CoyoteZero03 TKL
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I kneel down in front of her stretcher again, but this time my goal is different. My eyes slide down to her feet, still bound by the ankle straps. Her feet are perfect, arched, with soft skin and nails painted that deep emerald green that I made her paint herself.
With slow, deliberate movements, I unfasten the strap on her right ankle. There is no resistance; she is too exhausted to fight. I lift her foot and place it gently on my lap, the position is strange, almost maternal. Daniela blinks, confused, and finally looks down at me.
What are you doing?
She doesn't say the question out loud, but I read it in her eyes... There is perplexity, a flash of old fear, but above all, total strangeness. She prepared herself for more pain, for more rape, for more of the same. This... this doesn't fit into any of her nightmares.
"What... what are you going to do?" she whispers, her voice hoarse from screaming and moaning.
I don't answer, I just smile at her. A soft, almost kind smile. And then I raise my hand, my long, polished nails resting on the sole of her foot.
And I start to scratch.
It's not a blow. It's not a pinch. It's a light, almost imperceptible touch, my nails sliding from her heel to the base of her toes. Again and again.
Daniela stands completely still. Her body tenses, but not in the same way as before. It is a tension of confusion. She frowns. She feels something, but she doesn't know how to interpret it. It is a strange, irritating sensation, like an insect walking on her skin.
"What is that?" she asks again, this time a little more firmly, as if she is about to lose her patience. "Are you scratching me? Why?"
I keep scratching, a little harder now, drawing small circles on the arch of her foot. The sensation begins to change, the simple rubbing turns into itching. A deep itch that she cannot relieve.
"Stop! What are you doing?" she says, trying to pull her foot away, but my other hand holds it firmly by the ankle. It's not brute force, it's an immovable grip. her foot isn't going anywhere.
I stop scratching, my hand remaining still on her foot, simply pressing lightly, the confusion on his face is complete, he expected pain, or more of that irritating sensation, not this silence.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks again, his voice filled with genuine perplexity. "What are you trying to do with... with this?"
I smile at him, a calm, calculating smile. "With what? With this." I move my fingers slightly, not to scratch, but to massage the arch with my thumb, a slow, deep movement.
She tenses up, but not in the same way. It's a tension of waiting, of anticipation.
"Why are you tickling me?" he asks, and there is a tone of complaint in his voice, as if he were complaining about some absurd injustice. "That's... that's childish, it's for girls. What's the point?"
"Oh, childish?" I repeat, continuing with the massage, feeling her muscles relax a little under the pressure, deceived by the seemingly normal sensation. "For you maybe, but for me, it's a much more effective form of torture than hitting."
I stop massaging and my eyes meet hers. I can see she doesn't believe me.
"A blow leaves a bruise, it hurts and then it heals, it's simple, crude," I explain, my voice low and persuasive. "But this... this is different. This doesn't mark your skin, it marks your mind. It forces you to laugh while you feel like you're dying of humiliation, it's a contradiction your brain can't process. Pleasure and pain mixed together until you don't know which is which, it's much cleaner. And much, much more fun."
As I speak, my nails are back at work, but gently, tracing invisible lines on her heel. She listens to me, trying to understand, to find the logic in my madness. Her brow is furrowed in concentration.
"I don't understand," she whispers. "It's just... ha ha ha..."
The first laugh escapes her, a small, involuntary sound, like a hiccup, my nails have already found their true target. They stop at the base of her fingers, on that soft, sensitive skin.
"Oh, really?" I murmur, and begin to scratch that small area with the tip of my index fingernail, a quick, insistent, tiny movement.
The reaction is instantaneous.
"Hahaha... no... hahaha... stop...," she says, but it's too late, laughter has taken over. It's not a belly laugh, it's a torrent of sharp, uncontrollable giggles. Her body begins to writhe on the table, her free leg twitching, trying to escape the source of this childish and terrible torture.
"Hahahaha... stop... stop... please... hahahaha... Jennifer... hahahahaha... I can't... hahahahaha."
"See?" I say, without stopping my attack on her fingers. "I told you, it's much better than a punch, right?"
Between stifled giggles, she manages to get the words out, a desperate effort to regain some control. "My... hahahaha... my family... hahahaha... they'll notice that... hahahaha... that we're not... hahahaha... they'll call the police... hahahaha."
I keep scratching him, unperturbed. "Let them worry about that, you worry about laughing a lot."
"No... hahaha... I don't like this... hahaha... for me... hahaha... I'd rather be hit... hahahahaha... it's more... hahaha... it's more dignified... hahahahaha."
Between gasps and laughter, he manages to look me in the eyes, a weak and trembling challenge. "You... hahahaha... you wouldn't like... hahahaha... them doing this to you... hahahahaha."
My smile doesn't fade, my nails continue to scratch at the base of her fingers. "It doesn't affect me," I reply, my voice as calm as my hands. "I'm not ticklish."
The lie is perfect, told with a conviction that seems real, it is the definitive statement of my superiority.
I watch her process my response, her mind struggling to understand how anyone could be immune to this torture that is tearing her apart. And in that moment of distraction, I release her right foot. It falls onto the table with a small thud, trembling as I tie it up again.
Without wasting a second, I slide to the other side of the table, my fingers moving to the strap on her left ankle. I unfasten it with the same deliberate slowness and lift her other foot, also perfect, also adorned with that emerald green that is my mark. I place it on my lap, giving it my full attention.
My nails begin to scratch the sole of her left foot. She laughs, but not like before; she endures this foot better. The laughter is lower, more restrained, as if she were learning to fight it. She tries to pull her foot back, but my hand is like a clamp on her ankle. I'm not going to let go, I can't, I love her feet, the shape of her arch, the softness of her skin. My nails run over every inch, from her heel to the base of her toes, over and over again, watching her squirm and listening to her stifled giggles.
"Hahaha... stop... hahaha... enough... hahaha... my feet... hahaha."
I ignore her, bend down, and without warning, run my tongue along the sole of her foot. A long, wet lick. Her body tenses in a different way; it's not laughter, it's disgust. A pure shiver runs through her.
"That's disgusting!" she screams, her voice filled with genuine revulsion. "What are you doing?! That's disgusting!"
I lick it again, this time more slowly, gently sucking on her heel. It tickles, yes, but only slightly, a mild annoyance. What she feels is disgust. She looks at me with horror, as if I had just done something unhygienic, something unnatural. She keeps laughing, but it's weak giggles, mixed with moans of disgust. She tries to pull her foot away, but my hand holds it tighter, my mouth continues its work, licking her toes, running my tongue through the space between them, feeling her tremble under my touch, not with pleasure, but with humiliation and disgust that are breaking her inside.
I don't stop, my tongue tracing slow circles on her arch, and each movement provoking a contradictory reaction in her. A spasm, a stifled giggle, and then a moan of pure disgust. Her fingers curl, trying to escape my mouth, but I chase them, taking her big toe and putting it in my mouth, sucking it gently. The sound she makes is a mixture of a sob and a stifled laugh.
"No! Take it out! Hahahaha... please, take it out... that's disgusting... hahahaha... it's disgusting, Jennifer, stop... hahahaha."
I ignore her, my mouth sliding down toward the base of her fingers, that sensitive area. My lips surround her, my tongue plays there, and although the sensation is ticklish, it is so low, so mixed with the moisture and warmth of my breath, that her body does not know how to react. She laughs, but it's a weak, forced laugh, full of revulsion. Her eyes are closed, as if that could block the sensation, but it's useless. Her whole being is focused on her foot, on my mouth, on this act that she finds so degrading that it overwhelms her.
I release her foot for a second, just to look at it. It is shiny, covered with my saliva. It is a work of art. A work of art that I have created. I take it again, but this time I turn it, exposing the instep. My tongue runs over the fine bones, from the ankle to the base of the toes. She squirms, her head moving from side to side on the pillow.
