I wrote this story, intrigued by what the user: Tickletime64 proposed, happy reading.
PART I – The Silence Before theStorm
Emily—"Em" to those who knew her closely—wasstill fast asleep in her bed when outside, in the damp silence of theBritish countryside, something was moving. Her house, a small stonestructure hidden among the trees, was immersed in a surrealatmosphere. The fogged-up windows, the wood that still crackled inthe fireplace that had been dead for hours... and the slow,vulnerable breathing of the girl lying under the covers.
Shewas twenty-seven, and the world recognized in her a beauty thatsometimes made her feel almost uncomfortable. Porcelain skin, smoothand sensitive as old silk. Her long dark brown hair spread like awavy river on the pillow. She slept on her stomach, with one leg bentand the other straight, and the sheet slid down her back, revealingthe curve of her hips and the thin line of her spine. She wasvulnerable. Completely.
Em was ticklish. But not in the waymost people mean it. No, for her it was a nightmare. A real,physical, mental nightmare. A nightmare that clouded her thoughtsjust by hearing about it. The soles of her feet, in particular—pale,perfect, soft as wet velvet—were her absolute weak spot. A feather,a breath, even the breeze from the open window would sometimes makeher retract her feet suddenly, instinctively covering them under thecovers.
But that night, her feet were exposed. And she didn’tknow it yet… but someone had noticed.
It had been a day likeany other. Work from home, a few errands around town, a light dinnerin front of the TV. She had stretched out on the couch, then goneupstairs to her bedroom and fallen asleep immediately. She had had aslight premonition—an uneasy sensation, maybe a noise, maybe just asuggestion. But she had ignored it all. Too tired. Too unaware.
Andthat’s where the story really begins.
PART II – The House in theWind
Emily’s house was a small jewel that time hadforgotten. Surrounded by bare trees and a corroded wrought-ironfence, it sat at the edge of a seemingly endless forest. The branchesof the trees twisted like bony fingers against the night sky, and thewind that blew through them made whispering, almost human sounds.Every now and then, the wood of the house creaked, and anyone whowasn’t used to it could have sworn that someone was walkingupstairs… even though it was uninhabited.
Inside, timeseemed to have stood still. Antique furniture, worn oriental rugs,unlit candles left in the candelabras, as if someone, sooner orlater, intended to relight them. Em had a weakness for gothicatmospheres, and her house was the perfect reflection of that. Eachroom had its own scent: lavender in the bedroom, beeswax in theliving room, and a faint smell of damp earth that came from thebasement. A smell that never went away, despite everything.
Butthat night… the smell was stronger.
Under the wooden floor,between the knots of the parquet and the almost invisible cracks,something was moving. Slow, silent, but alive. Like a breath held fortoo long. Something was watching.
In the hallway, right infront of her bedroom door, a shadow had formed that never existedduring the day. A dark spot that seemed to pulse slightly, as if ithad its own rhythm. No windows were open, yet the curtains movedslightly, as if an invisible breeze was caressing the walls.
Thebedroom door was not closed. Never completely. Em said it gave her asense of freedom, of air. But tonight… that half-open door was aninvitation.
Whoever, or what, moved in the house kneweverything about her. Every habit. Every breath. Every phobia. It wassomething that left no visible traces. No sign of break-in, no soundof footsteps. But it was there. As present as the smell of damp inthe dark, as the oppression you feel before a storm.
And shewas hungry for laughter.
Not joyful laughter, though. No. Shewanted the kind of laughter that comes from terror, the kind youcan’t control. The kind that scratches your throat as your bodywrithes. The kind that begs for mercy even as you laugh. The kindthat only Em could offer, involuntarily, desperately.
Thatthing—human or not, real or not—knew exactly where to strike.Where the skin was thinnest, where the nerve endings vibrated just atthe thought of being touched.
And all the while… it watched.From the shadows, from the dark, from under the bed perhaps… orperhaps from the attic. Silent as death, but crueler.
PART III – The HorrorAwakening
Emily opened her eyes.
No, it wasn’t quitelike that. She didn’t open them in the conscious sense. It was morelike an explosion in her mind, a warning siren sounding straight fromher nervous system, a pure panic that made her consciousness emergelike a soul suddenly torn from a dream.
She didn’tunderstand. Her breath was shaking in her chest, and an inhumansound—half laugh, half scream—was already coming from her throat.Her eyes opened wide, bright, crazy… and what she saw was theceiling. Only the ceiling.
But she couldn’t move.
Thepanic became instantaneous. She tried to turn her head, to lift anarm, to raise her torso… nothing. Her arms were pinned above herhead, her legs slightly apart, as if someone had studied her,measured her, prepared her down to the millimeter. There were novisible ropes, no ties. But her body didn’t respond, as if it wereenveloped by an invisible force, soft and inexorable.
And thenit began.
A touch.
A touch so light on the sole of her leftfoot that at first she thought she’d imagined it. But the second…the second was like an atomic explosion in her nerves.
A shiverran from her foot to her throat, an uncontrollable jolt that made herscream. Don’t laugh, don’t moan… scream.
“NO NO NONO!” she screamed in a broken voice, but there was no answer. Onlythe wet sound of her own laughter beginning to explodeuncontrollably.
The tickling becameall-encompassing.
Something—someone?—was slowly exploring thesoles of her feet, with invisible fingers or maybe tools. Maybefeathers. Maybe bristles. Maybe… something worse. Her feet, sovulnerable and sensitive, were shaking in spasms, even though theycouldn’t escape. Every inch, every wrinkle, every tiny pointbetween her fingers was a slow, calculated, sadistic torture.
Emilywas laughing. But it was the worst kind of laughter. A hystericallaugh, full of tears and sobs. Her body tensed and jerked, lookingfor an escape that didn’t exist. Her mind was already shatteringher thoughts into a thousand fragments of pure terror.
She wasawake. But not free.
She was alive. But trapped in a private,unbearable hell.
And the entity—whatever it was—hadn’teven really begun.
PART IV – Slave to Laughter
Timehad ceased to exist.
Emily didn’t know how long she had beenlaughing, or how much longer she could hold out. Her body was burningwith spasms, her jaws were already clenched in a grotesque laughterthat had nothing joyful about it, and she was short of breath. Hereyes were watering incessantly, and her lungs were begging for abreak that would never come.
