck and call, well, it’s just not the same anymore. With the fire burning in her eyes perpetually doused, and the fight within her having been quelled long ago, the thought of continuing this little game just doesn’t sound as promising anymore. Oh don’t worry, I intend on keeping her for the long haul, for she might prove useful in acquiring my next captive.
How is that, you ask? Well, I’ll show you.
I sit her down facing the computer screen, its contents the profiles of each one of her former teammates, past and present. In monotone voice, she dictates every detail I ask of her: home addresses, phone numbers, laptop settings, bank account preferences, recovery passwords, everything that she had been entrusted with as a member of the team now falling effortlessly from her lips. Little by little, I begin piecing together the possible whereabouts of some of the most prominent soccer stars you could get your hands on. Had she known exactly what she was doing, maybe she would have resisted, holding out for just a few more days until finally cracking under her torments. But no: pushed far past her breaking point, she is now subservient to my influence, putting the nail in the coffin for those who may be next up in her position.
Having compiled the pertinent information into a spreadsheet, I post it to the forum for my followers, requesting their help in affirming said information. Within it, I give them detailed instruction on how best to proceed: that they are to confirm the whereabouts of these stars, using all the access points I have provided to their advantage, and that they are not to confront them in any way, for only when the information is validated will I dispatch another extraction team when the opportunity arises. The reward for information leading to a successful acquisition will be a two-week stay at the Palazzo de Rigsby, where they will get to indulge themselves in the ticklish delights of two top soccer starlets to their liking. I can only imagine what that might entail: will they make Alex watch as they tickle her teammate right in front of her eyes? Will they pit them against one another in head-on tickle battles, forcing the loser to be tickled by the victor once defeated?
It’s only a matter of time before the second chapter of our little tale of tickle terrors begins…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue
Seven weeks after her rescue, a judge sentenced Bartholomew V. Rigsby to life plus 87 years in prison for his crimes. The charges, piled atop one another as they were read aloud in court, included Kidnapping, False Imprisonment, Torture, Witness Tampering, Obstruction of Justice, and Possession of Unlawful Media with the Intent to Distribute. As he was led away in his orange jumpsuit and shackles, a gallery full of Alex’s teammates celebrated his sentence, with one solemn Alex Morgan sitting in the back row, tears of joy streaming down her face. Met by the media frenzy outside, with the help of her soccer sisters by her side, she thanked all of her supporters who never lost faith that one day she would soon be coming home, and that she was glad to finally be putting all this behind her and begin her training as soon as possible. The crowd cheered her resolve, knowing that yet another brave woman had risen above adversity, and that this entire ordeal could be put behind her.
However, if anyone thought that it was all over, they were in for a most unpleasant surprise.
It began with star midfielder Tobin Heath, having encountered the same man multiple times throughout the day at different locations around town. Her agent called the police to report a stalker, and when they arrived to question him, they found tracking software on his phone live feeding her exact location, giving him the ability to know her whereabouts at every turn. He was arrested, and the case was chalked up to yet another nutso stalker…that is, until a week later, another incident occurred. A break-in was reported at the residence of Morgan Brian, only found by a neighbor seeing the broken window, as it seems the home invader traversed the security system like he had installed it himself, only caught in the act when he was found asleep in her bedroom closet. Had she and her husband not been on vacation that week, investigators note, who knows what could have happened that night. However, the most terrifying report can just four days later when, outside a popular nightclub just past midnight, the petite Rose Lavelle was suddenly grabbed from behind, dragged into an alleyway with an ether-soaked rag over her mouth and nose. It was only through the heroism of a homeless man sleeping nearby that she is even hear to speak of it.
Little by little, it was discovered that the data on every one of these athletes had been compromised, and that their personal information was being accessed freely on the web to track their every move whenever possible. Questioning the way all of them could have been affected by the breach, investigators reached out to Alex Morgan for any information she may have divulged during her captivity. Unfortunately, as her lawyer explained, Miss Morgan was still recovering from her ordeal, and would get back to detectives the moment she feels up to it, something that was putting her fellow athletes in danger the longer she avoided them.
So it continued, a smattering of close calls and risky contacts putting all of her closest friends on edge until, one fateful day, this happened…
The world held its breath that fateful day when, on the morning of April 23, 2019, American soccer star Alex Morgan was reported missing from her vacation villa off the western coast of Italy, vanishing in the dead of night without a trace. No expense was spared by the Italian government in tracking her whereabouts, dispatching a small army to uncover every scrap of evidence left at the scene. Bit by bit they pieced together the chain of events, from the sedative used to incapacitate her husband, to her scratch marks adorning the hallway walls, right down to the tire tracks left in the dirt outside the villa front gate. Each discovery provided yet another glimmer of hope that they may lead to her rescue but, by the end of a month-long investigation, all their efforts brought them nowhere...
...that was, until, several months after her disappearance, an anonymous post in an online chatroom led to a break in the case. Beginning with a single thread, a clandestine user began posting details of a young woman in his possession matching the description of the victim. As time progressed, details soon became pictures, pictures became clips, and clips became videos, finally revealing a distraught young woman clearly identifiable as the missing athlete. Three hours after the final post, with law enforcement having traced the location of the user, a raid was ordered by national police on the estate of one Bartholomew V. Rigsby, affluent heir to the digital security fortune. By the time the dust had settled, the victim had been relinquished from her confinement, and the suspect was apprehended without incident.
It is now two months later, the media frenzy incited by her rescue turning its attention to the perpetrator himself and his ensuing day in court. Though the crime had been committed on Italian soil, it was negotiated by the consulate that the case be tried in the United States, an outcome assured by Mr. Rigsby's revealed manipulation of Italian law enforcement to procure the athlete in the first place. With mounds of evidence, primarily of his own creation, stacked against him, the defendant had no choice but to plead no contest to the charges, those that would surely have sent him to prison for the remainder of his life. However, adding insult to injury, it was discovered that Mr. Rigsby's legal team is preparing an "affluenza" defense for their client, arguing that his endless wealth was the only thing giving him the capacity to commit such a heinous act, and that now, with his fortune having been stripped from him, he is incapable of performing such offense again, making him a prime candidate for early release.
Working as a paralegal for the district attorney prosecuting the case, you have been assigned the task of organizing evidence in a manner that concludes the defendant is a persistent threat to society, and that, given the opportunity, he would commit the same crime again without hesitation. Amidst the piles of materials gathered from his estate as evidence, you have discovered a small journal, its cover decorated with a large plume atop a photograph of the victim herself. Within its pages, indisputably filled with the decorated calligraphy of the defendant, you find, rendered in disturbingly painstaking detail, a first-person account of her harrowing ordeal in the possession of the deranged sadist.
These are just some of the entries found during your research...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday January 5, 2019
11:27 AM
She is the epitome of perfection, her angelic image adorning this paltry little journal within which I hope to spin a most tantalizing of tales: Alex Morgan, international soccer star and America’s pride and glory. She is the measure of all things, a true Vitruvian woman if there ever was one. Standing a modest five feet seven inches, her svelte physique renders her a toned 137 lbs., with every ounce of muscle highlighted upon this voluptuous vixen. Her chestnut locks cascade tenderly atop her subtly bronzed shoulders, framing a demeanor that sits precariously between gently sweet and intensely poised. From the tip of her nose right down to her succulent size eight feet, their angelic form gracing the very ground she walks upon, her body is but a machine perfected for domination both on the field and off it. She is the apple of the world’s eye…
…and I must have her.