"Hahaha... no... not there... hahaha... please... hahaha... it's gross... hahaha... it's so weird... hahaha"
My attention returns to the sole of her foot. My teeth lightly graze her heel, not to bite, just so she can feel the edge of them, and her body jumps as if she had received an electric shock. A loud, high-pitched scream escapes her, mixed with uncontrollable laughter. It's the perfect combination of pain, disgust, and tickling. I keep it there, on the edge, my teeth gently scraping while my tongue licks the same area.
"No! Hahahaha... stop! Hahahaha... what is that... Hahahaha... don't use your teeth... Hahahaha... I feel... I feel cold... Hahahaha... and chills... Hahahaha... stop, please... Hahahaha."
Her reaction is no longer exaggerated, but one of genuine panic and confusion. Her body doesn't understand the mixture of sensations. I keep doing it, over and over again, watching her lose her composure completely, her pleas growing weaker, her body shaking uncontrollably, all because of my mouth on her foot. And I just smile, enjoying every second of her degradation, knowing that this memory, this sensation, will remain etched on her skin forever.
Then, I change tactics again. I lean in and press my teeth against the arch of her foot, right over the sensitive, ticklish spot. But I don't bite down. Not really. Instead, I press my teeth against her skin and start to vibrate my head, a fast, frantic chattering motion. My teeth are clicking against the sole of her foot, a rapid, staccato drumbeat.
The effect is instantaneous and explosive.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT?! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" she shrieks.
It's not the laugh from before. This is different. This is the high-pitched, helpless, uncontrollable laugh of a little kid being held down and tickled by an older sibling. It's pure, unadulterated ticklish agony. All the disgust, all the pain, all the defiance is washed away in a flood of overwhelming sensation. Her body goes rigid for a second, then explodes into a fit of thrashing. Her free leg kicks wildly, her hands clench into fists, her back arches off the camilla.
"NO! NO! NO! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! JENNIFER, STOP! PLEASE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN'T! I CAN'T BREATHE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
She's completely lost it. The sound is pure hysteria, a desperate, gasping laugh that sounds more like she's choking. Tears are streaming down her face now, tears of pure, helpless laughter. She's trying to beg, to form words, but all that comes out are shrieks and giggles and desperate, gasping breaths. I don't let up. I keep my teeth pressed against her foot, biting them them faster, moving them to a new spot just under her toes, then back to the arch. I'm a machine, and my only purpose is to break her with this one, absurd, torturous sensation.
I'm not even smiling anymore. I'm just focused, watching her, listening to the sound of her mind completely unraveling under the most childish form of torment imaginable. This is it. This is total control.
I finally stop. The chattering of my teeth ceases, and the sudden silence in the room is broken only by Daniela's desperate, gasping sobs. Her foot drops from my mouth, landing limp and wet on the camilla. Her whole body is trembling, slick with sweat, her chest heaving as she tries to suck air back into her lungs. Her face is a mess, streaked with tears and mascara, a portrait of complete and utter devastation.
I watch her for a long moment, a strange feeling stirring in my gut. This feeling... this power. It's intoxicating. And her feet... I realize with a jolt that I could stay here all day. I could lose myself in this, in the taste of her skin, in the sound of her helpless laughter. And that's a problem. That's a loss of control. I'm not here to indulge my own desires; I'm here to execute a plan. To break her. And getting lost in the obsession is a weakness I can't afford.
With a final, possessive squeeze of her ankle, I let go. I stand up, stretching my back, my eyes roaming over her trembling form. I've explored her feet. I've mapped her vulnerability there. Now it's time to find new territory.
My gaze travels up her body, past her heaving breasts, over her stomach, and settles on her hips. Her narrow, vulnerable hips, rising slightly from the surface of the camilla. I remember this from before. When I was using the vibrator on her, I saw how she reacted when my hands gripped her there. A little twitch, a suppressed gasp. I think I know where her real weak spot is.
I walk around the side of the camilla, my steps slow and deliberate. Daniela's tear-filled eyes follow me, wide with a fresh wave of terror. She knows I'm moving on. She doesn't know where to, but the fear of the unknown is almost worse than the torture itself.
"Please," she whispers, her voice hoarse and broken. "No more. Just... just stop."
I don't answer. I lean over her, my hands hovering just above her skin, not touching yet. I let the anticipation build. I can see the muscles in her stomach clenching, her body bracing for impact. Then, I strike.
My hands shoot out and clamp down hard on her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh just below the bone, right where her waist curves into her pelvis.
I don't scratch. I don't wiggle my fingers. I just grip. A hard, unyielding, pressure-filled grip.
The reaction is not what I expected. It's a thousand times worse.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The sound that tears out of her throat isn't a laugh. It's a scream. A raw, piercing, blood-curdling scream of pure, unadulterated shock. Her entire body jackknifes off the camilla, her back arching into a perfect, rigid bridge, her head thrown back so hard I'm surprised she doesn't snap her neck. Her eyes are wide, unseeing, staring at the ceiling as if she's just seen a ghost.
And then the sound changes. The scream dissolves, melts, and transforms into something else. Something loud and chaotic and completely unhinged.
"GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAA!"
It's a laugh, but it's not a laugh. It's a bellow. A booming, hysterical, completely uncontrollable explosion of sound. It's not the high-pitched giggling from her feet. This is a deep, guttural, full-body laugh that seems to be ripped from the very core of her being. It's loud enough to echo off the walls, loud enough to make my own ears ring. It's the kind of laugh you hear from someone on the verge of a complete psychotic break.
I hold my grip, mesmerized, fascinated. I've found it. I've found the button that shuts down her brain and turns her into a laughing, screaming machine. Her hands, which were lying limp at her sides, fly up to her face, but she's not trying to cover her mouth. She's clawing at her own cheeks, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against her skin as if she's trying to physically tear the laughter out of herself.
"NO! NO! MAKE IT STOP! GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA! PLEASE! JENNIFER! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Her body is thrashing, but it's not the coordinated kicking from before. It's a violent, convulsive thrashing, her hips bucking wildly under my hands, her legs kicking out in random, spasmodic jerks. I have to lean my weight into my grip to keep her from throwing herself off the camilla. She's like a fish on a hook, fighting with every ounce of strength she has left, but it's a useless fight. I'm anchored to her, and I'm not letting go.
I lean in closer, my face just inches from her ear, having to raise my own voice slightly to be heard over the cacophony of her laughter.
"My, my," I say, my voice a smooth, mocking purr. "What a scandalous laugh for such a pretty girl. You sound like a donkey."
My words only seem to fuel the fire. Her laughter gets even louder, more desperate. Tears are now flowing freely from her eyes, not just trickling, but streaming, pouring down her face in rivers, mingling with the sweat on her temples. She's gasping for air between laughs, her chest heaving in ragged, painful-sounding spasms.
"I... CAN'T... GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... BREATHE... AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... PLEASE... I CAN'T... HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-BREATHE!"
She's not faking it. She's genuinely starting to panic. The laughter is physically suffocating her. Her face is turning a deep, blotchy red, and I can see the veins standing out on her neck. She's trapped in a feedback loop, her body's reaction to the stimulus making it impossible for her to get the oxygen she needs to calm the reaction down. It's a perfect, self-perpetuating torture.
I love it.
"You know, I think I like this laugh," I continue, my voice still a calm, steady counterpoint to her hysteria. I shift my grip slightly, my thumbs pressing deeper into the sensitive hollows of her hips, and her screams of laughter spike again. "It's so real. So honest. It tells me exactly how broken you are. No hiding behind little giggles. This is you, Daniela. Completely and utterly undone. It's beautiful."
I keep talking, my voice a constant, hypnotic drone in her ear, narrating her destruction as I inflict it. Every word I say seems to make it worse, as if the humiliation of being described, of having her own breakdown articulated back to her, is a form of torture in itself.
"Look at you," I whisper, my grip like a vise. "The big, tough girl. The bully. The one who thought she was so strong and here you are, screaming like a banshee because I'm holding your hips. It's almost poetic, don't you think? All that power you thought you had, reduced to this. To this... noise."
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... SHUT UP! SHUT UP! GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA... PLEASE... SHUT... HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... UP!"
