The van had screeched to a halt in the middle of nowhere just after midnight. Catherine barely had time to scream before rough hands yanked the blindfold over her eyes and the duct tape sealed her lips. Beside her, Emily—her sweet, gentle eighteen-year-old daughter—thrashed and whimpered until a low, calm voice promised that struggling would only make things worse for the person she loved most.
They were dragged into what felt like a cold concrete basement. The air smelled of mildew and metal. When the blindfolds finally came off, Catherine and Emily found themselves in a dimly lit room with bare walls, a single metal chair bolted to the floor, and two pairs of thick leather restraints waiting like silent sentinels.
Catherine’s heart shattered the moment she saw the second set of ankle stocks positioned directly in front of the chair—old-fashioned wooden stocks with padded leather cuffs, the kind designed to hold feet immobile and vulnerable. She recognized the setup immediately from the whispered horror stories she’d once read online, years ago, back when she thought such things only existed in fantasy.
Two masked men stood behind them. Black ski masks, black gloves, black tactical vests. One of them carried a small black remote in his hand, the kind used for car alarms—or, more likely, for something far crueler.
“Catherine,” the taller one said, voice muffled but calm, almost polite. “You sit in the chair. Emily, you kneel right there, between her feet.”
Catherine’s soft brown eyes widened. She shook her head frantically behind the tape, trying to speak, trying to bargain with muffled pleas. The shorter man stepped forward, peeled the tape away just enough for her to talk.
“Please,” she whispered immediately, voice trembling. “Take me. Do whatever you want to me. Just let my daughter go. She’s innocent. She’s—”
“We’re not interested in bargaining,” the tall one interrupted. “We’re interested in obedience. And entertainment.”
He nodded toward the remote. “Emily wears a collar. Very simple design. If her hands stop moving for more than five seconds—or if she refuses an order—the collar delivers a progressively stronger shock. We’ve calibrated it. Level one stings. Level three makes most people scream. Level five… well. We’d prefer not to find out how high we have to go before she learns.”
Emily, already shaking, looked up at her mother with huge, terrified hazel eyes. “Mom…?”
Catherine’s chest heaved. She was an ISFJ through and through—nurturing, self-sacrificing, the kind of woman who would quietly bleed so her child could keep breathing. The thought of Emily in pain was worse than anything they could do to her own body.
“It’s okay, baby,” Catherine managed, forcing her voice steady even though tears were already sliding down her cheeks. “It’s okay. Just… do what they say. I can take it.”
They forced Catherine into the chair. Thick leather cuffs locked around her wrists behind the backrest, another band across her ribs, pinning her in place. Her bare feet—still in the soft cotton ankle socks she’d worn to bed—were lifted and locked into the stocks. The men peeled the socks off slowly, deliberately, letting the cool air kiss the tender arches and wiggling toes that had never been exposed to anyone like this before.
Catherine’s feet were beautiful in the way only a mother’s can be after years of quiet caretaking: pale, high-arched, with long, slender toes that curled instinctively when she was nervous. The pale pink polish on her toenails was slightly chipped—evidence of the long day she’d spent running errands, cooking dinner, folding laundry. Ordinary feet. Loving feet. Now horribly, inescapably vulnerable.
Emily was pushed to her knees between the stocks. Her wrists were cuffed together in front of her with just enough chain to allow full use of her fingers. The collar around her throat was black, sleek, almost fashionable if not for the two small metal contacts that pressed coldly against her skin.
The tall man crouched beside Emily and spoke very gently, almost kindly.
“You’re going to tickle your mother’s feet, Emily. Fingers, nails, tools—we don’t care how you do it, just keep those pretty feet dancing. The moment your hands stop moving for more than five seconds, the collar activates. Understood?”
Emily nodded, tears streaming. “I—I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You won’t be hurting her,” the man said. “You’ll be saving her from having to watch you suffer. That’s the beautiful part.”
He stood, stepped back, and pressed a button on the remote.
A tiny red light blinked on Emily’s collar. The countdown had begun.
Catherine looked down at her daughter’s frightened face and forced a shaky smile. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s tough. Just… just start. Please. I don’t want them to hurt you.”
Emily’s trembling fingers hesitated, hovering an inch above the pale, defenceless soles. Then she closed her eyes, took a shuddering breath, and let her fingertips brush lightly against the balls of her mother’s feet.