Her fingers—whether human orworse—kept dancing across the soles of her feet, slow, wicked,meticulous. They were everywhere. Between her toes. Under her toes.On the outer edges. On the inner arches, where the skin was terriblyvulnerable. Each new touch was like a jolt of electricity shotstraight into her already tattered psyche.
“AHHHHhahahaAHAHAHHHNOOO! ENOUGH! ENOUGHAA! P-PLEASE–HHHHHAHAHAHAAAAHHH!”
Eachplea was drowned out by laughter. And with each shouted phrase, thething seemed to respond… not with words, but with greaterintensity. As if it were feeding off Em’s desperation. As if hertorment was not only wanted, but necessary. Savored.
Then itchanged tactics.
A sudden pressure on her left side, light asa lover’s touch. Then the other. And then… a flurry. A thousandfingers, a thousand points of torture all at once. Em’s flatstomach was assaulted as if a cloud of invisible hands were goingcrazy over her body. The tickling spread, from under her ribs to herlower abdomen, up the sides of her waist. A full, chaotic, crushingtickle.
Her body shook her head back and forth like amadwoman, her hair plastered to her sweat-soaked forehead. Herbreasts heaved with each strangled breath. Her hips bucked in thevoid, but without any hope.
Her panic was absolute.
Shewasn’t just laughing.
She wasn’t just begging.
She waslosing her mind.
And then she felt something.
A voice?No.
A breath.
Warm. On her neck. Slowly.
As ifsomething—or someone—were now so close that their breath wastouching her skin. A real presence. Tangible. But stillinvisible.
Then… a word. A single, whispered syllable. Softas silk.
“…tickle…”
Emily shrieked. Not inlaughter. In pure horror.
And her hands returned to her feet.
PART V – Hope Breaks
Theneverything stopped.
Silence fell over the room like aguillotine.
Emily was panting, her chest heaving in franticjerks. Tears were streaming down her temples, her neck, her leftcheek. Her body was damp, shaking, a million residual spasms. Hertired muscles were still trying to respond… even though shecouldn’t move. And yet… something had changed.
Thetickling was over.
“…Oh my God…” she whispered in abroken voice, broken like her. It wasn’t a prayer, it was just athought out loud, a gasp of disbelief.
She tried to move a finger.Nothing.
But… then another. The slightest tremor of her thumb.And then her elbow.
She was regaining control.
Her heartwas pounding in her chest as if it wanted to break through her ribs.She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand. Was she awake?Was it a dream? Was it a prank? Was it a hallucination? She feltherself slipping to the edge of reality, as if the world itself wascrumbling beneath her exhausted mind.
“It’s over…” shewhispered. She wanted to believe it. She had to.
She managed toturn her head to the left. Then to the right.
No one. Nothing.Only darkness and quiet.
A sob of relief escaped her chest, raspyand dry. “Thank you… thank you… oh God…”
That’swhen she felt something on her right foot.
A touch. No, not atouch. A finger. Just one.
And it didn’t tickle. Itcaressed.
“No… no, please…” Emily whispered, her eyeswide in pure terror. “Not again…”
The finger traced aslow, slow line along the arch of her foot. As if it were markingher. As if to say, “You’re mine.”
Then two more. Thenfive. Then ten.
And suddenly… another silence. A deeper silence.A fuller silence.
Like the moment before an explosion.
Andthen the world turned upside down.
The tickling returned. Butnot like before.
Now it was furious. It was sadistic. It had nograce, no game, no taste for slow torment. Now it was puredestruction, as if the entity had stopped playing… and wanted topunish her for hoping.
The invisible hands—so many, toomany—grabbed every inch of exposed skin. Her armpits. Her ribs. Herbelly. Her knees. Her inner thighs. Her feet, again. The fingers duginto her sides, probing, pressing, digging as if they wanted to breakher from the inside out.
Emily screamed. She laughed. Shesobbed. She thrashed—or tried to. But it was no use.
Her mindbegan to crack. The images blurred. The ceiling seemed farther away,the room smaller.
Everything became surreal.
Then she hearda voice. That whisper again.
But this time… it was in herhead.
“You’ll never stop laughing, Emily… neveragain.”
And she understood.
She understood that thiswasn’t the end.
It was just the beginning.
PART VI – The Treatment Begins
Emilyfainted.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t fight. Her body,exasperated by laughter, by hyperventilation, by the totalimpossibility of escape, did the only thing it could to protect her:it turned everything off. A click. Like a switch.
And yet, noteven unconsciousness was merciful.
She dreamed of laughter.She dreamed of hands, feathers, nails.
She dreamed of her ownbreath bouncing in her skull like a grotesque echo, and thehumiliation of being just a puppet for something she couldn’t evensee.
When she woke up… it wasn’t any better.
Shewas lying there. But not in that room anymore.
The floor waswhite. Shiny. Like glass or surgical plastic. The air was cold,sterile, and everything smelled of disinfectant.
The light waseverywhere. Uniform. There was no source, as if the walls themselveswere luminous.
But the most chilling thing was how she washeld.
This time not just held still, but completely contained.
Herarms and legs were spread, perfectly still, inserted into invisible,flexible structures that held her in an exposed, completelyvulnerable position.
Her armpits were wide open. Her fingersspread. Her knees slightly bent. Her feet perfectly positioned to be…handled.
Her head was also held in place, forced to lookforward.
Click.
A sharp sound, like a switch.
Then amechanical whoosh.
Slender, translucent, jointed armsdescended from the ceiling, stopping a few inches above her body.They ended in instruments…not easily described. Some looked likesynthetic feathers. Others like tiny paintbrushes. Others…thinneedles? But no, not for piercing. Just for touching.
Emilycouldn’t even scream. Just a low moan, a strangledprotest.
Click.
The invisible hands began to move.
Andthe treatment began.
The first phase was delicate. Ascientific exploration.
A small mechanical arm began to mapeach toe of her left foot, one by one, brushing them to determine themaximum involuntary reaction. Each time the muscle jumped, theinstrument paused for a moment... then returned, more precise, moreevil.
Another arm took care of her belly. The brush circled hernavel in slow circles, while another tickled just below her ribs,until it found exactly the point where her laughter becameuncontrollable.
Emily laughed again.
But this time therewas no surprise. There was no terror.
There was desperation.
Itwas the kind of laughter that she knew would never end.
The kindof laughter that contained, within it, the knowledge that this washer fate now.
The second phase was more intimate. Moreinvasive.