How this thought has crossed my mind time and time again, making it no easy task resisting temptation up until this point. Such a perpetual desire had forced my hand, driven to seek ways in which to satisfy my desires in the meantime, and just what problem could not be solved with the smell of my personal fortune wafting in the right direction I haven’t the slightest clue. The calls were made to the appropriate entities: brothels, mistresses, modeling agencies, all supplied with a laundry list of requirements for obtaining a specimen closest to the real thing. They came in droves, a horde of young ladies delivered unto my doorstep without the slightest idea of their fate. Enticing them with a month’s pay for but a single night’s company, they unwittingly relinquished themselves into my possession, forced to endure my special brand of unadulterated pleasures the moment they signed on the bottom line.
Eventually, they were led to my chambers, and I don’t mean my bedroom, for located underneath my mansion in these secluded hills lies a clandestine playroom, its formidable interior lined wall to wall with the means in which to inflict an ungodly display of tickle torture upon their person. No expense was spared in crafting the most diabolical contraptions known to man, designed for the exact specifications of their intended visitor, and one by one, these poor young women received but a mere taste of everything I desired. They never saw it coming, my divine quarters being met with stark hesitation time and time again. But, I have my ways of convincing those most stubborn, making sure they understood exactly what breaking our contract would entail. So they stayed, for the duration of my liking, being the most obedient companions I hired them to be.
While they were there, it was essential that they dress the part, clad in every uniform she had ever worn, from every year and every competition, right down to her signature headband. It was never easy for them, bound in the myriad of bondage devices designed for their physique, with every inch of their toned bodies exposed for a merciless tickling beyond all hope and reason, with even the most tempered of athletes crumbling underneath my fingertips. Some cried, some even begged for mercy, but they all were never quite the same the moment they left my clutches. What a few dollars here and there couldn’t do in silencing them or their mistresses, making the entire process seem as though it could go on endlessly. But it was never enough: never enough to satisfy that need for my precious darling to be here herself, indulging in my wares regardless of consent. It wasn’t until recently that I found that key element always missing:
Power.
Despite the circumstances surrounding each of these young ladies entering my chambers, it could not compare to those that would deliver that athletic superstar into my grasp, for what amounted essentially to the bartering of power could never replace it being ripped from her possession, a world-class athlete being reduced to nothing but a pitiful little tickle pet for my amusement. To render her completely helpless, fully incapable of resisting me no matter how hard she could resist, was that which I could never achieve through the common escort no matter how resilient they turned out to be. Having reached the end of my ropes, unable to quell my urge for my love any longer, it was now time to set the wheels in motion, concocting the scheme in which to deliver my love into my arms by any means necessary.
By the time I revisit you, my paltry little notebook, I hope to find you decorated with a new portrait of my love, taken right here in the confines of her new home.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday April 9, 2019
8:49 AM
Oh and just look at what a naughty little boy I have been…
Three months is all it took: three months of planning and conspiring, carefully laying down the foundations of my diabolical scheme brick by brick, has led to this very moment in all its glory. Nothing in all existence could compare to the bliss I felt when, upon my doorstep just at the crack of dawn, Alex Morgan, that untouchable goddess amongst us mere mortals, was delivered right into my clutches. I took her into my arms, carrying her limp body down into my chambers, the likes of which she will find herself staying in for quite the duration.
Just what price is right for such a catch, I wonder: would $1.4 million suffice? I’d call that quite the bargain, if you ask me, for the time we are to spend together will be nothing short of priceless. First on the list was tracing her location, leading me to a vacation villa off the western coast of Italy. It was easy enough to pinpoint given the flimsy password on her tablet, letting me access her GPS location remotely at the touch of a button. Next was assembling the extraction team: ex-military, trained in infiltration tactics, all discreet and all with quite the hunger for the finer things in life. It didn’t take much to convince them to take the job, but to assure me she be delivered “untouched” meant forking up another wad of unmarked bills on top of that. Finally, there was the preparation stage: from the floor plans to the villa to the suppression tools for both her and her husband, all was laid before me the night before. It was per special request that each member of the team be equipped with a high definition body camera, positioned perfectly to record every moment of my love’s procurement.
With preparations complete, it was now time to put the plan into action.
Infiltration was child’s play as you could imagine, the reliance on such antiquated security systems as locked gates and police patrols laughably penetrable. I had to make sure that no pesky officers would be intervening tonight, a wise investment despite it turning out to be half the budget. Entering the villa, the soles of their boots lined with felt, they wandered silently into their bedroom, coming across the two right where they slept. A single dart, filled to the brim with a fast-acting sedative, was shot into the husband’s left bicep, incapacitating him near instantly. I was asked beforehand if I wish the same be done to her for ease of transportation.
My response: “Where’s the fun in that?”
I wanted to watch through livestreamed video as her eyes turned wide as saucers, having been suddenly wrenched out of her lover’s arms from the comfort of her bed unto the cold hard floor. I wanted to hear the moment she let out an almighty shriek, only to have a wadded cleave gag placed between her gleaming white teeth, muffling her cries for help. I wanted to see her bulging muscles strain against their grasp, fighting as her wrists and elbows are swiftly zip tied behind her back. I wanted to hear her nails scrape desperately against the villa walls, grasping for anything to keep her from being taken away, only for a thick leather mitten to be bound over them. Above all, I wanted to feel every ounce of desperation spilling out of her, growing to a climax the moment she spots the unmarked white van waiting for her in the driveway.
It was only when they reached the van that the distraught young athlete, exhausted from such a valiant fight for freedom, would be sedated for transport. A small canister of knockout gas was waiting for her inside, fed by a breathing mask placed over her mouth and nose. Per my request, her futile attempt at resisting the gas was met with a strategic pinching of her sides, the ticklish annoyance enough to send her gasping for breath as, little by little, she fell out of consciousness, feeling the engine rev underneath as she is driven right to my doorstep.
Now, here she lays, in her new home, my little torture chamber of ticklish delights designed especially for her, and nothing could be worth more than that.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday April 10, 2019
7:13 AM
It was about time I welcomed my esteemed guest to the Palazzo de Rigsby, for it is to be her home for the imminent future.
I laid her atop the first of many contraptions designed especially for her: The Gingerbread Man. A padded leather table in perfect proportion to her body, it is a device I hope to prove both deceptively comfortable yet deviously effective. With arms straight out to her sides, legs splayed two feet apart, not one inch of her toned figure is left inaccessible to me. Medical grade leather cuffs bind her at the wrists and ankles, with thick leather straps securing her at the elbows, knees, and waist. A single strap, its interior lined with thick fuzzy padding, is bound atop her forehead, buckled down behind her as to ensure maximum immobility. I gazed upon her statuesque form, having dressed her in the same gold bikini from the magazine clipping that adorns this very page. However, in my infatuation, I had nearly forgotten the piece de resistance: a thick leather muzzle, strapped up and around her head, with an inflatable butterfly gag nestled between her teeth.
Now, she is ready.
I entice her awake, calling out her name, delicately stroking her cheek as a parent would their child. Furrowing her brow, she slowly wakes from her slumber, the grogginess from the sedative slowly subsiding, adjusting to the bright spotlight above. It is only after a few moments, the recollection of her kidnapping slowly coming back to her, that she begins to recognize the true peril she is in. Feeling her way around her binds, her confusion quickly morphs into panic, followed closely by indignant rage. Predictably so, she begins yanking at her restraints, not one inch of slack giving her leverage as she wrenches with every fiber of her being. It is only after an amusing struggle that she resigns to another tactic, cursing and sneering at me behind her gag, a jumbled heap of verbiage which, duly translated, would make a sailor blush.
I admire her tenacity, having no idea who I was yet acting so defiantly in the presence of her captor, and though I thoroughly enjoyed this little moment of resolve from my little princess, I felt it necessary to quell her little temper tantrum. Leaning just above her, I reveal to her that which she should have known all along: that she is trapped, taken from the comfort of her lover’s arms to this horrid place, the likes of which she will never escape. I tell her to forget everything she knows of her past life, for it will make it that much harder acclimating herself to her new one. I tell her of all the fun we are going to have, at her expense of course, and that there is nothing she can do to stop it. Leaning closely to her ear, I whisper that most dastardly of questions right into her very soul: are you ticklish?