Catherine jerked violently, a surprised giggle escaping before she could stop it. “Ehehe—Emily, oh god—”
The sound was soft, helpless, mortifying. Catherine had always been ridiculously ticklish. Always. Family movie nights when Emily was little had sometimes ended with Catherine curled on the couch, squealing while tiny fingers skittered under her arms or along her ribs. But this… this was different. This was intimate. This was endless.
Emily’s nails—short, neatly manicured—dragged slowly up the center of one arch. Catherine’s toes splayed wide, then curled tight, the muscles in her calves jumping.
“Keep going,” the man warned. “Slower is fine. Faster is fine. Just don’t stop.”
Emily swallowed hard. She could feel the collar against her throat like a promise. She dragged her nails again, this time in long, lingering strokes from heel to toes. Catherine’s laughter spilled out in earnest now—bright, desperate, musical.
“Ahahahaha—Emily—sweetie—ahahaha—not the arches—please—ahahahaha!”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Emily whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t stop.
Her fingers danced faster, skittering over the tender pads beneath each toe, then sweeping down to scribble wildly in the center of the sole. Catherine threw her head back, dark hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks, laughing hysterically.
“HAHAHAHA—BABY—NOHOHO—NOT THERE—NOT THE TOES—EEEEEEHEHEHE!”
Emily’s own tears kept falling, splashing onto the tops of her mother’s writhing feet. She hated this. She hated every second. And yet she couldn’t stop—not when every time she slowed even a little, the red light on her collar pulsed brighter, warning her.
Catherine saw it too. Through streaming eyes, she watched the light flicker and her maternal panic surged past her own torment.
“Keep going, Emily,” she gasped between peals of laughter. “Don’t stop—please—don’t stop—ahahahaha—I can take it—keep tickling Mommy’s feet—please—don’t let them hurt you—HAHAHA—KEEP GOING!”
Emily sobbed openly now, but her fingers obeyed. She raked all ten nails down both soles at once, slow and merciless. Catherine shrieked, bucking against the restraints, her laughter turning hoarse and frantic.
“NOHOHOHO—MERCY—EMILY—HAHAHAHA—I CAN’T—TOO MUCH—PLEASE—KEEP GOING—DON’T STOP—DON’T YOU DARE STOP!”
The men watched in silence. One of them checked his watch. The other simply smiled behind his mask.
Emily switched tactics, trying to find some rhythm that might be less unbearable for her mother. She used the very tips of her nails to spider-tickle the undersides of Catherine’s toes, one by one, coaxing them to curl and splay helplessly. Catherine’s laughter fractured into high-pitched squeals.
“EEEEEE—THE TOES—NOT THE TOOOES—HAHAHA—EMILY—SWEETHEART—YOU’RE KILLING ME—KEEP GOING—DON’T STOP—PLEASE DON’T STOP!”
Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Catherine’s face was flushed crimson, tears and sweat mingling, chest heaving between hysterical giggles and pleading gasps. Her feet were a blur of motion—wrinkled soles flexing, long toes spreading wide then snapping shut, heels drumming uselessly against the wood.
Emily’s fingers never rested. She scratched lightly under the toes, then raked down the arches, then fluttered over the balls of the feet, then returned to tease the tender skin between the toes. Every technique drew fresh waves of desperate, loving laughter from her mother.
“I love you,” Catherine managed to choke out during a brief, gasping pause. “I love you so much—ahahaha—keep going—don’t you dare stop—don’t let them shock you—Mommy’s okay—Mommy’s okay—HAHAHAHA!”
Emily leaned forward, pressing her forehead briefly against her mother’s trembling knee, whispering broken apologies even as her fingers continued their relentless dance.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I love you too.”
Catherine’s soles were slick now with sweat, making the tickling even worse—fingers slid faster, found every sensitive crease, every hidden wrinkle. The laughter grew louder, wilder, more broken.
And still Emily’s hands moved.
And still the collar stayed silent.
The tall man finally spoke again, voice almost amused.
“Very good, ladies. You’re naturals. We’re going to be here a while.”
Catherine threw her head back in another peal of helpless, hysterical laughter, toes fanning wide as Emily’s nails skittered mercilessly beneath them.