The arms tickled the insides of her thighs, touchingthe thinnest, most sensitive, most private places. No respect. Nomercy. Only the precision of someone who has studied every singlenerve.
Even her armpits, already vulnerable and red, werestimulated by a series of small vibrating devices that oscillated atdifferent frequencies… as if they were testing the pain thresholdthrough pleasure.
Emily lost control of her body.
Her legswere shaking. Her belly was twisting. Her face was contorting in aneternal spasm. She laughed and laughed and laughed, yet each laughhurt more than the last.
“First phase complete.”
Thevoice—robotic, synthetic, inhuman—echoed through the room.
Emilywas sobbing. She was out of breath. Her mouth was open, her lips weretrembling.
But the voice continued.
“Subject responsive.Prepare for second phase of treatment… without time limit.”
Andagain, the hands moved.
PART VII – Body, Mind, Soul
Emilyno longer knew who she was.
All she knew was that she waslaughing. And laughing. And laughing again.
Her mouth was dry,her jaw ached. She had lost count of the times she had tried toscream and only a broken laugh had come out, a hysterical gurgle thattasted of madness. Her muscles trembled under the mechanical armsthat never stopped. There was no pause. No respite.
Then, asbefore, silence.
But this time, it was not a respite.
Itwas a different kind of torture.
“Phase two: combinedsensory stimulation. Objective: mental disintegration of thesubject.”
Emily jumped, or tried to.
Then she felt it. Adifferent touch.
Not on her armpits, not on her feet, not on herbelly.
But between her legs.
“N-no… no… NO!Please!” Her voice exploded, a mixture of anger, humiliation, andpure desperation. “NOT THERE! DON’T—AHHHhhH! Please, STOP!PLEASE!”
Another arm, thinner, soft-tipped, was touching herwhere her skin is most sensitive, most private.
And not tostimulate her in the strictest sense… no. But to tickle her, likeevery other area.
In small circular movements. Meticulous. Cruellycalibrated.
Emily writhed, or tried to, in a new wave ofsavage shame, because his touch was doing something to her she didn’twant. An involuntary, forbidden reaction, that made her cry evenmore.
“Oh God… I’m going crazy… I’m really goingcrazy!”
“Please… why? Why are you doing this?!”
“ICAN’T LAUGH ANYMORE! I… I can’t BREATHE!”
Laughterexploded from her throat in a hysterical gasp as more armssimultaneously reactivated: one returned to her toes, two more duginto her sides, and yet another whispered at her neck, soft feathersthat made her skin crawl and her mind go haywire.
“Subjectis also responsive to erotic stimulation. Persistence of tortureguaranteed.”
“NOOOO!! DON’T SAY THAT!! I DON’T… IT’SNOT TRUE!! IT’S JUST… IT’S JUST…”
Another tickle betweenher legs made her scream, her entire body shaking.
“I HATEYOU!!!!!”
But the system had no heart to hate.
Onlyroutine. Only goals.
Another voice, this time human, seemed toemerge from the mechanical sounds.
A whisper that was damnfamiliar.
“Emily… you look so beautiful when youlaugh…”
Her eyes widened.
“Who… WHO IS THAT?! WHOARE YOU?! PLEASE, PLEASE TELL ME!”
But all she got waslaughter.
Not hers. Not human.
Ethereal laughter, that seemedto echo off the walls themselves.
And then…
“Phasethree: intensification. No threshold. No salvation.”
PART VIII – The Betrayal of theBody
Emily’s laughter had become hoarse.
It was no longercheerful. Not hysterical. Not even human.
It was animalistic.Gurgling. Full of terror and shame.
And yet… the machine didnot stop.
“Ahhh-AHHhh-NO! PLEASE! NO TO YOUR FEETAGAIN!”
Screams exploded from her dry lips as two new armsslowly descended toward her feet, like predators returning to thecarcass after having given her the illusion of being free.
Hertoes were opened and separated, locked one by one.
A stream ofvery cool air brushed the soles of her feet, making hershiver.
Then… the touch.
Not one. Not two.
Butfour simultaneous instruments began to work on the soles of herfeet.
Two feathers. A rotating micro-brush. And something…gelatinous, pulsing slowly across her skin like a synthetictongue.
Every inch was stimulated. Every nerve was forcefullyawakened.
Emily screamed with laughter.
Her breath wasragged, her neck tense, her veins bulging with effort.
“Ican’t do this! PLEASE! IT HURTS! STOP! STOP!!”
“ENOUGH! MYFEET… OH GOD, MY FEET!!”
And to make matters worse, twomore arms—more delicate but just as merciless—reached into herarmpits.
Already vulnerable, already ravaged, they now becamesanctuaries of torment.
Every nerve was teased by a combination ofvibrations and micro-touches: electric feathers, needles of air, anda cool substance that seemed to make them even moresensitive.
“NOOOOOOOOO!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEPLEASE!!”
Emily was devastated.
And yet… something wasstarting to change.
A new sensation.
Deeper. More…warm.
Something between her legs.
Something that shouldn’thave been there.
Something she was enjoying.
No. NO. It wasn’tpossible. It wasn’t right.
But her body was responding.
Andthe stimulation down there had never stopped.
The small arm, the“dedicated” one, continued its work, slow and precise,stimulating pleasure while everything else was pain andhumiliation.
Emily tried to push it away. To resist. But everytime she tried to tense her muscles, an explosion of tickling on herfeet or under her arms made her scream, tremble, give in.
“NO…D-don’t… don’t do this to me… I… I don’t…”
“Ican’t come… while you torture me like this!”
“I HATE YOU!!I HATE YOUOOOO!”
But her body ignored her.
And then…she gave in.
A wave. A wave of immense, confusing, crushingpleasure that shot through her spine like an electric shock.
Emily’sbody convulsed. Every muscle tensed.
And then… she exploded in aforced, stolen, violent orgasm.
Tears streamed from her eyes.
Herlaughter turned into a scream.
“Erotic response achieved.Stimulation/pleasure combination effective. Proceed.”
Thevoice was cold. Without empathy.
It wasn’t over.
It wasjust the beginning of the next phase.
PART IX – The Cycle of ForcedPleasure
Emily lay on the support, panting, sweaty, soaked,her muscles tense like broken strings. Every part of her body seemedto pulse on its own, alive, and utterly vulnerable.
She hadjust had the worst orgasm of her life.
Not because it wasn’tintense…
…but because she didn’t want it.
And now,the arms were already moving again.
Without mercy.