"Oh, I don't think so," I say with a soft chuckle. "I'm just getting started. I want to see how long you can keep this up. I want to see if you can laugh yourself unconscious. Wouldn't that be something? To just pass out from the sheer pleasure of it all."
I can feel her muscles starting to give out. The violent thrashing is becoming weaker, more erratic. Her screams are losing their power, becoming hoarse, raspy croaks. The laughter is still there, but it's starting to sound wet, strained. She's running out of steam. Her body is giving up.
But I'm not done yet.
I keep both hands locked on her hips, my fingers digging into that sweet spot where her laughter is born. I don't move. I don't need to. The constant, crushing pressure is enough to keep the fire burning. Her screams have devolved into something new now. Something lower, guttural.
"Ugh... nnngh... haaaaa..."
They're moans. Deep, rhythmic moans that are wrenched from her body with every convulsive spasm of laughter. Her back is still arched, but now it's a tense, trembling arch, like a wire stretched to its breaking point. Her head is lolling from side to side, her mouth hanging open, and from it escapes this sound—a continuous, agonized moan punctuated by the sharp, staccato hiccups of her laugh.
"Uh-ha... uh-ha... uh-ha-ha... nnngh..."
It's the sound of a machine breaking down. The laugh is the engine, sputtering and failing, and the moan is the grinding of the gears. It's a sound of pure, unending torment.
I lean in closer, my lips brushing against her ear, my voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "What's that sound, Daniela? Are you moaning?"
Her eyes, which were squeezed shut, fly open in a flash of horrified realization. She knows what she sounds like. And she knows what I'm implying.
"No," she gasps out, the word getting lost in another wave of moaning laughter. "Nnngh... ha... ha... no..."
"It sounds like you're enjoying it," I press, my voice dripping with false sweetness. I can feel her body tense even more under my hands, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her. "All this moaning... A girl doesn't moan like that unless she likes something. Are you starting to like my hands on you? Are these little tickles starting to feel good?"
"Ugh... ha... ha... ha... nnngh... no... you... you bitch..." she manages to choke out, her voice a ragged, broken thing.
The word hangs in the air. "Bitch."
A slow, cold smile spreads across my face. "Oh," I say, my voice dropping all pretense of warmth. It's now as hard and sharp as glass. "That was a mistake."
And I tighten my grip.
I don't just squeeze harder. I dig my fingers in, my thumbs pressing like pistons into the most sensitive points, the hollows where her legs meet her torso. It's no longer just about pressure; it's about pain. A deep, aching, radiating pain that fuels the ticklish fire into an inferno.
The effect is instantaneous and catastrophic.
"AAAAAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA! NO! NO! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
Her apology is a shriek, a desperate, panicked wail that's immediately swallowed by the tsunami of her own laughter. The moans are gone, replaced by this new, higher-pitched scream of pure agony. Her body, which was trembling, now convulses with violent, seizure-like shudders. Her legs, which were kicking weakly, now piston up and down, her heels slamming into the camilla with dull, rhythmic thuds. Thud. Thud. Thud. A frantic drumbeat to accompany her symphony of suffering.
"Sorry? Oh, you will be," I growl into her ear, my voice low and menacing. I keep the pressure on, relentless, unyielding. I can feel the bones of her hips grinding under my palms. "You think you can call me a name? You think you have any right? You're nothing. You're a toy. And you don't get to talk."
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... CAN'T! CAN'T BREATHE! HA-HA-HA-HA... PLEASE! JENNIFER! PLEASE! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
Her face is a terrifying shade of purple now. The veins on her neck and forehead are thick, cords under her skin. Her eyes are bulging, rolling back in her head as she struggles for air that won't come. She's drowning in her own laughter. I can feel her body starting to shut down, the convulsions becoming less coordinated, more frantic. She's on the edge.
And I'm the one who pushed her there.
"You wanted to be tough, Daniela," I hiss, my voice a venomous whisper. "You wanted to be a bully. This is what happens to bullies. They get broken. They get taught. And you, my dear, are an excellent student. Look at you. Learning your lesson so well."
I shift my grip slightly, my fingers digging into a new angle, and a fresh, ear-splitting shriek tears from her throat. It's a raw, animal sound, a sound of a creature in mortal agony. It's music to me.
"Listen to yourself," I say, my voice rising with excitement. "That's the sound of you losing. That's the sound of your pride shattering into a million pieces. I want to hear it. I want to hear you scream until you can't scream anymore. I want to hear you laugh until your lungs give out."
"GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... NO MORE! NO MORE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... ANYTHING! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
"Anything?" I ask, my voice a cruel, mocking singsong. "There is no 'anything.' There is only this. There is only me. And there is only this feeling. This is your world now, Daniela. This laughter. This pain. This is all you are anymore."
I can feel her strength fading fast. The violent thrashing is slowing, her movements becoming jerky and weak. Her screams are turning into hoarse, breathless croaks, the sound of sandpaper on wood. The laughter is still there, but it's a wet, gurgling sound, punctuated by desperate, wheezing gasps for air. She's fading.
Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, find mine. There's no defiance left. No hatred. There's nothing. Just a blank, animal terror. A plea for it to end. She's broken. Utterly and completely. I've stripped away her pride, her strength, her voice, and left nothing but this quivering, moaning, laughing shell. I've won.
And as I look into her vacant, terrified eyes, I know, with a certainty that thrills me to my core, that this is only the beginning. I have her sister in the next room. And I have all the time in the world.
Finally, I let go.
My hands release their death grip on Daniela's hips, and the sudden absence of pressure is almost as much of a shock as the touch was. Her body goes slack, collapsing onto the camilla like a puppet with its strings cut. She doesn't move. She just lies there, a trembling, sweaty heap, making small, wheezing, hiccupping sounds. Her chest barely rises and falls. Her face is turned to the side, her eyes closed, her mouth open. She's not unconscious, but she's gone. Checked out. She's retreated deep inside herself to escape the reality of her own body.
I stand up, my own hands aching from the effort. I look down at her, at the red marks my fingers have left on her pale skin. My marks. I feel a surge of triumph, a cold, satisfying wave of power. I broke her. I took the strong, defiant Daniela and I reduced her to this. A quivering, broken thing.
But I'm not done for the day. My eyes drift over to the other camilla, to the other girl who has been watching this entire ordeal in silent, frozen terror. Brianna.
Her eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights. She's seen everything. She's heard everything. And the look on her face is pure, unadulterated fear. She knows she's next.
I walk towards her, my steps slow, deliberate. I can hear her breathing, fast and shallow, little panicked gasps. Unlike her sister, Brianna is smaller, more delicate. She looks fragile. And according to my research, much, much more sensitive.
I stop beside her camilla and look down. Her arms are still strapped above her head, leaving her entire torso exposed. Her ribcage rises and falls with her frantic breaths. And her underarms, smooth and soft, are completely vulnerable.
"You saw what happened to your sister," I say, my voice calm, level. "She fought. She called me names. And it only made it worse for her. I'm going to give you a choice, Brianna. You can be smart, or you can be stupid like her."
I don't wait for an answer. I lean over her, my hands hovering over her exposed underarms. I can see the muscles in her arms tense, trying in vain to pull away from the straps.
"Your sister, she screams when I do this," I explain, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's a loud, ugly, scandalous sound. It's pure agony. I wonder what you'll sound like."
And then I touch her.
I don't use my nails. Not yet. I just use the very tips of my fingers, wiggling them lightly into the soft, hollow of her right underarm.
The reaction is immediate and violent.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
It's not a laugh. It's not a scream. It's a shriek. A high-pitched, piercing, glass-shattering shriek of pure, shocked agony. Her entire body jackknifes, her back arching off the camilla so hard I hear her spine pop. Her legs, which were previously still, kick out in a frantic, scissoring motion.
I don't stop. I keep wiggling my fingers, a light, feathery, relentless dance in her armpit.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! NO! NO! NO! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
She's screaming continuously now, one long, unending shriek punctuated by desperate, gasping sobs. Tears are instantly streaming down her face. She's shaking her head back and forth so violently I'm afraid she's going to give herself whiplash.