“HAHAHAHA—EMILY—KEEP GOING—PLEASE—DON’T STOP—NEVER STOP!”
To be continued…
They were dragged into what felt like a cold concrete basement. The air smelled of mildew and metal. When the blindfolds finally came off, Catherine and Emily found themselves in a dimly lit room with bare walls, a single metal chair bolted to the floor, and two pairs of thick leather restraints waiting like silent sentinels.
Catherine’s heart shattered the moment she saw the second set of ankle stocks positioned directly in front of the chair—old-fashioned wooden stocks with padded leather cuffs, the kind designed to hold feet immobile and vulnerable. She recognized the setup immediately from the whispered horror stories she’d once read online, years ago, back when she thought such things only existed in fantasy.
Two masked men stood behind them. Black ski masks, black gloves, black tactical vests. One of them carried a small black remote in his hand, the kind used for car alarms—or, more likely, for something far crueler.
“Catherine,” the taller one said, voice muffled but calm, almost polite. “You sit in the chair. Emily, you kneel right there, between her feet.”
Catherine’s soft brown eyes widened. She shook her head frantically behind the tape, trying to speak, trying to bargain with muffled pleas. The shorter man stepped forward, peeled the tape away just enough for her to talk.
“Please,” she whispered immediately, voice trembling. “Take me. Do whatever you want to me. Just let my daughter go. She’s innocent. She’s—”
“We’re not interested in bargaining,” the tall one interrupted. “We’re interested in obedience. And entertainment.”
He nodded toward the remote. “Emily wears a collar. Very simple design. If her hands stop moving for more than five seconds—or if she refuses an order—the collar delivers a progressively stronger shock. We’ve calibrated it. Level one stings. Level three makes most people scream. Level five… well. We’d prefer not to find out how high we have to go before she learns.”
Emily, already shaking, looked up at her mother with huge, terrified hazel eyes. “Mom…?”
Catherine’s chest heaved. She was an ISFJ through and through—nurturing, self-sacrificing, the kind of woman who would quietly bleed so her child could keep breathing. The thought of Emily in pain was worse than anything they could do to her own body.
“It’s okay, baby,” Catherine managed, forcing her voice steady even though tears were already sliding down her cheeks. “It’s okay. Just… do what they say. I can take it.”
They forced Catherine into the chair. Thick leather cuffs locked around her wrists behind the backrest, another band across her ribs, pinning her in place. Her bare feet—still in the soft cotton ankle socks she’d worn to bed—were lifted and locked into the stocks. The men peeled the socks off slowly, deliberately, letting the cool air kiss the tender arches and wiggling toes that had never been exposed to anyone like this before.
Catherine’s feet were beautiful in the way only a mother’s can be after years of quiet caretaking: pale, high-arched, with long, slender toes that curled instinctively when she was nervous. The pale pink polish on her toenails was slightly chipped—evidence of the long day she’d spent running errands, cooking dinner, folding laundry. Ordinary feet. Loving feet. Now horribly, inescapably vulnerable.
Emily was pushed to her knees between the stocks. Her wrists were cuffed together in front of her with just enough chain to allow full use of her fingers. The collar around her throat was black, sleek, almost fashionable if not for the two small metal contacts that pressed coldly against her skin.
The tall man crouched beside Emily and spoke very gently, almost kindly.
“You’re going to tickle your mother’s feet, Emily. Fingers, nails, tools—we don’t care how you do it, just keep those pretty feet dancing. The moment your hands stop moving for more than five seconds, the collar activates. Understood?”
Emily nodded, tears streaming. “I—I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You won’t be hurting her,” the man said. “You’ll be saving her from having to watch you suffer. That’s the beautiful part.”
He stood, stepped back, and pressed a button on the remote.
A tiny red light blinked on Emily’s collar. The countdown had begun.
Catherine looked down at her daughter’s frightened face and forced a shaky smile. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s tough. Just… just start. Please. I don’t want them to hurt you.”
Emily’s trembling fingers hesitated, hovering an inch above the pale, defenceless soles. Then she closed her eyes, took a shuddering breath, and let her fingertips brush lightly against the balls of her mother’s feet.