Without evengiving her time to remember who she was.
“N-n-no… notagain… you can’t do this to me again… I… I can’t take itanymore…”
Her voice was a faint rattle, broken byhysterical sobs.
But the devices didn’t stop.
Never.
Herfeet returned to the sublime surgical precision.
A vibratingtip, thin as a needle, slid between her toes. Another, soft, lightlyscratched her arch, while four more slowly ran up and down hersoles.
Each touch was pure torture, but with the malice of acaress too long, too sensual.
Emily laughed, but withoutbreathing. Only broken sounds, like a trapped animal.
"No…I beg you… oh God, I'm pissing myself… please… ENOUGH!"
Aburst exploded under her armpits: retractable micro-spikes tickledthe already destroyed skin, sinking into the nerve like invisiblethorns. And then the feathers… those damned feathers, again at theedge of her armpits, slippery with a mentholated oil that madeeverything ten times worse.
Emily writhed, her breasts shakingwith every spasm, her body bent in the steel prison.
But downthere… the real torture began again.
This timedifferent.
One arm split into three vibrating points, allaimed at the exact spot, the small, pink one, the center of herpleasure.
One began to circle, slowly.
A second to pressrhythmically, as if knocking.
The third… just a breath. A touchof warm air.
An almost loving touch. But crueler than anypain.
Emily screamed.
She struggled.
And came.Again.
The orgasm exploded inside her like a bolt oflightning. Rawer, more humiliating than the first.
Her mind wenthazy, her vision black at the edges.
“Orgasm two recorded.Neurological adaptation in progress. Increasing proximity stimulationand compulsive response. Phase three: devastation.”
Emilywas panting, sweating, her legs shaking.
“Enough… please…I don’t want to come anymore… please, just let me cry… just letme cry…”
But they didn’t listen.
A newconfiguration appeared.
A stimulation mask, slowly descended fromthe ceiling.
Shiny. Black.
It covered the mouth, the nose, andleft only the eyes.
From it… fine feathers inside tickled theinside of the lips, the inside of the nostrils.
Emily’sbreathing became hysterical.
She was going crazy.
Andagain, the combination at her feet, underarms, and between her legs,began to hit her.
“Prepare subject for consecutive orgasm.No pause.”
Emily couldn’t even plead.
Only scream.
PART X – Over the Edge
Shewasn’t Emily anymore.
Not in the way she’d been.
Thelaughter, the moans, the pleas… it all blended into one twistedsymphony of doom.
Her body jerked at every touch. Her musclestwitched uncontrollably. Every sensitive area was on fire: herarmpits ravaged, her feet reduced to two exposed nerves, and betweenher legs… a minefield that exploded with every pass of thevibrating arm.
“Orgasm three completed. Subject in alteredstate. Response threshold: exceeded. Continue experiment.”
Themetallic voice was emotionless.
But another… did.
A newvoice, human.
A whisper, inside her mind. Or maybe outside.
Itwas impossible to tell.
“You like it, don’t you, littleEmily? You’re tasting it. You can’t deny it anymore…”
“No…no no no no… please… please stop… I don’t want anymore… Ijust want to sleep…”
The words came out like smoke from herlips. But the mask was blowing into her nose and mouth again,tickling her from the inside, making even breathing a continuouserotic torture.
The soles of her feet were dipped in a coolgel, and immediately stimulated with millions of tiny needles of air,puffs that simulated tongue caresses, combined with microscopicpoints of vibration.
An orgasm was already building inside her,even before the previous one had faded.
“I can’t… Ican’t… I… CAN’T… TAKE… IT—”
And she cameagain.
An explosion. A tear. An internal implosion.
Her eyesrolled back, her mouth open in obscene laughter mixed withscreams.
Her mind began to shatter.
Fragments of thought.Disjointed sentences.
“It’s happening again.”
“It’snot real.”
“But I’m enjoying it… why am I enjoyingit?”
Then… another voice. Softer. Fake. Maternal.
“Emily…love… this is all you are now. A toy. A body to be stimulated. Youwere born for this.”
And Emily… didn’t answer.
Shecouldn’t anymore.
The armpit treatment resumed, but thistime with cold gel and blades of air that tickled not only her skin,but every pore. It was as if every remaining cell was forced tolaugh.
And all the while… the arm between her legs was goingdeeper and deeper inside her, with a soft, vibrating extension thatfollowed the rhythm of her own spasms.
She was now possessed bythe rhythm of torment.
Orgasm five. Six. Seven.
She couldno longer distinguish the beginning from the end.
Reality wascollapsing.
Emily laughed. And moaned.
And broke.
“Subjectdissociated. State of oblivion achieved. Persistence guaranteed.”
PART XI – The Return of No One
Inthe silence that followed another orgasm, Emily remained still.
Notunconscious.
Not asleep.
Just… deactivated.
Her eyeswide, empty. Her pupils dilated.
Her limbs trembling, but withouta single rebellious tension.
Her breathing was rhythmic.Almost mechanical.
Her breasts rose slowly, her mouth slightlyopen, as if in silent prayer.
And then, again, the voice.
Notmetallic. Not mechanical.
Hers.
“Welcome back,Em.”
A figure appeared before her. Not real. Not human. Aprojection perhaps… or perhaps a reflection in the polished glassin front of her.
It was herself.
But different.
Sameskin, same body.
But the eyes… completely black.
A serenesmile. Too serene.
“You did well. You resisted. Youscreamed. You begged.”
“And that’s why now… you’reready.”
Emily trembled. A distant part of her wanted toscream. To flee.
But there was no control.
Only confusedacceptance.
The figure leaned toward her.
He caressed herchin with fingers that didn’t actually touch.
“Now you’relike me. One of us. A pure form. An essence of nothing but feelingand response. A body that’s always on. And you’ll stay thatway…”
A dull thud.
A click.
Mechanical armsretracted, others took up positions.
Not to end…
But to beginagain.
All over again. With new sequences. Newintensities.
“…forever.”
Emily didn’tspeak.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t resist.
When thestimulation to her feet resumed, she smiled.
When her armpitsexploded under the touches again, she moaned.
And when thepleasure vibrated between her legs again, she came.
At once.Without a fight.
The transformation was complete.
Herconsciousness shattered and recomposed itself in infinite loops, eachtime further from the memory of being human.
Em was no longer a person. She was acycle. A function. A sentient deity locked in a damned body.
Andthat, she would soon learn…
was not her destiny.
