Eucatastrophist
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A commissioned story, published here with the gracious permission of my client! There's 33 pictures to go with this one as well, although I might have to make that a separate post.
Trapped and Entranced - A Tale of Revenge
In which a bullied nerd takes his revenge upon the bullies mother by tricking her into a tickle-torture machine, brings her to several orgasms, rewires her mind, and keeps her has his domestic pet.
Tickling * Forced Orgasm * Humiliation * Mind Break * Hypno/Aphrodisiac * Pregnancy
Sweat glistened along Susan's collarbones in the morning light, trickling down between her breasts as she held her downward dog position. Her breathing came steady and controlled as she worked through the familiar yoga routine that centered her before another day of managing accounts-receivable at the insurance firm.
At forty-three, Susan had maintained the kind of body that turned heads at the grocery store. Her blue yoga pants clung to every curve, riding low on her hips, while her sports bra struggled to contain breasts that had defied gravity better than most women half her age. Her blonde hair hung in a messy bun that still complimented her vibe of effortless beauty.
A knock at the door shattered her concentration.
"For fuck's sake," Susan muttered, holding the pose for three more deliberate breaths purely out of spite for whoever dared interrupt her. The knocking came again, louder. With an exasperated sigh she finally straightened, feeling the pleasant burn in her hamstrings.
She didn't bother throwing on a cover-up. If some solicitor wanted to peddle Jesus or vacuum cleaners at 7:30 AM, they could deal with seeing a woman's body. She padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, her jaw already clenched with irritation.
Susan yanked the door open to find a young man standing on her doorstep. Behind him sat an enormous metal-framed suitcase of some sort - he was clearly selling something.
The boy's eyes went wide behind his glasses. His gaze traveled down Susan's body - lingering on her chest, her flat stomach, the pronounced curve of her hips, before snapping back up to her face with the guilty jerk of someone caught stealing.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again like a gasping fish.
Susan folded her arms under her breasts, deliberately pushing them up, and cocked one hip against the doorframe. The movement was calculated and sexually aggressive, but he was the one bothering people at this ungodly hour. She watched a flush creep up the boy's neck, spreading across his cheeks until his entire face glowed red.
"Well?" she demanded. "I don't have all fucking day. What do you want?"
"Hi," the young man began. "I'm a friend of Brian's. Is he here yet? He told me to show up at eight."
"A friend of Brian's?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. She leaned forward slightly, invading the boy's space, and watched him flinch backward.
"First of all, you little shit, it's seven-thirty in the fucking morning. Not eight. Seven. Thirty."
She jabbed a finger toward his chest with each syllable, stopping just short of actual contact. The boy stumbled back another half-step, nearly tripping over his massive suitcase.
"Second," she continued, her voice raising, "Brian doesn't live here anymore. He moved out three weeks ago to work on an oil rig in fucking Oklahoma. So unless you're planning to swim through crude petroleum, you're shit out of luck finding him here."
She watched the boy's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting everywhere except directly at her face. His gaze kept slipping downward, to the shadow of cleavage visible above her sports bra, then to the slight gap between her thighs where her yoga pants stretched taut.
"So let me get this straight," she said, her voice dropping to something quieter but somehow more dangerous. "My asshole son... who can't even remember to call his own mother on her birthday... told you to show up at my house with..."
Her eyes traveled to the strange suitcase, taking in the size of it, the strange implications of it.
"...with that?" She gestured at the luggage with contempt. "What exactly did Brian tell you, sweetie? And don't you dare lie to me. I can smell bullshit from a mile away."
"I-I'm Marcus. Marcus Chen," he answered. His voice cracked on his own name, and he cleared his throat. "I work for Vertebral Dynamics. We make diagnostic equipment for chiropractors and physical therapists."
Susan's eyebrow arched. Vertebral Dynamics. She'd heard of them. Cutting-edge tech company, worth billions. They'd done a piece on NPR about their revolutionary imaging software.
Nonetheless, Susan felt her blood pressure spike. The audacity. The sheer fucking audacity of her son to volunteer her house, her space, her privacy to some stranger without even a goddamn phone call.
But Vertebral Dynamics. The kid worked for Vertebral fucking Dynamics. She'd been looking to make a career move, and they'd been on her short list. If she could get an in, some insider info and a strong reference from this kid just by inviting him in and making him a fucking sandwich... that just might be worth entertaining the twerp til her son showed up, and she could vent her frustrations on him later instead.
"How much do you make?" The question came out flat, clinical.
"I... what?" Marcus blinked behind his glasses.
"Your salary. How much?" Susan stepped aside from the doorway, not quite an invitation, but no longer a barrier. "And don't give me some humble bullshit. If you're installing equipment worth six figures, you're not making minimum wage."
Marcus swallowed hard. "Base is one hundred and twenty-five thousand. Plus commission and stock options."
For a moment, she felt dizzy. Giddy at the opportunity in front of her.
"Fine." The word came out sharp, businesslike. She turned and walked into the house, leaving the door open behind her. "Bring your shit inside."
She didn't look back to see if he was following, but she heard it - the scrape of the suitcase wheels against concrete, the hesitant shuffle of his footsteps crossing the threshold.