She lets out an almighty screech, exerting a pulse of energy as she struggles for freedom one last time, letting me know full well just how much of a challenge it will be quelling such a feisty spirit. I can see her jaw clenching, biting into the padded material of her gag in hopes of dislodging it. I let her fight, watching as the energy is gradually syphoned out of her, chest heaving as the air hisses through her nostrils. Having finally gotten her full and undivided attention, I felt it time now to finally get started, but not before preparing one last thing: hoisting the small pump attached to the end of her gag right before her eyes, she can only gaze in horror as I begin filling the rubber nestled in her mouth with air, her powerful grunts slowly giving way to subtle mews, taking away that very last vestige of power she will never recover.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday April 10, 2019
12:39 PM
When confronted with the most stubborn of young ladies, the key to breaking down their barriers is simple patience: deliberate unyielding patience, my friend, is all it takes to tear down the most tenacious of resolves, I guarantee it.
It began with a gesture, a subtle motion as I placed my fingers gently atop her wrists and, with absolute ease, begin caressing my way towards her vulnerable underarms. Her brow furrows, gradually processing the sensations that can morph from sheer annoyance to ticklish agony in the blink of an eye. Streams of air exit her flaring nostrils like a cornered bull, trying with all her might not to let me get the upper hand or, at the very least, see how much agony she is already feeling. Given what little sight she had left, her head completely immobilized along with the rest of her body, she could do nothing but watch the delight in my eyes as I eventually reached her freshly shaved armpits, ravaging them with wild abandonment much to her utter chagrin.
She lets out a guttural shriek, my skittering nails making quick work of her supple flesh that gives me no friction whatsoever. Pulsating my way up and down her sides, I throw her into a tailspin, the unpredictability of it all throwing her off her game time and time again, with each new round seemingly more horrendous than the last. How pathetic she must feel, that most childish of weaknesses exploited for maximum suffering upon a world class athlete such as she. Yet despite this, I knew for sure she would not laugh, not one giggle or guffaw, nothing but the ravenous grunts and groans of purely futile resistance. Pitiful thing, believing herself to be greater than her fate, not knowing the extent to which I had planned to break her will no matter how long it would take, and believe me, I had planned for the long haul.
Everything about her made this horrendously delectable fate so perfectly destined, a detail that must surely have crossed her mind. What muscle tone she had shaping her into the ultimate striker on the field has only doomed her when subjected to my ways, giving me leverage to trace in between her rippling muscles as though they were truly a map for her torments. Obviously, math was never her strong suit, finding it hard to follow as I massage into each of her prominently displayed ribs, counting them dutifully for posterity. Had she not interrupted me with her invariable shrieks of resentment, I may have just finished before the seventh time counting, watching them turn red under my fingertips by the end. As I peel away her fortitude, inch by agonizing inch, her pathetic whimpers slowly take hold, revealing the ticklish little girl I had always known her to be hiding.
It was only fitting that I leave her after a full four hours, giving her repose having fully worked over her upper body. Even given the time to rest, she is not spared her torments: going over to my small toolbox out of sight, I reveal a set of vibrating eggs, attached to each of them a small plume of fluffy feathers. Wielding a spool of electrical tape, I attach each of them across her upper body: two at her underarms, two at her ribs, and one just atop her belly button. Exiting stage left, I remind her of just how nice I am being by giving her a break, activating the wireless devices on my phone just before leaving. Now, enjoying my cup of afternoon tea, I can watch through surveillance video her writhing in ticklish agony, changing intensity at the press of a button remotely from my humble perch.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday April 12, 2019
3:01 PM
It certainly hasn’t been easy for my dear, forced to become acclimated to her new life in such a short time but, then again, I’m not exactly helping the situation. Surely, she must have felt it to be a bit overkill, being subjected to this exquisite chamber, lined with the dastardliest of bondage contraptions known to man. She must loathe the thought of waking up strapped yet again into one of these, thrown into an endless maelstrom of ticklish torments completely out of her control. However, she will come to understand that it is only out of love I throw her headfirst into my world, and that I only felt it fitting she have a go at every one of my contraptions built especially for her, just so long as she is here.
I call it The Meat Hook, a most gruesome name fitting for a most devious device: she is hung upside down, chained to the ceiling by her ankles as she is hoisted up into place. She is bound with thick leather cuffs at her ankles, their interior lined with soft padding as not to cut off circulation. Her knees are bound together with a thick leather strap, whilst her arms are nestled behind her in a large lather sack, and a leather bit gag strapped between her glistening white teeth. I decided to dress her today in more functional attire: her classic red jersey, black bottoms, and signature pink headband, a choice based on just how extraneous her little session today would be.
Standing upon a small platform, placed perfectly adjacent to her bare feet, I am given full access to their quivering form. Upon her wrinkled soles, I inflict a set of bronze talons, finely sharpened to pierce through any and all resistance she may have left in her. Having preemptively lubricated her soles with hot baby oil, they prove a most exquisite canvas for inflicting her daily dose of deranged tickle torture upon. Shrieking into her bit gag, biting down with all her might just to alleviate one iota of her suffering, she can only rock gently back and forth as I ravage the bottoms of her feet with absolute impropriety. With every swipe of the soles, clawing of the heels, or gentle brush of the sides of her feet, I discover a brand-new primal cry she has been hiding from me. By the time I reach her toes, she is livid, grunting and cursing with every fiber of her being as I glide my way easily into their clenching surface. Her reddening flesh is the only battle scar left after an extraneous two hours of torment, her sweat and tears dripping unto the floor below as she is left gasping for breath having finally received a break.
However, if for one moment she thought me cruel beyond reason by that alone, she would soon be disappointed: pulling a lever upon the wall out of her sight, I reveal a trapdoor opening underneath her, its contents a seemingly bottomless pit that will soon be her new home. She can only fight pathetically against her bonds as she is slowly lowered into its contents, the cavernous space large enough for her to fit without being able to touch a thing. Having been lowered sufficiently, her ankles are locked into place through two holes in the trapdoor, choking any stream of light from her surroundings. Now, encased in utter darkness, she is only accompanied by her desperate cries as I ravage her flailing feet now sticking right out of the ground, inflicting upon them a myriad of tools at my disposal the likes of which she can neither predict nor even see. Hairbrushes, combs, pipe cleaners, you name it, I used it, enjoying the silent twitching of her helpless feet in lieu of her pitiful shrieks below…
…and this was only day three.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday April 20, 2019
8:43 AM
It’s so hard to get these young ladies to pay attention these days! All this technology, making it impossible to focus on anything for even the shortest window of time. Well, we have ways of fixing that, now don’t we?
Lying her atop a medical gurney, a remnant from last night’s asylum-themed tickle session, I wheel her limp body into my cinema room, the sedative giving me a mere 30 minutes to prepare her. I seat her upright in a sturdy high back chair, clad in a straitjacket with her ankles and knees cuffed to its legs. A thick leather muzzle is bound over and around her head, buckled into place by the time she is slowly coming to. Keeping her silently bemused, I prepare a large television screen in front of her, knowing for sure this is one presentation she wouldn’t want to miss. Taking position behind her, dictating not three inches from her ear, I present to her that which I have been preparing the moment of her arrival. From her precarious perch, she is first subjected to an extended slideshow, detailing the process of creating her surroundings in all its glory. I watch as her eyes turn wide as saucers, seeing her exact body measurements plastered atop the screen, only to cut to those exact parameters being used to craft her surrounding furniture, some of which she has yet to experience firsthand (but soon enough will). Beads of sweat begin dripping from her forehead, my tender tone shaking her to the very core, knowing just how much pleasure I derive from ruminating on such a horrific subject.