It was hertrue purpose.
Forever.
PART I – The Silence Before theStorm
Emily—"Em" to those who knew her closely—wasstill fast asleep in her bed when outside, in the damp silence of theBritish countryside, something was moving. Her house, a small stonestructure hidden among the trees, was immersed in a surrealatmosphere. The fogged-up windows, the wood that still crackled inthe fireplace that had been dead for hours... and the slow,vulnerable breathing of the girl lying under the covers.
Shewas twenty-seven, and the world recognized in her a beauty thatsometimes made her feel almost uncomfortable. Porcelain skin, smoothand sensitive as old silk. Her long dark brown hair spread like awavy river on the pillow. She slept on her stomach, with one leg bentand the other straight, and the sheet slid down her back, revealingthe curve of her hips and the thin line of her spine. She wasvulnerable. Completely.
Em was ticklish. But not in the waymost people mean it. No, for her it was a nightmare. A real,physical, mental nightmare. A nightmare that clouded her thoughtsjust by hearing about it. The soles of her feet, in particular—pale,perfect, soft as wet velvet—were her absolute weak spot. A feather,a breath, even the breeze from the open window would sometimes makeher retract her feet suddenly, instinctively covering them under thecovers.
But that night, her feet were exposed. And she didn’tknow it yet… but someone had noticed.
It had been a day likeany other. Work from home, a few errands around town, a light dinnerin front of the TV. She had stretched out on the couch, then goneupstairs to her bedroom and fallen asleep immediately. She had had aslight premonition—an uneasy sensation, maybe a noise, maybe just asuggestion. But she had ignored it all. Too tired. Too unaware.
Andthat’s where the story really begins.
PART II – The House in theWind
Emily’s house was a small jewel that time hadforgotten. Surrounded by bare trees and a corroded wrought-ironfence, it sat at the edge of a seemingly endless forest. The branchesof the trees twisted like bony fingers against the night sky, and thewind that blew through them made whispering, almost human sounds.Every now and then, the wood of the house creaked, and anyone whowasn’t used to it could have sworn that someone was walkingupstairs… even though it was uninhabited.
Inside, timeseemed to have stood still. Antique furniture, worn oriental rugs,unlit candles left in the candelabras, as if someone, sooner orlater, intended to relight them. Em had a weakness for gothicatmospheres, and her house was the perfect reflection of that. Eachroom had its own scent: lavender in the bedroom, beeswax in theliving room, and a faint smell of damp earth that came from thebasement. A smell that never went away, despite everything.
Butthat night… the smell was stronger.
Under the wooden floor,between the knots of the parquet and the almost invisible cracks,something was moving. Slow, silent, but alive. Like a breath held fortoo long. Something was watching.
In the hallway, right infront of her bedroom door, a shadow had formed that never existedduring the day. A dark spot that seemed to pulse slightly, as if ithad its own rhythm. No windows were open, yet the curtains movedslightly, as if an invisible breeze was caressing the walls.
Thebedroom door was not closed. Never completely. Em said it gave her asense of freedom, of air. But tonight… that half-open door was aninvitation.
Whoever, or what, moved in the house kneweverything about her. Every habit. Every breath. Every phobia. It wassomething that left no visible traces. No sign of break-in, no soundof footsteps. But it was there. As present as the smell of damp inthe dark, as the oppression you feel before a storm.
And shewas hungry for laughter.
Not joyful laughter, though. No. Shewanted the kind of laughter that comes from terror, the kind youcan’t control. The kind that scratches your throat as your bodywrithes. The kind that begs for mercy even as you laugh. The kindthat only Em could offer, involuntarily, desperately.
Thatthing—human or not, real or not—knew exactly where to strike.Where the skin was thinnest, where the nerve endings vibrated just atthe thought of being touched.
And all the while… it watched.From the shadows, from the dark, from under the bed perhaps… orperhaps from the attic. Silent as death, but crueler.
PART III – The HorrorAwakening
Emily opened her eyes.
No, it wasn’t quitelike that. She didn’t open them in the conscious sense. It was morelike an explosion in her mind, a warning siren sounding straight fromher nervous system, a pure panic that made her consciousness emergelike a soul suddenly torn from a dream.
She didn’tunderstand. Her breath was shaking in her chest, and an inhumansound—half laugh, half scream—was already coming from her throat.Her eyes opened wide, bright, crazy… and what she saw was theceiling. Only the ceiling.
But she couldn’t move.
Thepanic became instantaneous. She tried to turn her head, to lift anarm, to raise her torso… nothing. Her arms were pinned above herhead, her legs slightly apart, as if someone had studied her,measured her, prepared her down to the millimeter. There were novisible ropes, no ties. But her body didn’t respond, as if it wereenveloped by an invisible force, soft and inexorable.
And thenit began.
A touch.
A touch so light on the sole of her leftfoot that at first she thought she’d imagined it. But the second…the second was like an atomic explosion in her nerves.
A shiverran from her foot to her throat, an uncontrollable jolt that made herscream. Don’t laugh, don’t moan… scream.
“NO NO NONO!” she screamed in a broken voice, but there was no answer. Onlythe wet sound of her own laughter beginning to explodeuncontrollably.
The tickling becameall-encompassing.
Something—someone?—was slowly exploring thesoles of her feet, with invisible fingers or maybe tools. Maybefeathers. Maybe bristles. Maybe… something worse. Her feet, sovulnerable and sensitive, were shaking in spasms, even though theycouldn’t escape. Every inch, every wrinkle, every tiny pointbetween her fingers was a slow, calculated, sadistic torture.
Emilywas laughing. But it was the worst kind of laughter. A hystericallaugh, full of tears and sobs. Her body tensed and jerked, lookingfor an escape that didn’t exist. Her mind was already shatteringher thoughts into a thousand fragments of pure terror.
She wasawake. But not free.
She was alive. But trapped in a private,unbearable hell.
And the entity—whatever it was—hadn’teven really begun.
PART IV – Slave to Laughter
Timehad ceased to exist.
Emily didn’t know how long she had beenlaughing, or how much longer she could hold out. Her body was burningwith spasms, her jaws were already clenched in a grotesque laughterthat had nothing joyful about it, and she was short of breath. Hereyes were watering incessantly, and her lungs were begging for abreak that would never come.
Her fingers—whether human orworse—kept dancing across the soles of her feet, slow, wicked,meticulous. They were everywhere. Between her toes. Under her toes.On the outer edges. On the inner arches, where the skin was terriblyvulnerable. Each new touch was like a jolt of electricity shotstraight into her already tattered psyche.