Catherine jerked violently, a surprised giggle escaping before she could stop it. “Ehehe—Emily, oh god—”
The sound was soft, helpless, mortifying. Catherine had always been ridiculously ticklish. Always. Family movie nights when Emily was little had sometimes ended with Catherine curled on the couch, squealing while tiny fingers skittered under her arms or along her ribs. But this… this was different. This was intimate. This was endless.
Emily’s nails—short, neatly manicured—dragged slowly up the center of one arch. Catherine’s toes splayed wide, then curled tight, the muscles in her calves jumping.
“Keep going,” the man warned. “Slower is fine. Faster is fine. Just don’t stop.”
Emily swallowed hard. She could feel the collar against her throat like a promise. She dragged her nails again, this time in long, lingering strokes from heel to toes. Catherine’s laughter spilled out in earnest now—bright, desperate, musical.
“Ahahahaha—Emily—sweetie—ahahaha—not the arches—please—ahahahaha!”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Emily whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t stop.
Her fingers danced faster, skittering over the tender pads beneath each toe, then sweeping down to scribble wildly in the center of the sole. Catherine threw her head back, dark hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks, laughing hysterically.
“HAHAHAHA—BABY—NOHOHO—NOT THERE—NOT THE TOES—EEEEEEHEHEHE!”
Emily’s own tears kept falling, splashing onto the tops of her mother’s writhing feet. She hated this. She hated every second. And yet she couldn’t stop—not when every time she slowed even a little, the red light on her collar pulsed brighter, warning her.
Catherine saw it too. Through streaming eyes, she watched the light flicker and her maternal panic surged past her own torment.
“Keep going, Emily,” she gasped between peals of laughter. “Don’t stop—please—don’t stop—ahahahaha—I can take it—keep tickling Mommy’s feet—please—don’t let them hurt you—HAHAHA—KEEP GOING!”
Emily sobbed openly now, but her fingers obeyed. She raked all ten nails down both soles at once, slow and merciless. Catherine shrieked, bucking against the restraints, her laughter turning hoarse and frantic.
“NOHOHOHO—MERCY—EMILY—HAHAHAHA—I CAN’T—TOO MUCH—PLEASE—KEEP GOING—DON’T STOP—DON’T YOU DARE STOP!”
The men watched in silence. One of them checked his watch. The other simply smiled behind his mask.
Emily switched tactics, trying to find some rhythm that might be less unbearable for her mother. She used the very tips of her nails to spider-tickle the undersides of Catherine’s toes, one by one, coaxing them to curl and splay helplessly. Catherine’s laughter fractured into high-pitched squeals.
“EEEEEE—THE TOES—NOT THE TOOOES—HAHAHA—EMILY—SWEETHEART—YOU’RE KILLING ME—KEEP GOING—DON’T STOP—PLEASE DON’T STOP!”
Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Catherine’s face was flushed crimson, tears and sweat mingling, chest heaving between hysterical giggles and pleading gasps. Her feet were a blur of motion—wrinkled soles flexing, long toes spreading wide then snapping shut, heels drumming uselessly against the wood.
Emily’s fingers never rested. She scratched lightly under the toes, then raked down the arches, then fluttered over the balls of the feet, then returned to tease the tender skin between the toes. Every technique drew fresh waves of desperate, loving laughter from her mother.
“I love you,” Catherine managed to choke out during a brief, gasping pause. “I love you so much—ahahaha—keep going—don’t you dare stop—don’t let them shock you—Mommy’s okay—Mommy’s okay—HAHAHAHA!”
Emily leaned forward, pressing her forehead briefly against her mother’s trembling knee, whispering broken apologies even as her fingers continued their relentless dance.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I love you too.”
Catherine’s soles were slick now with sweat, making the tickling even worse—fingers slid faster, found every sensitive crease, every hidden wrinkle. The laughter grew louder, wilder, more broken.
And still Emily’s hands moved.
And still the collar stayed silent.
The tall man finally spoke again, voice almost amused.
“Very good, ladies. You’re naturals. We’re going to be here a while.”
Catherine threw her head back in another peal of helpless, hysterical laughter, toes fanning wide as Emily’s nails skittered mercilessly beneath them.
“HAHAHAHA—EMILY—KEEP GOING—PLEASE—DON’T STOP—NEVER STOP!”
To be continued…
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