Next, I show her what I like to call the Preliminary Testing Phase: scores of young women, each with eerily similar appearances to her, are presented right in front of her eyes, bound in some of the same contraptions she has been in during her relatively short time here. She watches with horrid fascination as they meet the same fate she has, bombarded with a relentless tickle torture she knows oh so well. Even had she averted her eyes, she could not have escaped the tortured cries emanating from their strained gullets as they suffered under my fingertips. Some screamed for mercy, like poor Dijana, an aspiring Croatian model who was just waiting to break into the industry before she met me. Others broke down into uncontrollable tears, such as French journalism student Madeline, who just needed some extra cash to pay down her tuition that semester. And a few of them were even forced to “relieve” themselves in their binds, take a spunky little escort named Candy, whose pleas for help went unanswered as her mistress sat idly by, bribed into letting her favorite call-girl be broken by seven hours of unadulterated tickling in the stocks.
Finally comes the Acquisition phase of the presentation, as I like to call it: in painstaking detail, I outline every element that went into her kidnapping, right down to the sedative used to incapacitate her husband. I take extra time explaining how much it cost to bribe Italian law enforcement, and how easy it was to implant tracking software on her tablet from the password she uses on all her devices. Much to her dismay, I play for her the video from that night, capturing the exact point when she was wrenched out of bed until she was sedated in the van. I can feel her shiver in fear as she is forced to bear witness to her valiant struggle, the shaky camera documenting her expressions of terror that fateful night. Not once did she avert her eyes, forcing herself to imprint into her mind just how evil someone in this world could truly be. By the time she reaches the end, breathing heavy, tears streaming down her cheeks, the totality of her fate has become crystal clear.
The presentation finally over, I wheel her back to her room, where she may let it all sink in before our afternoon session.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday April 24, 2019
2:49 AM
It may have come across her mind during her long and arduous stay in these most wondrous chambers: just who is this deranged man with the resources to construct an elaborate dungeon such as this, filled to the brim with a seemingly endless array of demonic bondage devices, with all the time in the world to inflict an endless torrent of relentless tickle torture upon her time and time again? If only I could tell her the truth: that I, Bartholomew V. Rigsby, heir to the Vanguard Digital Securities fortune, am a man of means, able to construct within my private estate such an extravagance while maintaining utmost secrecy (a necessity given the types of visitors I am able to acquire). It is with my endless wealth that I may afford myself such leisure time, operating one of the most ubiquitous private companies on the West with a mere three conference calls a week.
As far as the tickling, well, let’s just say I have quite the vivid imagination, that which she is experiencing in full as of late.
It has been a most exhausting day today, her resilience finally showing its limits after an elongated upper body session this afternoon. As such, I felt it proper for her to have an early bedtime tonight, tucking her in at precisely 7:30 PM as to ensure her ample rest for a grueling day tomorrow. However, given how restless she gets at night, fruitlessly searching for a means of escape from her bedchamber, I felt the need to remedy that for the sake of a good night’s sleep. I call it The Sleeper: a large leather sack, extending from her ankles all the way up to her neck, bound atop a plush leather table with thick straps extending from underneath. Padded leather cuffs lock her wrists to her sides, and a set of thin metal cuffs bind each of her toes back to her ankles, keeping every inch of her bare feet stretched taut and completely accessible. Along with a blindfold and panel gag buckled around her head, a set of noise-cancelling headphones are duct taped over her ears, feeding impenetrable white noise endlessly on loop, forcing her to lay in blind silence as I prepare her for bedtime.
I douse her bare soles in a thick coating of baby oil before placing a standing heater adjacent to them. Her feet turn a shade of deepening pink as they are slowly brought up to temperature, her groans of discomfort morphing into muffled cries of utter frustration as she is unable to move even a centimeter out of the way. It is only when they are fully primed that I switch it off, opting for a small bowl of ice cubes I then scrape against her hypersensitive foot bottoms. She is beyond incensed, the juxtaposition of such extremes making her shriek in agony, struggling valiantly against the utter horror of such torments that merely cycle again and again. What she must be imagining at this very moment, the sensory deprivation making her primed for hallucinations as they had with my previous victim Myra, an energetic junior Olympian who I heard after our night together never went out in public barefoot again.
It is only after a full three hours that I replace this torment with an even greater one: two Wartenberg pinwheels, gently caressing the bottoms and sides of her feet. The tips of her toes turn a pale shade of white, straining against her binds without hope for escape. Lunging forward to try and break her bonds, she can only slump backward in subdued might as the prickly devices make quick work of her ticklish soles, rolling over every square inch of their quivering flesh with laughable ease. Maybe had she been more appreciative of the thought put into her humble abode, she wouldn’t find herself reeling until 2 AM, finally falling unconscious after such torments.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday April 20, 2019
8:13 PM
Today I had planned a trio of trials to test my love’s physical fortitude, knowing for sure she would not disappoint when put to the ultimate test. I wouldn’t want her to lose her cherished physique, that which she has trained her entire career to maintain, but who said it couldn’t be done with a set of “modified” exercises, I wonder.
First was the pull-up bar, something she may not have had much experience with as a soccer player but, with her wrists cuffed to the bar high above, what choice does she have. She is to keep herself elevated, using only her upper body strength to raise herself up off the floor. That alone may have been feasible for such a fit young woman, if not for the large ankle weight pulling her towards the floor, and especially if I had not been caressing her vulnerable underarms with two fine painter’s brushes from behind, teasing her endlessly about just how poorly she maintains her composure. For extra incentive, I installed a large electrified mat below her bare feet, shocking her the moment her strength fails her time and time again. Obviously after two exhausting hours of tantalizing fun, she is primed for the next phase.
The second activity involves the plank position, keeping herself horizontal on her elbows and toes for as long as possible. She is placed over a small pad that, like the previous one, is electrified, making her core strength her only saving grace given her wrists and ankles are chained to the floor. Taking to her feet this time, I implement an array of feathers from my vast collection, from the large peacocks to caress the backs of her legs and knees, to the tiny razors that saw their way in between her trembling toes. Little did she know I had been soaking them in itching solution overnight, the tingling sensation further crumbling her resolve as she collapses again and again unto the device, shocking her rippling abs as she curses to the high heavens. Two rounds in, and she’s already faltering, sure to make our final activity the hardest of them all.
I bind her spread eagle to the floor, placed over a hidden trapdoor the likes of which she will never forget. She can hear rustling just below her as, using a hidden remote, I reveal its contents: a shallow pit lined to the brim with beetles, countless creepy crawlies derived straight from her nightmares. She lunges forward, taking hold of the slack in the rope left for her, just barely able to hoist herself by each arm from their grasp. Taking a large feather duster, I begin coating her in an unknown substance, her assumption of it being itching powder as before only idealistic thinking. Taking a small tray, I show her just what is waiting below: large African beetles, their most prominent feature long antennae atop their heads. I tell her that she has been coated with a special compound emulating the pheromones females produce, and that these males will scour her body endlessly in search for their mate, making it imperative that she keeps her strength up lest she fall into the pit with all of them. It was only fair I up the challenge as, one by one, I place a single beetle in strategic locations across her body: feet, underarms, belly, ribs, watching as they begin frenetically caressing her quivering flesh with their antennae in love lust. She goes ballistic, shrieking at the tops of her lungs as their tiny antennae tickle her beyond all hope and reason. I revel in how these tiny creatures are unwitting participants in her suffering, a diabolical ploy that allows me to stand back and admire her torments in full.