“AHHHHhahahaAHAHAHHHNOOO! ENOUGH! ENOUGHAA! P-PLEASE–HHHHHAHAHAHAAAAHHH!”
Eachplea was drowned out by laughter. And with each shouted phrase, thething seemed to respond… not with words, but with greaterintensity. As if it were feeding off Em’s desperation. As if hertorment was not only wanted, but necessary. Savored.
Then itchanged tactics.
A sudden pressure on her left side, light asa lover’s touch. Then the other. And then… a flurry. A thousandfingers, a thousand points of torture all at once. Em’s flatstomach was assaulted as if a cloud of invisible hands were goingcrazy over her body. The tickling spread, from under her ribs to herlower abdomen, up the sides of her waist. A full, chaotic, crushingtickle.
Her body shook her head back and forth like amadwoman, her hair plastered to her sweat-soaked forehead. Herbreasts heaved with each strangled breath. Her hips bucked in thevoid, but without any hope.
Her panic was absolute.
Shewasn’t just laughing.
She wasn’t just begging.
She waslosing her mind.
And then she felt something.
A voice?No.
A breath.
Warm. On her neck. Slowly.
As ifsomething—or someone—were now so close that their breath wastouching her skin. A real presence. Tangible. But stillinvisible.
Then… a word. A single, whispered syllable. Softas silk.
“…tickle…”
Emily shrieked. Not inlaughter. In pure horror.
And her hands returned to her feet.
PART V – Hope Breaks
Theneverything stopped.
Silence fell over the room like aguillotine.
Emily was panting, her chest heaving in franticjerks. Tears were streaming down her temples, her neck, her leftcheek. Her body was damp, shaking, a million residual spasms. Hertired muscles were still trying to respond… even though shecouldn’t move. And yet… something had changed.
Thetickling was over.
“…Oh my God…” she whispered in abroken voice, broken like her. It wasn’t a prayer, it was just athought out loud, a gasp of disbelief.
She tried to move a finger.Nothing.
But… then another. The slightest tremor of her thumb.And then her elbow.
She was regaining control.
Her heartwas pounding in her chest as if it wanted to break through her ribs.She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand. Was she awake?Was it a dream? Was it a prank? Was it a hallucination? She feltherself slipping to the edge of reality, as if the world itself wascrumbling beneath her exhausted mind.
“It’s over…” shewhispered. She wanted to believe it. She had to.
She managed toturn her head to the left. Then to the right.
No one. Nothing.Only darkness and quiet.
A sob of relief escaped her chest, raspyand dry. “Thank you… thank you… oh God…”
That’swhen she felt something on her right foot.
A touch. No, not atouch. A finger. Just one.
And it didn’t tickle. Itcaressed.
“No… no, please…” Emily whispered, her eyeswide in pure terror. “Not again…”
The finger traced aslow, slow line along the arch of her foot. As if it were markingher. As if to say, “You’re mine.”
Then two more. Thenfive. Then ten.
And suddenly… another silence. A deeper silence.A fuller silence.
Like the moment before an explosion.
Andthen the world turned upside down.
The tickling returned. Butnot like before.
Now it was furious. It was sadistic. It had nograce, no game, no taste for slow torment. Now it was puredestruction, as if the entity had stopped playing… and wanted topunish her for hoping.
The invisible hands—so many, toomany—grabbed every inch of exposed skin. Her armpits. Her ribs. Herbelly. Her knees. Her inner thighs. Her feet, again. The fingers duginto her sides, probing, pressing, digging as if they wanted to breakher from the inside out.
Emily screamed. She laughed. Shesobbed. She thrashed—or tried to. But it was no use.
Her mindbegan to crack. The images blurred. The ceiling seemed farther away,the room smaller.
Everything became surreal.
Then she hearda voice. That whisper again.
But this time… it was in herhead.
“You’ll never stop laughing, Emily… neveragain.”
And she understood.
She understood that thiswasn’t the end.
It was just the beginning.
PART VI – The Treatment Begins
Emilyfainted.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t fight. Her body,exasperated by laughter, by hyperventilation, by the totalimpossibility of escape, did the only thing it could to protect her:it turned everything off. A click. Like a switch.
And yet, noteven unconsciousness was merciful.
She dreamed of laughter.She dreamed of hands, feathers, nails.
She dreamed of her ownbreath bouncing in her skull like a grotesque echo, and thehumiliation of being just a puppet for something she couldn’t evensee.
When she woke up… it wasn’t any better.
Shewas lying there. But not in that room anymore.
The floor waswhite. Shiny. Like glass or surgical plastic. The air was cold,sterile, and everything smelled of disinfectant.
The light waseverywhere. Uniform. There was no source, as if the walls themselveswere luminous.
But the most chilling thing was how she washeld.
This time not just held still, but completely contained.
Herarms and legs were spread, perfectly still, inserted into invisible,flexible structures that held her in an exposed, completelyvulnerable position.
Her armpits were wide open. Her fingersspread. Her knees slightly bent. Her feet perfectly positioned to be…handled.
Her head was also held in place, forced to lookforward.
Click.
A sharp sound, like a switch.
Then amechanical whoosh.
Slender, translucent, jointed armsdescended from the ceiling, stopping a few inches above her body.They ended in instruments…not easily described. Some looked likesynthetic feathers. Others like tiny paintbrushes. Others…thinneedles? But no, not for piercing. Just for touching.
Emilycouldn’t even scream. Just a low moan, a strangledprotest.
Click.
The invisible hands began to move.
Andthe treatment began.
The first phase was delicate. Ascientific exploration.
A small mechanical arm began to mapeach toe of her left foot, one by one, brushing them to determine themaximum involuntary reaction. Each time the muscle jumped, theinstrument paused for a moment... then returned, more precise, moreevil.
Another arm took care of her belly. The brush circled hernavel in slow circles, while another tickled just below her ribs,until it found exactly the point where her laughter becameuncontrollable.
Emily laughed again.
But this time therewas no surprise. There was no terror.
There was desperation.
Itwas the kind of laughter that she knew would never end.
The kindof laughter that contained, within it, the knowledge that this washer fate now.
The second phase was more intimate. Moreinvasive.
The arms tickled the insides of her thighs, touchingthe thinnest, most sensitive, most private places. No respect. Nomercy. Only the precision of someone who has studied every singlenerve.
