waterman
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2006
- Messages
- 482
- Points
- 43
Form ticklescenes.com.
April woke with a start, her breath ragged and filled with panic. The room she was in was dark, lit only by a flickering neon light on the ceiling that cast unsettling shadows on the rough concrete walls. Her last memory was of an alley behind a Brooklyn café, where she was about to meet an anonymous source. Then, nothing.
As she tried to move, she realized she was strapped to the edges of a bed with leather restraints, her hands pinned behind her head under the pillow. She was dressed in underwear, barefoot, and a chill ran through her body. The door opened, revealing the figure of a man in an elegant suit and tie, bowler hat, and well-groomed mustache, a sinister grin spread across his face.
"Welcome to my domain, Miss O’Neil," he said in a syrupy voice. "Once again, it seems you've poked your nose where it doesn’t belong."
"Don… Don Turtelli. I could never forget your ugly face," the girl exclaimed with dignity. This wasn’t the first time she had been his prisoner; in the past, he had tried to break her and her colleague Vernon. Without much success, she recalled with pride.
April stared at him with a mix of fear and defiance. She would not allow this man to break her.
"My dear April, I’ve learned that you’ve been investigating certain favors my men have done for the Foot Clan and some politicians on their payroll. Do you know what happens to curious people?"
"Someone needs to be willing to tell the truth, no matter what."
"But truth is relative. It depends on who tells it. You see, your reputation as an incorruptible journalist is quite a nuisance. I thought I’d help you, let’s say... lighten up a little."
The door opened again, and two muscular men entered. One of them set up a camera on a tripod and began filming the scene. April struggled vainly as the two men lay down beside her and began touching her sensually. Their hands rested on her shoulders and hips, caressing her with deliberate, slow gestures as if they were long-time lovers. The camera was strategically positioned: her cuffed hands behind the pillow were out of view, giving the impression she was free and enjoying the scene, if not for her displeased expression.
"I won’t do anything permanent," Turtelli continued, stroking his chin. "I don’t want to make you a martyr. I have something subtler in mind. If your reputation weren’t so spotless, who would believe your investigations? A woman having fun in seedy places with shady men…"
April was determined not to give in to this diabolical plan. The two men continued their act, groping her chest, sliding their fingers into her underwear, and pressing their muscular bodies against her slender frame.
"You see, April," Turtelli said, moving closer to the bed. "Remember years ago? I saw you resist, fight. But in the end, you gave in. Pictures speak louder than words. And for my plan to work, I need you to look... comfortable. Amused."
He sat at the foot of the bed, observing his prisoner with a satisfied expression. Saying this, he pulled a long, white feather from his pocket and let it glide slowly toward April’s bare foot. Her jaw tightened, and her heart pounded in her chest. She braced herself, gritting her teeth, trying to ignore the feather's light, insidious touch.
"You’re too serious, pretty girl. Have a good laugh."
The feather's touch was almost imperceptible, but that made it all the more devastating. Turtelli moved it with precision, tracing circles and sinuous lines across the sole of her foot. April felt a growing wave of discomfort, and her breathing grew erratic. She tried to remain still, to show no signs of weakness, but every fiber of her body screamed.
"Interesting," murmured Turtelli, his smile widening. "You’re pretending well, but I know you feel it. Years have passed, but your laugh still rings in my ears."
"Oh, really? This is your grand plan?" April tried to distract herself by speaking, her lips curling into a sarcastic smile. "A feather? I thought mobsters had more refined methods." Her voice was sharp, but her tone betrayed growing tension. She felt every movement of the feather like a wave of electric energy shaking her inside.
"Ah, but you’re a tough one, aren’t you?" Turtelli chuckled, undeterred. "We’ll see how long your mask lasts."
April tried to resist, focusing on thoughts that could distract her. She counted seconds, enumerated potential escape routes, and recalled trivial details like the words of an article she had written months earlier. Every laugh rising in her throat was an insult to her dignity. She struggled to remain impassive, staring at the ceiling with a bored expression.
"Really? Is this all you’ve got?" she said sharply. "I thought your methods were more sophisticated. I must say, I’m disappointed."
The feather lingered under her toes, a particularly sensitive spot. April squinted, trying to maintain control, but a tremor betrayed her iron will. The mobster tilted his head, satisfied. "Your mask is about to fall," he said confidently.
At last, a muffled sound escaped her lips. It wasn’t a full laugh but a hint, a small crack that Turtelli welcomed with enthusiasm. He continued to move the feather, increasing its rhythm and intensity. April could no longer hold back. A nervous, uncontrollable laugh burst out, accompanied by tears of frustration.
"Noh-hoho! Ahaha!" she cried, spasming. The muscle agitation induced by the tickling combined with the stimulation of the groping.
"You bastard! Stop it!" she shouted between gasps. "I won’t give in!"
"Oh, you don’t have to surrender, my dear. You’re doing just fine as you are. Keep going!"
Her body no longer responded to her commands; every attempt to resist turned into an imperative to laugh, to squirm, every thought drowned by the need to expel air from her lungs. Her face was a mask of unrestrained hilarity, her firm chest rising and falling compulsively, giving the impression of being in euphoric ecstasy.
Every second recorded by the camera was a weapon against her.
Turtelli finally stopped and rose, placing the feather on the table. "Perfect," he said with satisfaction. "That’s all I needed. Miss O’Neil, if your investigations continue, for once, you will be the subject, not the author, of a news segment." He gestured to his men and left the room, leaving April exhausted, her body trembling from the compulsive laughter but her spirit still unbroken.
Hours passed slowly. April’s mind filled with thoughts of revenge. She couldn’t let it end like this. The sound of footsteps interrupted the silence. The door opened, and four masked figures entered the room.
"April, we finally found you. We’ve been searching everywhere for you."
"Guys. Guys, you made it," April exclaimed, regaining her fierce resolve.
The battle was far from over.