It was my absolute pleasure to watch her grip slowly fail her, sliding closer and closer towards the lowly beetles as her desperation reaches a fever pitch. The ticklish ways of a dozen beetles across her body couldn’t compare to the hundreds placed below her, making it all the more satisfying to watch her crumble. Unfortunately for her, she couldn’t last the full three hours, falling into the pit thirty minutes short of the timer.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday May 5, 2019
11:58 PM
It has been nearly a month that my delectable darling has graced me with her presence, tantalizing me with the wonders that are her bodacious body and unbreakable spirit, and though the time has been hard on the poor girl, she seems to be finally coming around. Her tortured shrieks are no more, replaced with the helpless whimpers of a more docile creature, while her glares of righteous fury have given way to pitiful pleas for mercy. With the fight in her far less so than when we started, I felt it time to introduce her to a more passive activity, one which she may enjoy even less I’m afraid.
I make her lie on her stomach, ankles cuffed together, hands encased in a leather mitten in front of her, clad in the sexy little girl-next-door outfit I found her once in a magazine. Hoisting myself atop the bed, my nude form giving a subtle hint as to what is to come, I glaze her soles in a thick coating of lube, massaging it in between every crevice. Placing them upright, I hold them side by side and, much to her disgust, insert my throbbing member in between her decadent feet. A large mirror placed precariously in front of her, I force her to watch as I take their virginity right in front of her eyes, groaning in audible delight as I feel their supple surface caress my genitals. She can only cover her mouth, attempting to hide her disgust as her lowliest of appendages are forced to pleasure her captor against her will, an activity she would have never considered to do with her husband let alone the deranged sadist as myself. Every time she looks away, if but for only a split second, I remind her of her punishment: one extra hour added to her next tickling session, no exceptions.
What she must be feeling right now, those which have led her to dominate on the field now rendered sexual objects right in front of her eyes. That which she heard in passing being an affinity towards her feet, even to the point of having their own website of all things, came nowhere near this perversion she is forced to endure all for the sake of avoiding one grueling daily tickle session. You would think that the ideal outcome of this ordeal would be a form of brainwashing, dismantling her to the point of complete submission, molding her into a pet that not only accepts her fate, but actively desires it. But that’s not what I’m after, no: it’s about power. It’s the power she has to give up by her own will, for only when she must judge the lesser of two evils, the discomfort of a degrading sex act versus the horrendous torture of a ravenous tickle session, forgoing her disgust by willingly submitting to her fate, does she do exactly what I intend. What fun is it to have such a powerful captive as she, her ironclad will a keystone of her identity, wholeheartedly accepting her torments?
No: she must accept them, reluctant or otherwise.
Approaching climax, I remove myself from her soles, pumping every drop of my seed atop the bottoms of her feet while wiping the rest in between her quivering toes. I force her to stay there as I take high definition stills of my work, documenting the look of sheer submission from my darling. As promised, I later review the video, making sure to document every moment she dares disobey my orders.
She looked away six times. That’s six hours.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday May 10, 2019
8:47 PM
She rests before me, another grueling day of ticklish wonders put behind her. The hours grow longer and longer for her, as her ability to acclimate herself to her torments is outpaced by my growing exploitation of her ticklish weaknesses. Yes, that laundry lists of vulnerabilities she hoped hidden for all eternity, I know all about them: of how a brief swipe behind her knees can break swiftly her stalwart concentration, of how a rapid pulsation across her biceps can drive her into ticklish bewilderment, and how a gentle caressing of her toes with my tongue and teeth can subdue her into a state of suppressed ecstasy (that one I’m sure of). Oh, I’m sure that there are many others she is hiding from me, that most cruel of captors she is at the mercy of time and time again. Little did she know the preparations made for her torments were not merely of my own design, but the collective effort of a vast community of like-minded peoples who could only fantasize of being in my very position.
If only she knew of the forums dedicated to the very subject, their walls lined with countless anonymous users flocking to share their darkest of tickle fantasies with those deriving the exact same pleasure. If only she knew the extent of their imaginations, detailing in most tantalizing form what they would do to their teachers, bosses, dentists and, most especially, their favorite celebrities if given the chance. If only she knew of the torments they discuss, the techniques they detail, culminating into short novels of tickle fiction that line my hard drive. Little could she imagine the extent of their obsession that, when given the same means and opportunity as I, they would most surely capitalize on it.
Yes, but they haven’t the chance: only unwittingly adding to my princess’s torments through their fantasies they have shared with the world. If only she could learn of the extent of our perversion, knowing that there are so many out there vying for the chance to get a hold of her. If only there was some way of showing her that, making it seem as though this is all connected…although…
(several minutes later, on an unnamed tickling forum)
Username: Lexis_Tickle_Master
Thread Category: Tickling Discussion
Thread Post: Tickles for the Naughty Soccer Star
“Fellow tickle sadists! The heavens have blessed me with a most valuable prize: a ticklish little soccer player, where upon her delicate flesh I wish to perform a concerto of ticklish wonders beyond compare. Her toned physique leaves much room for unhindered exploration, and her strong size eight feet are but a smorgasbord of ticklish temptations in which to be thoroughly indulged. However, I beckon your assistance in breaking down her iron-clad will, rendering her a submissive little tickle pet for the rest of her days. I have tried all I can to command obedience, only for her to best me time and time again. Please, in as much detail as possible, describe the ways in which you would go about dealing with such a stubborn little starlet, not letting anything get in the way of your most depraved imaginations.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday May 16, 2019
11:33 AM
I was afraid of this.
Nearly a week has passed since posting my initial request, and the response has been predictable to say the least. Apart from a handful of remedial one-sentence replies, I have been inundated with expressions of doubt regarding the authenticity of my claims, questioning whether I am in possession of my fair beauty as I have detailed. As could be inferred, my declamation of my love’s capture was ambiguous enough as not to rouse suspicion, yet specific enough for such a coincidence not to go unnoticed. Some even went so far as to accuse me of exploiting her widely reported disappearance, pointing to the troves of tickling stories already written about her during this time, making my claims seem more fiction than fact. Such ingrates, taking my generous offer to participate in her suffering and turn it on its head. Granted, my claims may have come across as somewhat farfetched, opting for theatricality rather than concrete details as not to find myself in handcuffs. As a result, I tried to quell their suspicions in a subsequent post:
“Take it from me friends: there is nothing truer in this world than what I have laid before you. In fact. it was just ten minutes ago that I inflicted upon her angelic form yet another mind-numbing tickle torture which, I must say, could not have yielded better results. Could I have made up her muffled shrieks of dismay, screaming into her bright red ball gag as I caressed every inch of her toned flesh with wild abandonment? Could I have conjured up her tears of anguish, streaming endlessly down her cheeks as she is unable to process a duo of hairbrushes ravaging the soles of her helpless feet? Could I have imagined her toes turning white, straining against the ties that bind them to the stocks, or her hands turning red, clenching steadfast high above her head? I think not, my dear readers, so help me so that I may help you!”
Still, they do nothing but question me, brushing off all my claims that have no proof other than the weight of my own words. I knew then that words alone would not convince them, but that maybe a few carefully chosen photographs might. It was then, in my reluctance, that I would give them but a taste of my delectable darling, that which I have coveted these several weeks without even thinking of sharing. It was only proper that, over the course of her extended captivity, I had documented every moment of her ordeal, from the moment of her capture recording endlessly her time in my captivity. Returning down to her chamber as she lies unconscious through sheer exertion, I document the aftermath of our session through my high-definition camera as I always have. However, this time I kept it limited, making sure not to have anything identifiable in the pictures as to lead them back to me. It was from this session that I derived three curated stills of her angelic feet, nestled in my padded leather stocks with each toe bound back to the board. Her soles reddened from a grueling two hours of torment, evidence enough that I have a ticklish little captive in my midst, I snapped photos from every angle, knowing for sure that her feet alone would not be enough to definitively identify her.