"Please! Please! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! STOP! STOP! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
It's exactly as I expected. She's a screamer, just like her sister. But louder. More desperate. It's a symphony of pain. I smile, ready to settle in for a long session of breaking this one, too.
But then, something happens.
In between her blood-curdling shrieks, a new sound emerges. It's tiny, almost lost in the noise. A small, melodic series of notes.
"Eeeek... ha-ha-ha... eeeee... ha-ha... hee-hee-hee... eeeeeek!"
It's a laugh. A real laugh. And it's... beautiful.
It's nothing like her sister's. It's not a bellow or a cackle. It's like little silver bells. It's light and musical and completely out of place amidst the agony of her screams. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
And it hypnotizes me.
I stop wiggling my fingers. I freeze, my hand still in her armpit, completely captivated. I need to hear it again. I need to hear more of it.
I change my tactic. I lighten my touch even more, using just one fingernail to trace a slow, delicate circle around the edge of her underarm. The screaming subsides slightly, replaced by frantic, panting sobs.
"Shhh," I whisper, my voice soft, almost gentle. "It's okay. Just relax. Let it happen."
I keep tracing the circle, slow and steady. Her body is still trembling, but the violent convulsions have stopped. She's panting, trying to anticipate the next wave of torture.
And then it comes.
"Hee... hee-hee... ha-ha-ha-ha..."
There it is. The bells. Clearer this time. Unburdened by the screams. It's a pure, helpless giggle, and it sends a shiver down my spine. It's so innocent, so sweet. It's the sound of an angel. I'm torturing an angel, and she's singing for me.
I'm so entranced by the sound that I forget myself. I press down a little harder, trying to coax more of it out, to make it last.
The mistake is fatal.
The moment the pressure increases, the spell is broken. The innocence is shattered.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The screaming returns, louder and more agonized than before. The beautiful bells are gone, replaced by the familiar, ugly siren of torment. She's thrashing again, her body bucking wildly, her shrieks filling the room.
"No, no, no," I whisper, a surge of frustration and disappointment washing over me. I try to lighten my touch again, to find that perfect, delicate balance, but it's too late. I've lost it. The gate is closed.
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"
I spend the next few minutes trying to get it back. I try every variation I can think of. Light touches, hard touches, scratching, tracing. But all I get are screams. The beautiful, hypnotic laugh only graced me with its presence for a few precious seconds, and now it's gone. And I'm left with the screeching of just another broken toy.
But I'm not one to give up on a masterpiece. I know the sound is in there, i just have to find the right key to unlock it, i stop the frantic wiggling, stop the scratching, i go back to the beginning. To the lightest possible touch.
I lean in close, my face hovering just above her armpit. I don't touch her with my fingers. Instead, I blow. A soft, steady stream of warm air right into the sensitive hollow.
Her body tenses, a full-body shudder wracking her frame. A choked sob escapes her throat. But no scream. She's anticipating pain, but this is something different. Something strange.
I keep blowing, a warm, constant breeze. And then, I add my tongue. Just the tip, tracing a slow, wet circle around the edge of her armpit.
"Eeeee... hee... hee-hee..."
There. A flicker. A tiny, hesitant chime. I don't press my advantage. I stay gentle, my tongue moving slowly, deliberately, lapping at the skin like a cat drinking milk. I can feel the fine, almost invisible hairs under my tongue, taste the salt of her sweat.
"Hee-hee-ha-ha... ha-ha-ha..."
It's coming back. The bells. I can feel the vibration starting in her chest, a delicate hum that grows into those perfect, melodic notes. Her body is still trembling, but it's a different kind of tremble now. Not the violent convulsions of agony, but the fine shudder of an overstimulated nerve.
I pull back slightly and use my fingers again, just the pads, dancing lightly over the wet skin my tongue just left. The combination of sensations, the warmth, the wetness, the light touch, is the key.
And then, it happens.
"Hee-hee-ha-ha-ha-ha-ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The floodgates open. The beautiful, angelic laughter pours out of her, clear and pure and uninterrupted. No screams. No shrieks. Just the music. I'm mesmerized, completely captivated. I watch her face, which is screwed up in a mask of what looks like agony, but the sound coming from her is pure joy. It's the most delicious contradiction I've ever experienced. I count the seconds in my head. One... two... three... four... five... six... seven.
Seven seconds of heaven.
And then, just as I'm about to lose myself in it, I see it. A flicker in her expression. A shift. The mask of agony is replaced by something else. Humiliation.
She knows what she's doing. She knows how she sounds. And she hates it.
The shame is a poison. It kills the music.
The laughter chokes off, replaced by a strangled gasp, and then, the inevitable return of the shrieks.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! NO! NO! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
I pull my hand back as if I've been burned. The frustration is immense, a bitter taste in my mouth. I had it. I had the perfect sound, and her own pathetic shame ruined it. Fine. If she wants to be ashamed, I'll give her something to be really ashamed of.
My eyes travel down her body. Her chest is small, almost flat, just the gentle swell of budding breasts topped with small, pale pink nipples. They're hard from the cold, from the fear. They look incredibly vulnerable.
I move down, positioning myself beside her ribs. I bring my hands up and, without a word, I lay them flat on her chest, my palms covering her small breasts.
She freezes. Her eyes, which were squeezed shut, fly open. The screaming stops. For a moment, there is only silence, the sound of her sharp, terrified intake of breath. This isn't the same. This isn't just an attack on her nervous system. This is personal. This is a violation.
And then, a deep, dark crimson blush starts to creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks, burning her face with a heat I can feel from where I'm sitting. She's mortified. Utterly and completely humiliated.
I smile. And I start to wiggle my fingers.
The effect is instantaneous. The touch on her breasts, a place no one has likely ever touched like this, sends a jolt through her so powerful it's almost electrical. A strangled, choking sound escapes her throat, a cross between a gasp and a sob. And then, the laughter starts.
But it's not the angelic laughter. It's not the screaming. It's something else entirely. It's ugly.
"Ook-ook-ook-ook-ook-ook! Ha-ha-ha-ook-ook-ook!"
It's a series of short, sharp, panting barks. A frantic, high-pitched chittering that sounds exactly like a panicked monkey. It's a hideous, undignified, ridiculous sound. And it's coming from this beautiful, blushing girl.
I can't help it. I laugh. A real, genuine laugh of my own.
"Ook-ook-ook! Please! Ha-ha-ook-ook! Stop! Ook-ook!" she begs, her voice a mess of ugly barks and desperate sobs, her face burning with shame. She hates this sound more than the screaming. This sound makes her feel like an animal.
"A chimp," I say, my voice dripping with amusement. "You laugh like a little chimp, Brianna. It's adorable. All that blushing and chittering. It's quite a show."
"Ook-ook-ook-ook! No! Ha-ha-ha-ook-ook! Shut up! Ook-ook!"
I keep wiggling my fingers, my palms pressing down, my thumbs brushing against her hard nipples. The dual sensations, the humiliation of the touch and the ticklish agony, are destroying her. She's thrashing her head from side to side, trying to bury her face in her shoulder to hide the blush, but it's no use. She's a furnace of shame.
"Ook-ook-ook-ook-ook! I can't! Ha-ha-ha-ook! I can't breathe! Ook-ook-ook!"
And then, it happens again. In the middle of the hideous, panting chimp-laugh, a single, perfect note escapes. A clear, melodic "hee-hee" that cuts through the ugliness like a diamond.
It's just for a second. A fleeting glimpse of the angel. But it's enough.
It hits me like a drug. A jolt of pure, raw excitement that goes straight between my legs. I gasp, my own rhythm faltering for a moment. That sound. It's a drug, and I'm instantly addicted. I need more. I need to hear it again.
I redouble my efforts, my fingers flying across her chest, frantically trying to force the sound out. But the more I try, the more it eludes me. The harder I press, the uglier her laughter becomes, descending into a wet, choking mess of "ook-ooks" and sobs.
"No... no... ha-ha-ook... please... no more... ook-ook..."