Even her armpits, already vulnerable and red, werestimulated by a series of small vibrating devices that oscillated atdifferent frequencies… as if they were testing the pain thresholdthrough pleasure.
Emily lost control of her body.
Her legswere shaking. Her belly was twisting. Her face was contorting in aneternal spasm. She laughed and laughed and laughed, yet each laughhurt more than the last.
“First phase complete.”
Thevoice—robotic, synthetic, inhuman—echoed through the room.
Emilywas sobbing. She was out of breath. Her mouth was open, her lips weretrembling.
But the voice continued.
“Subject responsive.Prepare for second phase of treatment… without time limit.”
Andagain, the hands moved.
PART VII – Body, Mind, Soul
Emilyno longer knew who she was.
All she knew was that she waslaughing. And laughing. And laughing again.
Her mouth was dry,her jaw ached. She had lost count of the times she had tried toscream and only a broken laugh had come out, a hysterical gurgle thattasted of madness. Her muscles trembled under the mechanical armsthat never stopped. There was no pause. No respite.
Then, asbefore, silence.
But this time, it was not a respite.
Itwas a different kind of torture.
“Phase two: combinedsensory stimulation. Objective: mental disintegration of thesubject.”
Emily jumped, or tried to.
Then she felt it. Adifferent touch.
Not on her armpits, not on her feet, not on herbelly.
But between her legs.
“N-no… no… NO!Please!” Her voice exploded, a mixture of anger, humiliation, andpure desperation. “NOT THERE! DON’T—AHHHhhH! Please, STOP!PLEASE!”
Another arm, thinner, soft-tipped, was touching herwhere her skin is most sensitive, most private.
And not tostimulate her in the strictest sense… no. But to tickle her, likeevery other area.
In small circular movements. Meticulous. Cruellycalibrated.
Emily writhed, or tried to, in a new wave ofsavage shame, because his touch was doing something to her she didn’twant. An involuntary, forbidden reaction, that made her cry evenmore.
“Oh God… I’m going crazy… I’m really goingcrazy!”
“Please… why? Why are you doing this?!”
“ICAN’T LAUGH ANYMORE! I… I can’t BREATHE!”
Laughterexploded from her throat in a hysterical gasp as more armssimultaneously reactivated: one returned to her toes, two more duginto her sides, and yet another whispered at her neck, soft feathersthat made her skin crawl and her mind go haywire.
“Subjectis also responsive to erotic stimulation. Persistence of tortureguaranteed.”
“NOOOO!! DON’T SAY THAT!! I DON’T… IT’SNOT TRUE!! IT’S JUST… IT’S JUST…”
Another tickle betweenher legs made her scream, her entire body shaking.
“I HATEYOU!!!!!”
But the system had no heart to hate.
Onlyroutine. Only goals.
Another voice, this time human, seemed toemerge from the mechanical sounds.
A whisper that was damnfamiliar.
“Emily… you look so beautiful when youlaugh…”
Her eyes widened.
“Who… WHO IS THAT?! WHOARE YOU?! PLEASE, PLEASE TELL ME!”
But all she got waslaughter.
Not hers. Not human.
Ethereal laughter, that seemedto echo off the walls themselves.
And then…
“Phasethree: intensification. No threshold. No salvation.”
PART VIII – The Betrayal of theBody
Emily’s laughter had become hoarse.
It was no longercheerful. Not hysterical. Not even human.
It was animalistic.Gurgling. Full of terror and shame.
And yet… the machine didnot stop.
“Ahhh-AHHhh-NO! PLEASE! NO TO YOUR FEETAGAIN!”
Screams exploded from her dry lips as two new armsslowly descended toward her feet, like predators returning to thecarcass after having given her the illusion of being free.
Hertoes were opened and separated, locked one by one.
A stream ofvery cool air brushed the soles of her feet, making hershiver.
Then… the touch.
Not one. Not two.
Butfour simultaneous instruments began to work on the soles of herfeet.
Two feathers. A rotating micro-brush. And something…gelatinous, pulsing slowly across her skin like a synthetictongue.
Every inch was stimulated. Every nerve was forcefullyawakened.
Emily screamed with laughter.
Her breath wasragged, her neck tense, her veins bulging with effort.
“Ican’t do this! PLEASE! IT HURTS! STOP! STOP!!”
“ENOUGH! MYFEET… OH GOD, MY FEET!!”
And to make matters worse, twomore arms—more delicate but just as merciless—reached into herarmpits.
Already vulnerable, already ravaged, they now becamesanctuaries of torment.
Every nerve was teased by a combination ofvibrations and micro-touches: electric feathers, needles of air, anda cool substance that seemed to make them even moresensitive.
“NOOOOOOOOO!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEPLEASE!!”
Emily was devastated.
And yet… something wasstarting to change.
A new sensation.
Deeper. More…warm.
Something between her legs.
Something that shouldn’thave been there.
Something she was enjoying.
No. NO. It wasn’tpossible. It wasn’t right.
But her body was responding.
Andthe stimulation down there had never stopped.
The small arm, the“dedicated” one, continued its work, slow and precise,stimulating pleasure while everything else was pain andhumiliation.
Emily tried to push it away. To resist. But everytime she tried to tense her muscles, an explosion of tickling on herfeet or under her arms made her scream, tremble, give in.
“NO…D-don’t… don’t do this to me… I… I don’t…”
“Ican’t come… while you torture me like this!”
“I HATE YOU!!I HATE YOUOOOO!”
But her body ignored her.
And then…she gave in.
A wave. A wave of immense, confusing, crushingpleasure that shot through her spine like an electric shock.
Emily’sbody convulsed. Every muscle tensed.
And then… she exploded in aforced, stolen, violent orgasm.
Tears streamed from her eyes.
Herlaughter turned into a scream.
“Erotic response achieved.Stimulation/pleasure combination effective. Proceed.”
Thevoice was cold. Without empathy.
It wasn’t over.
It wasjust the beginning of the next phase.
PART IX – The Cycle of ForcedPleasure
Emily lay on the support, panting, sweaty, soaked,her muscles tense like broken strings. Every part of her body seemedto pulse on its own, alive, and utterly vulnerable.
She hadjust had the worst orgasm of her life.
Not because it wasn’tintense…
…but because she didn’t want it.
And now,the arms were already moving again.
Without mercy.
Without evengiving her time to remember who she was.