Going back unto the forum, I note my reluctance to share anything about my darling, but to quell their doubts, I will give them exactly what they beg for. Uploading the photos into the thread, I wait patiently for their reply.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday May 21, 2019
9:39 AM
I rouse her from her slumber, hoisting her out of bed to join me in the media room, most assuredly her least favorite place on the premises. Does it possess the dastardliest myriad of tickling contraptions my dearie is subject to endlessly during her stay her? Not even close: a small theater, with eight cushioned seats placed in front of 100 inches of cinematic delight, truly fit for a lover of all things video like me. Within this space, emanating from a projector hidden in the wall, we indulge in the entertainment of the day, a carefully curated selection of that which is to surely make her toes curl every time. Yesterday, it was a two-hour film documenting my time with Lyla, a former personal assistant who, after being talked into some after-hours work down here in my chambers, promptly hopped on a plane back to Korea the moment the cuffs came off. The week before that, it was a continuous stream of newsfeed relating to her disappearance, with her former teammates pleading with the public for information regarding her whereabouts. They even had a segment detailing the Italian government’s reluctance to pursue the investigation even further, noting the probability that she merely staged her own kidnapping for the sake of evading all the pressures of being a world class athlete. That alone sent tears of despair down her moistened cheeks, securing the fact that she may be her for the rest of her life.
But just what horrendous thing could be in store for her this week? Let’s see…
I pull up the feed which, much to her surprise, consists of no video whatsoever. She gazes up at the screen, noting it to be nothing more than an online forum the likes of which she has never seen. However, the more she gleans over its contents, the more she recognizes the little photos of her plastered all over the page, documenting every part of her body that had been tickled to oblivion, followed closely by comments that seem to run endlessly afterwards. Noting her confusion, I let her in on exactly what has been going on: that, having documented every moment of her time with me, I have taken to the internet for inspiration, letting the throes of anonymous users decide the punishments that will be inflicted upon her person. I tell her of this website devoted to all things tickling, and that there are those out there more than willing to go into great detail as how they would tickle torture such a prized athlete as herself.
I note the comment attached to a photo of her pale-white toes, detailing the effectiveness of fuzzy pipe cleaners flossing their way between them. I point to another by her ribs, linking to a set of vibrating gloves they would love to see implemented on her just out of curiosity. I even show her the polls I had made, crowdfunding the ideal torments that would befall her, indulging in her horrid glance upon the screen. The more time we spend on this wondrous little corner of the world wide web, the more I see the color being syphoned right out of her face, realizing in full that there are those out there who would do the same to her as her deranged captor has these past several weeks, and that right now, her fate is in the palm of their hands. Turning off the screen, I wheel her out of my chambers back to her room.
Get ready my little pet, for the next month is really going to suck.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday May 26, 2019
6:34 PM
Oh, just what fun we are having now that I have introduced her to the wonders of the internet! Only in the digital age could you collect the most delectable of tickle tactics through a hivemind such as this, all the while remaining complete anonymous with the rest of the world none the wiser! I must say how satisfied I am in how my tickling tools are being used in ways I had yet to even think of and, surely, she could have never dreamed of.
For example, I was directed by a most helpful fellow to a site called DeviantArt that, much to my delight, was chock full of the most dazzling of fantastical illustrations pertaining to my insidious interests. One in particular, drawn by a now-retired artist, depicted something spectacular: a woman, bound to a platform suspended over a vat of water, is forced to hold herself upright lest she fall in, all the while being tickled upon her soles for a bit of extraneous incentive. Over the course of several hours, I found even more examples of such a torment, the helpless victim forced to keep themselves from being submerged while tickled relentlessly, convincing me to dabble in such a creative torment. Lucky for me, I was easily able to convert my Meat Hook device for the same purpose, lowering her over a pool of water six feet deep, her strained abdominals keeping her body above water as I floss fuzzy pipe cleaners in between her flailing toes above. The bright red ball gag nestled between her teeth, my darling snarling and sneering behind it at my evil creation, gave it the real bobbing-for-apples touch, I think.
Next was another user pointing me to an idea sprinkled across the web: the trophy mount. Just as a hunter would mount their catch upon the wall, so too could I display Alex in the same manner, her protruding head and feet making her my most prized possession. Should I keep only her feet exposed, locking her away in silence as I ravage every inch of their immobilized flesh? Or should I put them side by side with her head, forced to watch right in front of her eyes the torments that ensue? Why not have it all? So, I had commissioned a large trophy shield to be installed upon the wall, its holes customizable to any position of my choosing. Today, I opted for a most creative position: her feet placed high above her head at eye level, with her head sticking out three feet off the ground. A strap atop her forehead keeps her immobilized, while a dental gag strapped between her teeth keeps her mouth accessible for…I think you know.
Finally, there came by private message from a fellow tickle sadist detailing a most depraved concept, one which relied on a modified dentist chair lying in my collection the likes of which I had yet to use. Strapping down every limp, with her head bound to the seat, I used a specially designed ring gag to not only keep her mouth open, but to keep her nostrils accessible with two small hooks hanging from above. With tiny feathers in hand, I began tickling in her most inaccessible of spots, from her tender earlobes to her nasal cavities, right down to the roof of her mouth. As the figure had pointed out, these most intimate of areas are both hyper ticklish and rarely used, making their exploitation with maximum efficacy almost guaranteed. The horrid shrieks emanating from her gullet were like no other, such a delicate touch proving most effective in taming this wild animal. Even after one hour of such an ordeal, I found her more docile than after a full month of tickling, making me think this a suitable punishment.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday May 31, 2019
8:58 AM
“I’M YOUR LITTLE TICKLE SLUT!!! PLEASE LET ME CUM!!!”
Those were the scrumptious words that greeted my followers this bright and sunny Friday morning. It’s always so precious putting another notch in my belt, having broken my tickle pet in yet another way, be it physical or psychological. It was only after a grueling all-night session that she could even think of spouting something as degrading as this, but when you’ve got two fluffy pink plumes caressing your tender bosom, your aching nipples begging for but a mere moment of repose from such sensual torments, it would seem you’d be primed to say just about anything to make it all stop. Yes, it appears as though my little soccer star has a voracious sexual appetite, one which has been cultivated through endless denial of her sexual urges, for when she is not tied tight to the latest bondage device, she is made unable to pleasure himself through a number of means.
First were the bondage gloves, making sure she couldn’t possess the dexterity to make her climax by her own free will. Next was the custom chastity belt I had designed especially for her, its impenetrable walls lined with various vibrating mechanisms to keep her on edge for as long as I see fit. However, such device did not keep me from implementing the procedure manually: binding her to a reverse Y table, legs splayed open giving me ample access to her throbbing kitty, she bit fiercely on her cleave gag as I edged her to oblivion without even a hint of mercy. Dastardly feathers in hand, I caressed her swollen clit, gently pushing aside the folds of her labia wielding my instruments like a true tickle master. Moans of sexual agony echoed off these chamber walls, the periodic screech of frustration not phasing my concentration. Little did she know her animalistic sounds were being streamed to the world wide web, the audio of her torments feeding into the homes of strangers around the globe, and that they too were deriving just as much pleasure from her horrendous cries as I was.
She begs to cum, but no matter how full-throated and desperate her pleas become, she never does. I let her alone, the degrading blowjob she relinquishes to her captor not enough to indulge her pitiful requests for release, but surely entertainment for her unaware audience. Yes, if she only knew the extent of their investment in her suffering, goading me into greater displays of cruelty at every turn. They beg me for a glimpse at her face the moment my throbbing manhood enters her luscious lips, forced to swallow her pride lest she lay in this dungeon for all eternity. They plead for the chance to join me down in these desolate hollows, inflicting upon her person the same cruelty I do day by agonizing day. Nothing would give them more pleasure in life than to have but a moment with her to tickle beyond all oblivion, breaking her down again and again in the same manner I do that they only can hear about over the internet.