She's completely broken now, a blushing, chittering, sobbing mess. And I'm left shaking, not with laughter, but with a frustrated, desperate craving. I had the angel and the devil in my hands at the same time. And I let them both slip away.
With slow, deliberate movements, I unfasten the strap on her right ankle. There is no resistance; she is too exhausted to fight. I lift her foot and place it gently on my lap, the position is strange, almost maternal. Daniela blinks, confused, and finally looks down at me.
What are you doing?
She doesn't say the question out loud, but I read it in her eyes... There is perplexity, a flash of old fear, but above all, total strangeness. She prepared herself for more pain, for more rape, for more of the same. This... this doesn't fit into any of her nightmares.
"What... what are you going to do?" she whispers, her voice hoarse from screaming and moaning.
I don't answer, I just smile at her. A soft, almost kind smile. And then I raise my hand, my long, polished nails resting on the sole of her foot.
And I start to scratch.
It's not a blow. It's not a pinch. It's a light, almost imperceptible touch, my nails sliding from her heel to the base of her toes. Again and again.
Daniela stands completely still. Her body tenses, but not in the same way as before. It is a tension of confusion. She frowns. She feels something, but she doesn't know how to interpret it. It is a strange, irritating sensation, like an insect walking on her skin.
"What is that?" she asks again, this time a little more firmly, as if she is about to lose her patience. "Are you scratching me? Why?"
I keep scratching, a little harder now, drawing small circles on the arch of her foot. The sensation begins to change, the simple rubbing turns into itching. A deep itch that she cannot relieve.
"Stop! What are you doing?" she says, trying to pull her foot away, but my other hand holds it firmly by the ankle. It's not brute force, it's an immovable grip. her foot isn't going anywhere.
I stop scratching, my hand remaining still on her foot, simply pressing lightly, the confusion on his face is complete, he expected pain, or more of that irritating sensation, not this silence.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks again, his voice filled with genuine perplexity. "What are you trying to do with... with this?"
I smile at him, a calm, calculating smile. "With what? With this." I move my fingers slightly, not to scratch, but to massage the arch with my thumb, a slow, deep movement.
She tenses up, but not in the same way. It's a tension of waiting, of anticipation.
"Why are you tickling me?" he asks, and there is a tone of complaint in his voice, as if he were complaining about some absurd injustice. "That's... that's childish, it's for girls. What's the point?"
"Oh, childish?" I repeat, continuing with the massage, feeling her muscles relax a little under the pressure, deceived by the seemingly normal sensation. "For you maybe, but for me, it's a much more effective form of torture than hitting."
I stop massaging and my eyes meet hers. I can see she doesn't believe me.
"A blow leaves a bruise, it hurts and then it heals, it's simple, crude," I explain, my voice low and persuasive. "But this... this is different. This doesn't mark your skin, it marks your mind. It forces you to laugh while you feel like you're dying of humiliation, it's a contradiction your brain can't process. Pleasure and pain mixed together until you don't know which is which, it's much cleaner. And much, much more fun."
As I speak, my nails are back at work, but gently, tracing invisible lines on her heel. She listens to me, trying to understand, to find the logic in my madness. Her brow is furrowed in concentration.
"I don't understand," she whispers. "It's just... ha ha ha..."
The first laugh escapes her, a small, involuntary sound, like a hiccup, my nails have already found their true target. They stop at the base of her fingers, on that soft, sensitive skin.
"Oh, really?" I murmur, and begin to scratch that small area with the tip of my index fingernail, a quick, insistent, tiny movement.
The reaction is instantaneous.
"Hahaha... no... hahaha... stop...," she says, but it's too late, laughter has taken over. It's not a belly laugh, it's a torrent of sharp, uncontrollable giggles. Her body begins to writhe on the table, her free leg twitching, trying to escape the source of this childish and terrible torture.
"Hahahaha... stop... stop... please... hahahaha... Jennifer... hahahahaha... I can't... hahahahaha."
"See?" I say, without stopping my attack on her fingers. "I told you, it's much better than a punch, right?"
Between stifled giggles, she manages to get the words out, a desperate effort to regain some control. "My... hahahaha... my family... hahahaha... they'll notice that... hahahaha... that we're not... hahahaha... they'll call the police... hahahaha."
I keep scratching him, unperturbed. "Let them worry about that, you worry about laughing a lot."
"No... hahaha... I don't like this... hahaha... for me... hahaha... I'd rather be hit... hahahahaha... it's more... hahaha... it's more dignified... hahahahaha."
Between gasps and laughter, he manages to look me in the eyes, a weak and trembling challenge. "You... hahahaha... you wouldn't like... hahahaha... them doing this to you... hahahahaha."
My smile doesn't fade, my nails continue to scratch at the base of her fingers. "It doesn't affect me," I reply, my voice as calm as my hands. "I'm not ticklish."
The lie is perfect, told with a conviction that seems real, it is the definitive statement of my superiority.
I watch her process my response, her mind struggling to understand how anyone could be immune to this torture that is tearing her apart. And in that moment of distraction, I release her right foot. It falls onto the table with a small thud, trembling as I tie it up again.
Without wasting a second, I slide to the other side of the table, my fingers moving to the strap on her left ankle. I unfasten it with the same deliberate slowness and lift her other foot, also perfect, also adorned with that emerald green that is my mark. I place it on my lap, giving it my full attention.
My nails begin to scratch the sole of her left foot. She laughs, but not like before; she endures this foot better. The laughter is lower, more restrained, as if she were learning to fight it. She tries to pull her foot back, but my hand is like a clamp on her ankle. I'm not going to let go, I can't, I love her feet, the shape of her arch, the softness of her skin. My nails run over every inch, from her heel to the base of her toes, over and over again, watching her squirm and listening to her stifled giggles.
"Hahaha... stop... hahaha... enough... hahaha... my feet... hahaha."
I ignore her, bend down, and without warning, run my tongue along the sole of her foot. A long, wet lick. Her body tenses in a different way; it's not laughter, it's disgust. A pure shiver runs through her.
"That's disgusting!" she screams, her voice filled with genuine revulsion. "What are you doing?! That's disgusting!"
I lick it again, this time more slowly, gently sucking on her heel. It tickles, yes, but only slightly, a mild annoyance. What she feels is disgust. She looks at me with horror, as if I had just done something unhygienic, something unnatural. She keeps laughing, but it's weak giggles, mixed with moans of disgust. She tries to pull her foot away, but my hand holds it tighter, my mouth continues its work, licking her toes, running my tongue through the space between them, feeling her tremble under my touch, not with pleasure, but with humiliation and disgust that are breaking her inside.
I don't stop, my tongue tracing slow circles on her arch, and each movement provoking a contradictory reaction in her. A spasm, a stifled giggle, and then a moan of pure disgust. Her fingers curl, trying to escape my mouth, but I chase them, taking her big toe and putting it in my mouth, sucking it gently. The sound she makes is a mixture of a sob and a stifled laugh.
"No! Take it out! Hahahaha... please, take it out... that's disgusting... hahahaha... it's disgusting, Jennifer, stop... hahahaha."
I ignore her, my mouth sliding down toward the base of her fingers, that sensitive area. My lips surround her, my tongue plays there, and although the sensation is ticklish, it is so low, so mixed with the moisture and warmth of my breath, that her body does not know how to react. She laughs, but it's a weak, forced laugh, full of revulsion. Her eyes are closed, as if that could block the sensation, but it's useless. Her whole being is focused on her foot, on my mouth, on this act that she finds so degrading that it overwhelms her.
I release her foot for a second, just to look at it. It is shiny, covered with my saliva. It is a work of art. A work of art that I have created. I take it again, but this time I turn it, exposing the instep. My tongue runs over the fine bones, from the ankle to the base of the toes. She squirms, her head moving from side to side on the pillow.
"Hahaha... no... not there... hahaha... please... hahaha... it's gross... hahaha... it's so weird... hahaha"
My attention returns to the sole of her foot. My teeth lightly graze her heel, not to bite, just so she can feel the edge of them, and her body jumps as if she had received an electric shock. A loud, high-pitched scream escapes her, mixed with uncontrollable laughter. It's the perfect combination of pain, disgust, and tickling. I keep it there, on the edge, my teeth gently scraping while my tongue licks the same area.