“N-n-no… notagain… you can’t do this to me again… I… I can’t take itanymore…”
Her voice was a faint rattle, broken byhysterical sobs.
But the devices didn’t stop.
Never.
Herfeet returned to the sublime surgical precision.
A vibratingtip, thin as a needle, slid between her toes. Another, soft, lightlyscratched her arch, while four more slowly ran up and down hersoles.
Each touch was pure torture, but with the malice of acaress too long, too sensual.
Emily laughed, but withoutbreathing. Only broken sounds, like a trapped animal.
"No…I beg you… oh God, I'm pissing myself… please… ENOUGH!"
Aburst exploded under her armpits: retractable micro-spikes tickledthe already destroyed skin, sinking into the nerve like invisiblethorns. And then the feathers… those damned feathers, again at theedge of her armpits, slippery with a mentholated oil that madeeverything ten times worse.
Emily writhed, her breasts shakingwith every spasm, her body bent in the steel prison.
But downthere… the real torture began again.
This timedifferent.
One arm split into three vibrating points, allaimed at the exact spot, the small, pink one, the center of herpleasure.
One began to circle, slowly.
A second to pressrhythmically, as if knocking.
The third… just a breath. A touchof warm air.
An almost loving touch. But crueler than anypain.
Emily screamed.
She struggled.
And came.Again.
The orgasm exploded inside her like a bolt oflightning. Rawer, more humiliating than the first.
Her mind wenthazy, her vision black at the edges.
“Orgasm two recorded.Neurological adaptation in progress. Increasing proximity stimulationand compulsive response. Phase three: devastation.”
Emilywas panting, sweating, her legs shaking.
“Enough… please…I don’t want to come anymore… please, just let me cry… just letme cry…”
But they didn’t listen.
A newconfiguration appeared.
A stimulation mask, slowly descended fromthe ceiling.
Shiny. Black.
It covered the mouth, the nose, andleft only the eyes.
From it… fine feathers inside tickled theinside of the lips, the inside of the nostrils.
Emily’sbreathing became hysterical.
She was going crazy.
Andagain, the combination at her feet, underarms, and between her legs,began to hit her.
“Prepare subject for consecutive orgasm.No pause.”
Emily couldn’t even plead.
Only scream.
PART X – Over the Edge
Shewasn’t Emily anymore.
Not in the way she’d been.
Thelaughter, the moans, the pleas… it all blended into one twistedsymphony of doom.
Her body jerked at every touch. Her musclestwitched uncontrollably. Every sensitive area was on fire: herarmpits ravaged, her feet reduced to two exposed nerves, and betweenher legs… a minefield that exploded with every pass of thevibrating arm.
“Orgasm three completed. Subject in alteredstate. Response threshold: exceeded. Continue experiment.”
Themetallic voice was emotionless.
But another… did.
A newvoice, human.
A whisper, inside her mind. Or maybe outside.
Itwas impossible to tell.
“You like it, don’t you, littleEmily? You’re tasting it. You can’t deny it anymore…”
“No…no no no no… please… please stop… I don’t want anymore… Ijust want to sleep…”
The words came out like smoke from herlips. But the mask was blowing into her nose and mouth again,tickling her from the inside, making even breathing a continuouserotic torture.
The soles of her feet were dipped in a coolgel, and immediately stimulated with millions of tiny needles of air,puffs that simulated tongue caresses, combined with microscopicpoints of vibration.
An orgasm was already building inside her,even before the previous one had faded.
“I can’t… Ican’t… I… CAN’T… TAKE… IT—”
And she cameagain.
An explosion. A tear. An internal implosion.
Her eyesrolled back, her mouth open in obscene laughter mixed withscreams.
Her mind began to shatter.
Fragments of thought.Disjointed sentences.
“It’s happening again.”
“It’snot real.”
“But I’m enjoying it… why am I enjoyingit?”
Then… another voice. Softer. Fake. Maternal.
“Emily…love… this is all you are now. A toy. A body to be stimulated. Youwere born for this.”
And Emily… didn’t answer.
Shecouldn’t anymore.
The armpit treatment resumed, but thistime with cold gel and blades of air that tickled not only her skin,but every pore. It was as if every remaining cell was forced tolaugh.
And all the while… the arm between her legs was goingdeeper and deeper inside her, with a soft, vibrating extension thatfollowed the rhythm of her own spasms.
She was now possessed bythe rhythm of torment.
Orgasm five. Six. Seven.
She couldno longer distinguish the beginning from the end.
Reality wascollapsing.
Emily laughed. And moaned.
And broke.
“Subjectdissociated. State of oblivion achieved. Persistence guaranteed.”
PART XI – The Return of No One
Inthe silence that followed another orgasm, Emily remained still.
Notunconscious.
Not asleep.
Just… deactivated.
Her eyeswide, empty. Her pupils dilated.
Her limbs trembling, but withouta single rebellious tension.
Her breathing was rhythmic.Almost mechanical.
Her breasts rose slowly, her mouth slightlyopen, as if in silent prayer.
And then, again, the voice.
Notmetallic. Not mechanical.
Hers.
“Welcome back,Em.”
A figure appeared before her. Not real. Not human. Aprojection perhaps… or perhaps a reflection in the polished glassin front of her.
It was herself.
But different.
Sameskin, same body.
But the eyes… completely black.
A serenesmile. Too serene.
“You did well. You resisted. Youscreamed. You begged.”
“And that’s why now… you’reready.”
Emily trembled. A distant part of her wanted toscream. To flee.
But there was no control.
Only confusedacceptance.
The figure leaned toward her.
He caressed herchin with fingers that didn’t actually touch.
“Now you’relike me. One of us. A pure form. An essence of nothing but feelingand response. A body that’s always on. And you’ll stay thatway…”
A dull thud.
A click.
Mechanical armsretracted, others took up positions.
Not to end…
But to beginagain.
All over again. With new sequences. Newintensities.
“…forever.”
Emily didn’tspeak.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t resist.
When thestimulation to her feet resumed, she smiled.
When her armpitsexploded under the touches again, she moaned.
And when thepleasure vibrated between her legs again, she came.
At once.Without a fight.
The transformation was complete.
Herconsciousness shattered and recomposed itself in infinite loops, eachtime further from the memory of being human.
Em was no longer a person. She was acycle. A function. A sentient deity locked in a damned body.
Andthat, she would soon learn…
was not her destiny.
It was hertrue purpose.
Forever.