Maybe someday my friends, but for now, she is mine for all of eternity.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday June 13, 2019
5:27 AM
Oh, how we were getting so close…so close indeed.
It has been a most uneventful stretch for my darling, not that which is void of our three daily tickle sessions without interruption, but in the manner in which her behavior follows. Ever since our little all-night session not two weeks before, she had been much more subservient than previous. It was in the way she let herself be taken away for her torments regardless of what they may be, not even scowling at me the way she had before. She seemed finally to be accepting her fate and, as a reward, was let out of her nightly binds out of trust. But, it seemed as though her feigned submission may have gotten the better of me had I not had my suspicions. Little could she have known that I had surreptitiously rigged a hidden camera in her room, feeding a livestream to a hidden website that only those most devoted fans of mine could have access to. That little midnight movie caught a mischievous little girl crawling through an air vent from her quarters, something she had no access to prior, thinking it only to be her one and only chance of escape, and had I not wedged a funnel six feet into it, trapping her in frustration until I was alerted by her audience online, it just might have been.
Now she must be punished.
Having knocked her out by a special concoction pumped into the vent, I set her atop her bed, stripping her nude while placing a fresh set of nylons atop her feet. I bind her ankles atop the headboard high above her head, with her wrists tied with thick nylon rope to the other side, unable to do anything but grasp frantically at the thin air in front of her. Strapping a ring gag in between her teeth, she has only the ability to gaze in horror at her torments that follow the moment she rouses from her slumber. A vibrator hangs precariously from above, placed gently atop her bare genitals on the weediest of settings, just enough to tease the tiny hairs atop her clit in agonizing fashion. Paralyzed she lays, having only the ability to watch her weeping womanhood be teased relentlessly, the thought of an orgasm ripped from her grasp the moment she even moans in impermissible pleasure: ravaging her tender soles with dual hairbrushes, I indulge in her rampant shrieks for release after each one lost. Streams of tears and forced drool cascade down her naked chest, trickling across her person, serving yet another reminder of how helpless she has been rendered. Mercy is not a word that has entered this room the moment she first arrived, and now, it never will.
She will be left like this, locked in perpetual chastity to be teased right to the very brink time and time again only to have her climax ripped from her possession, her reddened soles only that much more sensitive with each passing orgasm. It was by day three that her dignity escaped her, begging me to give her the fucking of her life, taking control of every hole she had just for the hope of relieving herself. Poor thing, believing that I would trust a word she says after trying to escape the amenities I crafted for her, knowing for sure I am going to have to demonstrate just how those very torments were but the tip of the iceberg.
But, if I am to truly punish her, I am going to need some help…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday June 24, 2019
11:37 PM
I dispatched a car to pick him up from the airport at the exact time specified. In cliché fashion, upon entering the vehicle, he was instructed to wear a blindfold, taking away his ability to recognize where he was going or, better yet, where he had been. I met him online, one of the many spectators to frequent my clandestine website detailing the most horrendous tickle torture inflicted on one most exquisite of soccer stars, the lovely Alex Morgan. I know nothing of this man but that from the correspondence we shared online, trading details as to the most effective methods of tickling poor Alex to absolute oblivion. It was only after a thorough background check, having gained access to his personal accounts, that I deemed him a candidate for the honor of being the first visitor to the Palazzo de Rigsby.
Upon arrival, I greet him at the door, taking him inside to my dining room just above where she lays. I made him sign a confidentiality agreement, promising the dismantling of all he knows and loves if he mentions his time here to anyone. Gleefully he signs on the dotted line, knowing the priceless nature of such an experience. Filing the form away, I lead him down to her chambers where his plaything is waiting for him. Per special request, I had her clad in the outfit of his choice: the original blue jersey and bottoms with matching beanie. To him, that “tough as nails” demeanor of hers was the very first impression he fell for, and that nothing would satisfy him more than to see her strong will broken into two.
She is seated atop the Sybian, with her ankles and knees strapped to the platform below. Her wrists cuffed high above her head, a wooden bit gag is subsequently wedged in between her teeth. She glares at him the moment he enters, delivering unto him a look of pure disdain that has him absolutely beaming. He seats himself behind her, activating the device on its highest setting before going to work. Taking a set of industrial fabric cutters, he begins slicing away at the bottoms of her cleats, removing the rubber soles to gaze upon her perfectly helpless bare feet. Scraping deep into their supple flesh with his nails, he revels in her desperation as she pulls at her restraints above, the vibrating attachment incessantly rubbing against her clit, pushing her closer and closer over the edge despite his ravenous tickling. With her sex-craved body having been primed over the last two months, she is ripe and ready for an earth-shattering climax ripping through her body in a matter of moments.
He lets her cum, a decision that in no way could be described as merciful.
With every new orgasm comes a flurry of cruel torments, capitalizing on her renewed sensitivity she has yet to experience until now. Scraping the pinwheels across her heels, she lets out an ear-shattering shriek before cumming once again, the horror of having to endure yet another orgasm through her endless torment too much to bear. Countless times she succumb to her womanly desires, and countless times she was punished for it, her body ravaged to no end as her captor merely looked on in utter pleasure. Be it the crevices of her ribs, the cavities of her underarms, or the indentations of her hips, nothing was overlooked as he explored her vulnerable body with a curiosity I could only admire.
After three hours of nonstop tickling and forced orgasms, I gave her a rest, pulling him out to review the footage of their little session. Gazing upon her dangling form, the vacancy in her eyes is evidence enough that he may have succeeded in his goal. Commending him on a job well done, I give him a copy of the video before accompanying him to the door, knowing for sure he would be pleasuring himself on the way back to the airport.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday June 28, 2019
8:23 AM
The cat’s pretty much out of the bag now: that I, Bartholomew V. Rigsby, have in my possession international soccer star Alex Morgan, trapped in my dastardly chambers where she suffers an endless torrent of tickle torture day in and day out. Yes, but it is not just I that knows oh so well of her tortures, but an entire community of voyeurs that have been amassing over the past two months. What began as a set of obscured photographs posted on a seemingly innocuous internet forum has expanded into a perpetual livestream of torments, documenting every moment of her misery underneath my fingertips. Little could she imagine the hordes of onlookers that pleasure themselves to her ticklish anguish, or the droves of commentators who wish only to join me in driving her out of her mind. It is only fair that she questions that, as with every passive party to this little closed network we have, there is one more person who is fully capable of notifying the authorities on her whereabouts, but who never says a word for fear of it all ending.
Today, I have the pleasure of welcoming a pair of sisters to my compound: Maggie and Maddy Harrington. These golden-haired ladies, both in their early forties, have had a healthy penchant for tickle torture since they can remember. From cousins to neighbors, it seemed every chance they got they found yet another victim to satisfy their desires. Recently, they had been preying on their housekeepers, a succession of Spanish-speaking young ladies who would have done anything to keep from losing their jobs. Tying them to their beds, they ravage their bodies endlessly together, their fun being interrupted once the screams were picked up by the neighbors. Now, they are here to have a different kind of fun.
They enter the chamber, gazing upon the delectable darling bound spread eagle across her own bed, clad in the demeaning French maid costume they had requested. Reaching behind her, Maggie begins by placing a blindfold across Alex’s eyes just as Maddy begins tracing her fingers across her bosom. They explore every inch of her, snaking their way underneath her uniform as they caress her underarms and belly, dancing their fingers over the inner flesh of her thighs as a precursor for that to come. Her teetering giggles are a far cry from the strained guffaws she is used to eliciting, the erotic torments from her female ticklers usurping her resistance instantly. However, that does not make her suffering that much less maddening, the unpredictability of the two throwing her for a loop time and time again. Little by little, tearing away at her costume with their teeth down to nothing, they have full access to every erogenous zone, capitalizing on her vulnerability as they bring her to the edge time and time again. They even force her to pleasure them, promising to let her climax once they are fully satisfied. What little dignity she has left in this world to believe them, but the more she is pushed to the brink, the more she gives in. By the end of it, soaked in her own sweat and love juices, they leave her all but completely unsatisfied.