"No! Hahahaha... stop! Hahahaha... what is that... Hahahaha... don't use your teeth... Hahahaha... I feel... I feel cold... Hahahaha... and chills... Hahahaha... stop, please... Hahahaha."
Her reaction is no longer exaggerated, but one of genuine panic and confusion. Her body doesn't understand the mixture of sensations. I keep doing it, over and over again, watching her lose her composure completely, her pleas growing weaker, her body shaking uncontrollably, all because of my mouth on her foot. And I just smile, enjoying every second of her degradation, knowing that this memory, this sensation, will remain etched on her skin forever.
Then, I change tactics again. I lean in and press my teeth against the arch of her foot, right over the sensitive, ticklish spot. But I don't bite down. Not really. Instead, I press my teeth against her skin and start to vibrate my head, a fast, frantic chattering motion. My teeth are clicking against the sole of her foot, a rapid, staccato drumbeat.
The effect is instantaneous and explosive.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT?! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" she shrieks.
It's not the laugh from before. This is different. This is the high-pitched, helpless, uncontrollable laugh of a little kid being held down and tickled by an older sibling. It's pure, unadulterated ticklish agony. All the disgust, all the pain, all the defiance is washed away in a flood of overwhelming sensation. Her body goes rigid for a second, then explodes into a fit of thrashing. Her free leg kicks wildly, her hands clench into fists, her back arches off the camilla.
"NO! NO! NO! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! JENNIFER, STOP! PLEASE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN'T! I CAN'T BREATHE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
She's completely lost it. The sound is pure hysteria, a desperate, gasping laugh that sounds more like she's choking. Tears are streaming down her face now, tears of pure, helpless laughter. She's trying to beg, to form words, but all that comes out are shrieks and giggles and desperate, gasping breaths. I don't let up. I keep my teeth pressed against her foot, biting them them faster, moving them to a new spot just under her toes, then back to the arch. I'm a machine, and my only purpose is to break her with this one, absurd, torturous sensation.
I'm not even smiling anymore. I'm just focused, watching her, listening to the sound of her mind completely unraveling under the most childish form of torment imaginable. This is it. This is total control.
I finally stop. The chattering of my teeth ceases, and the sudden silence in the room is broken only by Daniela's desperate, gasping sobs. Her foot drops from my mouth, landing limp and wet on the camilla. Her whole body is trembling, slick with sweat, her chest heaving as she tries to suck air back into her lungs. Her face is a mess, streaked with tears and mascara, a portrait of complete and utter devastation.
I watch her for a long moment, a strange feeling stirring in my gut. This feeling... this power. It's intoxicating. And her feet... I realize with a jolt that I could stay here all day. I could lose myself in this, in the taste of her skin, in the sound of her helpless laughter. And that's a problem. That's a loss of control. I'm not here to indulge my own desires; I'm here to execute a plan. To break her. And getting lost in the obsession is a weakness I can't afford.
With a final, possessive squeeze of her ankle, I let go. I stand up, stretching my back, my eyes roaming over her trembling form. I've explored her feet. I've mapped her vulnerability there. Now it's time to find new territory.
My gaze travels up her body, past her heaving breasts, over her stomach, and settles on her hips. Her narrow, vulnerable hips, rising slightly from the surface of the camilla. I remember this from before. When I was using the vibrator on her, I saw how she reacted when my hands gripped her there. A little twitch, a suppressed gasp. I think I know where her real weak spot is.
I walk around the side of the camilla, my steps slow and deliberate. Daniela's tear-filled eyes follow me, wide with a fresh wave of terror. She knows I'm moving on. She doesn't know where to, but the fear of the unknown is almost worse than the torture itself.
"Please," she whispers, her voice hoarse and broken. "No more. Just... just stop."
I don't answer. I lean over her, my hands hovering just above her skin, not touching yet. I let the anticipation build. I can see the muscles in her stomach clenching, her body bracing for impact. Then, I strike.
My hands shoot out and clamp down hard on her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh just below the bone, right where her waist curves into her pelvis.
I don't scratch. I don't wiggle my fingers. I just grip. A hard, unyielding, pressure-filled grip.
The reaction is not what I expected. It's a thousand times worse.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The sound that tears out of her throat isn't a laugh. It's a scream. A raw, piercing, blood-curdling scream of pure, unadulterated shock. Her entire body jackknifes off the camilla, her back arching into a perfect, rigid bridge, her head thrown back so hard I'm surprised she doesn't snap her neck. Her eyes are wide, unseeing, staring at the ceiling as if she's just seen a ghost.
And then the sound changes. The scream dissolves, melts, and transforms into something else. Something loud and chaotic and completely unhinged.
"GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAA!"
It's a laugh, but it's not a laugh. It's a bellow. A booming, hysterical, completely uncontrollable explosion of sound. It's not the high-pitched giggling from her feet. This is a deep, guttural, full-body laugh that seems to be ripped from the very core of her being. It's loud enough to echo off the walls, loud enough to make my own ears ring. It's the kind of laugh you hear from someone on the verge of a complete psychotic break.
I hold my grip, mesmerized, fascinated. I've found it. I've found the button that shuts down her brain and turns her into a laughing, screaming machine. Her hands, which were lying limp at her sides, fly up to her face, but she's not trying to cover her mouth. She's clawing at her own cheeks, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against her skin as if she's trying to physically tear the laughter out of herself.
"NO! NO! MAKE IT STOP! GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA! PLEASE! JENNIFER! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Her body is thrashing, but it's not the coordinated kicking from before. It's a violent, convulsive thrashing, her hips bucking wildly under my hands, her legs kicking out in random, spasmodic jerks. I have to lean my weight into my grip to keep her from throwing herself off the camilla. She's like a fish on a hook, fighting with every ounce of strength she has left, but it's a useless fight. I'm anchored to her, and I'm not letting go.
I lean in closer, my face just inches from her ear, having to raise my own voice slightly to be heard over the cacophony of her laughter.
"My, my," I say, my voice a smooth, mocking purr. "What a scandalous laugh for such a pretty girl. You sound like a donkey."
My words only seem to fuel the fire. Her laughter gets even louder, more desperate. Tears are now flowing freely from her eyes, not just trickling, but streaming, pouring down her face in rivers, mingling with the sweat on her temples. She's gasping for air between laughs, her chest heaving in ragged, painful-sounding spasms.
"I... CAN'T... GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... BREATHE... AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... PLEASE... I CAN'T... HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-BREATHE!"
She's not faking it. She's genuinely starting to panic. The laughter is physically suffocating her. Her face is turning a deep, blotchy red, and I can see the veins standing out on her neck. She's trapped in a feedback loop, her body's reaction to the stimulus making it impossible for her to get the oxygen she needs to calm the reaction down. It's a perfect, self-perpetuating torture.
I love it.
"You know, I think I like this laugh," I continue, my voice still a calm, steady counterpoint to her hysteria. I shift my grip slightly, my thumbs pressing deeper into the sensitive hollows of her hips, and her screams of laughter spike again. "It's so real. So honest. It tells me exactly how broken you are. No hiding behind little giggles. This is you, Daniela. Completely and utterly undone. It's beautiful."
I keep talking, my voice a constant, hypnotic drone in her ear, narrating her destruction as I inflict it. Every word I say seems to make it worse, as if the humiliation of being described, of having her own breakdown articulated back to her, is a form of torture in itself.
"Look at you," I whisper, my grip like a vise. "The big, tough girl. The bully. The one who thought she was so strong and here you are, screaming like a banshee because I'm holding your hips. It's almost poetic, don't you think? All that power you thought you had, reduced to this. To this... noise."
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... SHUT UP! SHUT UP! GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA... PLEASE... SHUT... HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... UP!"
"Oh, I don't think so," I say with a soft chuckle. "I'm just getting started. I want to see how long you can keep this up. I want to see if you can laugh yourself unconscious. Wouldn't that be something? To just pass out from the sheer pleasure of it all."
I can feel her muscles starting to give out. The violent thrashing is becoming weaker, more erratic. Her screams are losing their power, becoming hoarse, raspy croaks. The laughter is still there, but it's starting to sound wet, strained. She's running out of steam. Her body is giving up.
But I'm not done yet.
I keep both hands locked on her hips, my fingers digging into that sweet spot where her laughter is born. I don't move. I don't need to. The constant, crushing pressure is enough to keep the fire burning. Her screams have devolved into something new now. Something lower, guttural.
"Ugh... nnngh... haaaaa..."
They're moans. Deep, rhythmic moans that are wrenched from her body with every convulsive spasm of laughter. Her back is still arched, but now it's a tense, trembling arch, like a wire stretched to its breaking point. Her head is lolling from side to side, her mouth hanging open, and from it escapes this sound—a continuous, agonized moan punctuated by the sharp, staccato hiccups of her laugh.
"Uh-ha... uh-ha... uh-ha-ha... nnngh..."
It's the sound of a machine breaking down. The laugh is the engine, sputtering and failing, and the moan is the grinding of the gears. It's a sound of pure, unending torment.
I lean in closer, my lips brushing against her ear, my voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "What's that sound, Daniela? Are you moaning?"
Her eyes, which were squeezed shut, fly open in a flash of horrified realization. She knows what she sounds like. And she knows what I'm implying.
"No," she gasps out, the word getting lost in another wave of moaning laughter. "Nnngh... ha... ha... no..."
"It sounds like you're enjoying it," I press, my voice dripping with false sweetness. I can feel her body tense even more under my hands, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her. "All this moaning... A girl doesn't moan like that unless she likes something. Are you starting to like my hands on you? Are these little tickles starting to feel good?"
"Ugh... ha... ha... ha... nnngh... no... you... you bitch..." she manages to choke out, her voice a ragged, broken thing.
The word hangs in the air. "Bitch."
A slow, cold smile spreads across my face. "Oh," I say, my voice dropping all pretense of warmth. It's now as hard and sharp as glass. "That was a mistake."
And I tighten my grip.
I don't just squeeze harder. I dig my fingers in, my thumbs pressing like pistons into the most sensitive points, the hollows where her legs meet her torso. It's no longer just about pressure; it's about pain. A deep, aching, radiating pain that fuels the ticklish fire into an inferno.
The effect is instantaneous and catastrophic.
"AAAAAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA! NO! NO! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
Her apology is a shriek, a desperate, panicked wail that's immediately swallowed by the tsunami of her own laughter. The moans are gone, replaced by this new, higher-pitched scream of pure agony. Her body, which was trembling, now convulses with violent, seizure-like shudders. Her legs, which were kicking weakly, now piston up and down, her heels slamming into the camilla with dull, rhythmic thuds. Thud. Thud. Thud. A frantic drumbeat to accompany her symphony of suffering.
"Sorry? Oh, you will be," I growl into her ear, my voice low and menacing. I keep the pressure on, relentless, unyielding. I can feel the bones of her hips grinding under my palms. "You think you can call me a name? You think you have any right? You're nothing. You're a toy. And you don't get to talk."
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... CAN'T! CAN'T BREATHE! HA-HA-HA-HA... PLEASE! JENNIFER! PLEASE! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
Her face is a terrifying shade of purple now. The veins on her neck and forehead are thick, cords under her skin. Her eyes are bulging, rolling back in her head as she struggles for air that won't come. She's drowning in her own laughter. I can feel her body starting to shut down, the convulsions becoming less coordinated, more frantic. She's on the edge.
And I'm the one who pushed her there.
"You wanted to be tough, Daniela," I hiss, my voice a venomous whisper. "You wanted to be a bully. This is what happens to bullies. They get broken. They get taught. And you, my dear, are an excellent student. Look at you. Learning your lesson so well."
I shift my grip slightly, my fingers digging into a new angle, and a fresh, ear-splitting shriek tears from her throat. It's a raw, animal sound, a sound of a creature in mortal agony. It's music to me.
"Listen to yourself," I say, my voice rising with excitement. "That's the sound of you losing. That's the sound of your pride shattering into a million pieces. I want to hear it. I want to hear you scream until you can't scream anymore. I want to hear you laugh until your lungs give out."
"GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... NO MORE! NO MORE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA... ANYTHING! AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
"Anything?" I ask, my voice a cruel, mocking singsong. "There is no 'anything.' There is only this. There is only me. And there is only this feeling. This is your world now, Daniela. This laughter. This pain. This is all you are anymore."
I can feel her strength fading fast. The violent thrashing is slowing, her movements becoming jerky and weak. Her screams are turning into hoarse, breathless croaks, the sound of sandpaper on wood. The laughter is still there, but it's a wet, gurgling sound, punctuated by desperate, wheezing gasps for air. She's fading.
Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, find mine. There's no defiance left. No hatred. There's nothing. Just a blank, animal terror. A plea for it to end. She's broken. Utterly and completely. I've stripped away her pride, her strength, her voice, and left nothing but this quivering, moaning, laughing shell. I've won.
And as I look into her vacant, terrified eyes, I know, with a certainty that thrills me to my core, that this is only the beginning. I have her sister in the next room. And I have all the time in the world.
Finally, I let go.
My hands release their death grip on Daniela's hips, and the sudden absence of pressure is almost as much of a shock as the touch was. Her body goes slack, collapsing onto the camilla like a puppet with its strings cut. She doesn't move. She just lies there, a trembling, sweaty heap, making small, wheezing, hiccupping sounds. Her chest barely rises and falls. Her face is turned to the side, her eyes closed, her mouth open. She's not unconscious, but she's gone. Checked out. She's retreated deep inside herself to escape the reality of her own body.
I stand up, my own hands aching from the effort. I look down at her, at the red marks my fingers have left on her pale skin. My marks. I feel a surge of triumph, a cold, satisfying wave of power. I broke her. I took the strong, defiant Daniela and I reduced her to this. A quivering, broken thing.
But I'm not done for the day. My eyes drift over to the other camilla, to the other girl who has been watching this entire ordeal in silent, frozen terror. Brianna.
Her eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights. She's seen everything. She's heard everything. And the look on her face is pure, unadulterated fear. She knows she's next.
I walk towards her, my steps slow, deliberate. I can hear her breathing, fast and shallow, little panicked gasps. Unlike her sister, Brianna is smaller, more delicate. She looks fragile. And according to my research, much, much more sensitive.
I stop beside her camilla and look down. Her arms are still strapped above her head, leaving her entire torso exposed. Her ribcage rises and falls with her frantic breaths. And her underarms, smooth and soft, are completely vulnerable.
"You saw what happened to your sister," I say, my voice calm, level. "She fought. She called me names. And it only made it worse for her. I'm going to give you a choice, Brianna. You can be smart, or you can be stupid like her."
I don't wait for an answer. I lean over her, my hands hovering over her exposed underarms. I can see the muscles in her arms tense, trying in vain to pull away from the straps.
"Your sister, she screams when I do this," I explain, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's a loud, ugly, scandalous sound. It's pure agony. I wonder what you'll sound like."
And then I touch her.
I don't use my nails. Not yet. I just use the very tips of my fingers, wiggling them lightly into the soft, hollow of her right underarm.
The reaction is immediate and violent.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
It's not a laugh. It's not a scream. It's a shriek. A high-pitched, piercing, glass-shattering shriek of pure, shocked agony. Her entire body jackknifes, her back arching off the camilla so hard I hear her spine pop. Her legs, which were previously still, kick out in a frantic, scissoring motion.
I don't stop. I keep wiggling my fingers, a light, feathery, relentless dance in her armpit.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! NO! NO! NO! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
She's screaming continuously now, one long, unending shriek punctuated by desperate, gasping sobs. Tears are instantly streaming down her face. She's shaking her head back and forth so violently I'm afraid she's going to give herself whiplash.
"Please! Please! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! STOP! STOP! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
It's exactly as I expected. She's a screamer, just like her sister. But louder. More desperate. It's a symphony of pain. I smile, ready to settle in for a long session of breaking this one, too.