I think now it is time to push her to the absolute limit…and then some.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday July 2, 2019
12:56 PM
It’s incredible to me that something so common knowledge in our little corner of the internet here can be completely overlooked by the world at large. I mean, think about it: here we are, with one of the most well-known soccer stars in our possession, livestreaming her ticklish suffering to the world wide web daily, and yet everyone else on this planet is none the wiser.
Such was the same phenomenon that the Longmire sisters had encountered: Darby, Tracy, Amber, Remi, and Penny Longmire or, as they had been dubbed, The Five Points. I had caught wind of their dastardly deeds while scrolling through the forums one night, reading up on the mythical tales of five sisters who took unsuspecting college girls from their dorms, dragging them into the woods to inflict a merciless tickle torture upon them. Seeming to be yet another tall tale to keep those promiscuous young ladies in their rooms at night, I was led to an article featuring rising star Jordyn Jones who, to this day, is completely mute about her time as assistant to the Longmire sisters, having “falsely” accused them of such a deed before being forced to work off her debts. I knew then and there that they were the perfect candidates to pay my precious Alex a visit.
Two days later, I welcomed them to my residence, introducing them to my captive through live video feeding from below. I let them know that they had free reign to determine her torments, as I knew they were true professionals in the matter. Asking them if there was anything I could do to prepare her for them, they said in unison merely these two words: the hunt. To them, the very process of capturing their victims, taking hold of them one by one until they are pinned helpless to the ground and ripe for their tickling, is the only way to truly break their spirit. I humbly agreed: having “forgotten” to lock up Alex’s room later that night, I sat back and watched my delectable little darling sneak out her door, rounding the corner to try and navigate the vast chambers she has just gained access to. It was moments later that she heard a noise, followed by the hushed whispers of someone slowly approaching before, right from the shadows, she felt a hand grasp her wrist, pulling her swiftly to the ground.
One by one, they pounced on her, neutralizing her one limb at a time until she was laid spread eagle across the floor, rendered helpless by their grasp alone. The moment they were finished, indulging in the thought of such a prominent starlet in their midst, they began their torments. Poor Alex, unable to even grasp at thin air as her body was ravaged by their ticklish ways, her hands having been encased in bondage mittens as an extra precaution. They were merciless: scraping their sharpened talons deep into her quivering flesh, they extracted the most guttural of shrieks out of her strained gullet the likes of which I could never imagine. No amount of clothing she wore could deter their invasive ways, tantalizing me with evermore cruel displays upon poor little Alex. They were experts in their craft, able to pin her effectively one-handed despite her formidable physique, ravaging their favorite tickle spot with the other. Little could she handle one cruel captor in this manner, let alone five, and by the end of the night underneath their grasp, it seemed as though her psyche had finally shattered in two.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday August 15, 2019
10:39 AM
I had been told growing up that I was quite rough with my toys as a child, always managing to break them before I even got going…I guess some things never change.
I lead my darling once again into my media room, a much more obedient shell of her former self in the palm of my hands. It’s understandable how three months of unyielding tickle torments could break down even the most stalwart of resolves, and I must say, watching it crumble right before my eyes was delectable to say the least. But, when the dust settles and all you’re left with is a docile little tickle pet at your beck and call, well, it’s just not the same anymore. With the fire burning in her eyes perpetually doused, and the fight within her having been quelled long ago, the thought of continuing this little game just doesn’t sound as promising anymore. Oh don’t worry, I intend on keeping her for the long haul, for she might prove useful in acquiring my next captive.
How is that, you ask? Well, I’ll show you.
I sit her down facing the computer screen, its contents the profiles of each one of her former teammates, past and present. In monotone voice, she dictates every detail I ask of her: home addresses, phone numbers, laptop settings, bank account preferences, recovery passwords, everything that she had been entrusted with as a member of the team now falling effortlessly from her lips. Little by little, I begin piecing together the possible whereabouts of some of the most prominent soccer stars you could get your hands on. Had she known exactly what she was doing, maybe she would have resisted, holding out for just a few more days until finally cracking under her torments. But no: pushed far past her breaking point, she is now subservient to my influence, putting the nail in the coffin for those who may be next up in her position.
Having compiled the pertinent information into a spreadsheet, I post it to the forum for my followers, requesting their help in affirming said information. Within it, I give them detailed instruction on how best to proceed: that they are to confirm the whereabouts of these stars, using all the access points I have provided to their advantage, and that they are not to confront them in any way, for only when the information is validated will I dispatch another extraction team when the opportunity arises. The reward for information leading to a successful acquisition will be a two-week stay at the Palazzo de Rigsby, where they will get to indulge themselves in the ticklish delights of two top soccer starlets to their liking. I can only imagine what that might entail: will they make Alex watch as they tickle her teammate right in front of her eyes? Will they pit them against one another in head-on tickle battles, forcing the loser to be tickled by the victor once defeated?
It’s only a matter of time before the second chapter of our little tale of tickle terrors begins…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue
Seven weeks after her rescue, a judge sentenced Bartholomew V. Rigsby to life plus 87 years in prison for his crimes. The charges, piled atop one another as they were read aloud in court, included Kidnapping, False Imprisonment, Torture, Witness Tampering, Obstruction of Justice, and Possession of Unlawful Media with the Intent to Distribute. As he was led away in his orange jumpsuit and shackles, a gallery full of Alex’s teammates celebrated his sentence, with one solemn Alex Morgan sitting in the back row, tears of joy streaming down her face. Met by the media frenzy outside, with the help of her soccer sisters by her side, she thanked all of her supporters who never lost faith that one day she would soon be coming home, and that she was glad to finally be putting all this behind her and begin her training as soon as possible. The crowd cheered her resolve, knowing that yet another brave woman had risen above adversity, and that this entire ordeal could be put behind her.
However, if anyone thought that it was all over, they were in for a most unpleasant surprise.
It began with star midfielder Tobin Heath, having encountered the same man multiple times throughout the day at different locations around town. Her agent called the police to report a stalker, and when they arrived to question him, they found tracking software on his phone live feeding her exact location, giving him the ability to know her whereabouts at every turn. He was arrested, and the case was chalked up to yet another nutso stalker…that is, until a week later, another incident occurred. A break-in was reported at the residence of Morgan Brian, only found by a neighbor seeing the broken window, as it seems the home invader traversed the security system like he had installed it himself, only caught in the act when he was found asleep in her bedroom closet. Had she and her husband not been on vacation that week, investigators note, who knows what could have happened that night. However, the most terrifying report can just four days later when, outside a popular nightclub just past midnight, the petite Rose Lavelle was suddenly grabbed from behind, dragged into an alleyway with an ether-soaked rag over her mouth and nose. It was only through the heroism of a homeless man sleeping nearby that she is even hear to speak of it.
Little by little, it was discovered that the data on every one of these athletes had been compromised, and that their personal information was being accessed freely on the web to track their every move whenever possible. Questioning the way all of them could have been affected by the breach, investigators reached out to Alex Morgan for any information she may have divulged during her captivity. Unfortunately, as her lawyer explained, Miss Morgan was still recovering from her ordeal, and would get back to detectives the moment she feels up to it, something that was putting her fellow athletes in danger the longer she avoided them.
So it continued, a smattering of close calls and risky contacts putting all of her closest friends on edge until, one fateful day, this happened…