But then, something happens.
In between her blood-curdling shrieks, a new sound emerges. It's tiny, almost lost in the noise. A small, melodic series of notes.
"Eeeek... ha-ha-ha... eeeee... ha-ha... hee-hee-hee... eeeeeek!"
It's a laugh. A real laugh. And it's... beautiful.
It's nothing like her sister's. It's not a bellow or a cackle. It's like little silver bells. It's light and musical and completely out of place amidst the agony of her screams. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
And it hypnotizes me.
I stop wiggling my fingers. I freeze, my hand still in her armpit, completely captivated. I need to hear it again. I need to hear more of it.
I change my tactic. I lighten my touch even more, using just one fingernail to trace a slow, delicate circle around the edge of her underarm. The screaming subsides slightly, replaced by frantic, panting sobs.
"Shhh," I whisper, my voice soft, almost gentle. "It's okay. Just relax. Let it happen."
I keep tracing the circle, slow and steady. Her body is still trembling, but the violent convulsions have stopped. She's panting, trying to anticipate the next wave of torture.
And then it comes.
"Hee... hee-hee... ha-ha-ha-ha..."
There it is. The bells. Clearer this time. Unburdened by the screams. It's a pure, helpless giggle, and it sends a shiver down my spine. It's so innocent, so sweet. It's the sound of an angel. I'm torturing an angel, and she's singing for me.
I'm so entranced by the sound that I forget myself. I press down a little harder, trying to coax more of it out, to make it last.
The mistake is fatal.
The moment the pressure increases, the spell is broken. The innocence is shattered.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The screaming returns, louder and more agonized than before. The beautiful bells are gone, replaced by the familiar, ugly siren of torment. She's thrashing again, her body bucking wildly, her shrieks filling the room.
"No, no, no," I whisper, a surge of frustration and disappointment washing over me. I try to lighten my touch again, to find that perfect, delicate balance, but it's too late. I've lost it. The gate is closed.
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"
I spend the next few minutes trying to get it back. I try every variation I can think of. Light touches, hard touches, scratching, tracing. But all I get are screams. The beautiful, hypnotic laugh only graced me with its presence for a few precious seconds, and now it's gone. And I'm left with the screeching of just another broken toy.
But I'm not one to give up on a masterpiece. I know the sound is in there, i just have to find the right key to unlock it, i stop the frantic wiggling, stop the scratching, i go back to the beginning. To the lightest possible touch.
I lean in close, my face hovering just above her armpit. I don't touch her with my fingers. Instead, I blow. A soft, steady stream of warm air right into the sensitive hollow.
Her body tenses, a full-body shudder wracking her frame. A choked sob escapes her throat. But no scream. She's anticipating pain, but this is something different. Something strange.
I keep blowing, a warm, constant breeze. And then, I add my tongue. Just the tip, tracing a slow, wet circle around the edge of her armpit.
"Eeeee... hee... hee-hee..."
There. A flicker. A tiny, hesitant chime. I don't press my advantage. I stay gentle, my tongue moving slowly, deliberately, lapping at the skin like a cat drinking milk. I can feel the fine, almost invisible hairs under my tongue, taste the salt of her sweat.
"Hee-hee-ha-ha... ha-ha-ha..."
It's coming back. The bells. I can feel the vibration starting in her chest, a delicate hum that grows into those perfect, melodic notes. Her body is still trembling, but it's a different kind of tremble now. Not the violent convulsions of agony, but the fine shudder of an overstimulated nerve.
I pull back slightly and use my fingers again, just the pads, dancing lightly over the wet skin my tongue just left. The combination of sensations, the warmth, the wetness, the light touch, is the key.
And then, it happens.
"Hee-hee-ha-ha-ha-ha-ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The floodgates open. The beautiful, angelic laughter pours out of her, clear and pure and uninterrupted. No screams. No shrieks. Just the music. I'm mesmerized, completely captivated. I watch her face, which is screwed up in a mask of what looks like agony, but the sound coming from her is pure joy. It's the most delicious contradiction I've ever experienced. I count the seconds in my head. One... two... three... four... five... six... seven.
Seven seconds of heaven.
And then, just as I'm about to lose myself in it, I see it. A flicker in her expression. A shift. The mask of agony is replaced by something else. Humiliation.
She knows what she's doing. She knows how she sounds. And she hates it.
The shame is a poison. It kills the music.
The laughter chokes off, replaced by a strangled gasp, and then, the inevitable return of the shrieks.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! NO! NO! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
I pull my hand back as if I've been burned. The frustration is immense, a bitter taste in my mouth. I had it. I had the perfect sound, and her own pathetic shame ruined it. Fine. If she wants to be ashamed, I'll give her something to be really ashamed of.
My eyes travel down her body. Her chest is small, almost flat, just the gentle swell of budding breasts topped with small, pale pink nipples. They're hard from the cold, from the fear. They look incredibly vulnerable.
I move down, positioning myself beside her ribs. I bring my hands up and, without a word, I lay them flat on her chest, my palms covering her small breasts.
She freezes. Her eyes, which were squeezed shut, fly open. The screaming stops. For a moment, there is only silence, the sound of her sharp, terrified intake of breath. This isn't the same. This isn't just an attack on her nervous system. This is personal. This is a violation.
And then, a deep, dark crimson blush starts to creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks, burning her face with a heat I can feel from where I'm sitting. She's mortified. Utterly and completely humiliated.
I smile. And I start to wiggle my fingers.
The effect is instantaneous. The touch on her breasts, a place no one has likely ever touched like this, sends a jolt through her so powerful it's almost electrical. A strangled, choking sound escapes her throat, a cross between a gasp and a sob. And then, the laughter starts.
But it's not the angelic laughter. It's not the screaming. It's something else entirely. It's ugly.
"Ook-ook-ook-ook-ook-ook! Ha-ha-ha-ook-ook-ook!"
It's a series of short, sharp, panting barks. A frantic, high-pitched chittering that sounds exactly like a panicked monkey. It's a hideous, undignified, ridiculous sound. And it's coming from this beautiful, blushing girl.
I can't help it. I laugh. A real, genuine laugh of my own.
"Ook-ook-ook! Please! Ha-ha-ook-ook! Stop! Ook-ook!" she begs, her voice a mess of ugly barks and desperate sobs, her face burning with shame. She hates this sound more than the screaming. This sound makes her feel like an animal.
"A chimp," I say, my voice dripping with amusement. "You laugh like a little chimp, Brianna. It's adorable. All that blushing and chittering. It's quite a show."
"Ook-ook-ook-ook! No! Ha-ha-ha-ook-ook! Shut up! Ook-ook!"
I keep wiggling my fingers, my palms pressing down, my thumbs brushing against her hard nipples. The dual sensations, the humiliation of the touch and the ticklish agony, are destroying her. She's thrashing her head from side to side, trying to bury her face in her shoulder to hide the blush, but it's no use. She's a furnace of shame.
"Ook-ook-ook-ook-ook! I can't! Ha-ha-ha-ook! I can't breathe! Ook-ook-ook!"
And then, it happens again. In the middle of the hideous, panting chimp-laugh, a single, perfect note escapes. A clear, melodic "hee-hee" that cuts through the ugliness like a diamond.
It's just for a second. A fleeting glimpse of the angel. But it's enough.
It hits me like a drug. A jolt of pure, raw excitement that goes straight between my legs. I gasp, my own rhythm faltering for a moment. That sound. It's a drug, and I'm instantly addicted. I need more. I need to hear it again.
I redouble my efforts, my fingers flying across her chest, frantically trying to force the sound out. But the more I try, the more it eludes me. The harder I press, the uglier her laughter becomes, descending into a wet, choking mess of "ook-ooks" and sobs.
"No... no... ha-ha-ook... please... no more... ook-ook..."
She's completely broken now, a blushing, chittering, sobbing mess. And I'm left shaking, not with laughter, but with a frustrated, desperate craving. I had the angel and the devil in my hands at the same time. And I let them both slip away.