"And Marcus?" Susan called over her shoulder, her voice carrying that same dangerous edge from before. "Next time you stare at my tits, at least have the balls to do it without looking guilty. It's insulting."
"Yes ma'am, sorry" he replied.
"So why exactly are you here?" she asked.
"Ah, perfect! You already have a table," Marcus exclaimed as he noticed her massage table in the den. "That will make things much easier."
"Make what easier?" she demanded, growing exasperated again. It hadn't escaped her that he'd ignored her question.
"I shouldn't spoil the surprise, but... your son got you something special for mother's day."
"He did!?" she gasped, surprised and somewhat touched. Her son had forgotten Mother's Day for the last several years.
"Brian spared no expense in ordering you the premium package, which includes the household visit."
"This looks rather... involved," she remarked as he opened his large suitcase and began affixing large robotic arms to the legs of her massage table.
"It's cutting-edge technology," he remarked. "But I assure you, it's undergone rigorous quality and safety testing."
Susan stood with her arms crossed, hip cocked to one side, watching Marcus work.
"Cutting-edge," she repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. "Right."
The robotic arms Marcus was attaching looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Sleek chrome appendages with multiple joints, each terminating in what appeared to be padded clamps or sensors. They hissed softly as he locked them into place along the table's legs, pneumatic systems equalizing with little tsss sounds that made the whole setup seem alive.
Marcus worked with surprising efficiency despite his nervous demeanor.
"The system uses a combination of AI-driven pressure point analysis and haptic feedback," he explained without looking up. "It maps your skeletal structure in real-time, identifies areas of tension and misalignment, then applies precisely calibrated therapeutic pressure."
Susan moved closer, circling the table. One of the robotic arms tracked her movement with an almost imperceptible whir, its sensors glowing a soft blue.
"And Brian paid for this? My son dropped actual money on a premium package for me?"
She couldn't keep the disbelief out of her voice. Brian had been a selfish little shit since puberty. The transformation from sweet boy to entitled asshole had happened somewhere around age thirteen, and she'd watched him become more like his deadbeat father with every passing year. Forgotten birthdays. Unreturned calls. Moving out without so much as a thank you for eighteen years of room and board.
And now this?
Marcus finally looked up, pushing his glasses into place. "He seemed... I don't know, maybe guilty? We were drinking after the trade show, and he got kind of emotional. Talked about how hard you worked, how he didn't appreciate you enough." The kid shrugged. "Said he wanted to do something nice for once."
Something twisted in Susan's chest, an unwelcome flutter of emotion she immediately crushed. She wasn't going to get soft over her damned massage table and some sob story.
"How much did this 'premium package' cost?" she demanded.
"Four thousand dollars."
Susan's eyes widened in spite of herself. Four thousand. For a fucking massage. Her son had spent four thousand dollars? Either he'd suffered a traumatic brain injury on that oil rig, or...
She narrowed her eyes at Marcus, watching the way his hands trembled slightly as he attached a cylinder to one of the lower robotic arms.
"This looks rather... involved," she said slowly, gesturing at the increasingly complex array of mechanical appendages now surrounding her massage table. There had to be at least eight of them, all at different heights, all equipped with different attachments. Some had soft padding. Others had what looked like rollers. And that cylinder...
"It is cutting-edge technology," Marcus repeated, not meeting her eyes. His fingers flew across his tablet screen, making final adjustments. "But I assure you, it's undergone rigorous quality and safety testing. Thousands of satisfied customers. Five-star reviews across the board."
He was lying.
Susan could tell. Not about everything - the equipment was clearly real, expensive, professional. But something in the way he wouldn't look at her, the way his voice pitched just slightly higher when he said "safety testing."
"So how does this work?" she asked, running one finger along the padded surface of the table. "I just... lie down?"
Marcus nodded, and gave an audible gulp.
"Face down, initially. The system needs to map your posterior chain first - spine, shoulders, glutes, hamstrings." He gestured awkwardly at her body without actually looking at it. "The, uh, the yoga pants and sports bra are actually perfect. The sensors need skin contact for accurate readings, but minimal clothing works fine."
"And the straps?" She nodded toward the leather restraints attached to the table at various points - wrists, ankles, waist, even what looked like a thigh restraint. She couldn't restrain shooting Marcus a dubious smirk.
"Safety feature," Marcus said quickly. Too quickly. "The machine applies significant pressure. The straps keep you properly positioned so the treatment stays targeted and effective. Some of the... deeper tissue work can cause involuntary muscle spasms. The restraints prevent injury."
Bullshit, Susan thought. But she didn't say it.
Instead, she climbed onto the table with a slow and deliberate grace, feeling Marcus's eyes on her ass as she positioned herself face-down. The padding molded to her body, somehow both firm and yielding. It smelled new, giving off the scent of fresh leather.
"Arms here," Marcus instructed, his voice strained. "And, uh, spread your legs slightly. The system needs access to your hip flexors and lower back."
Susan complied, feeling the vulnerability of the position even through her irritation. The cool air of her living room kissed the small of her back where her yoga pants rode low. She turned her head to the side, watching Marcus work.
His hands shook as he secured the first restraint around her left wrist. The leather was soft, lined with something that felt like silk. It tightened automatically with a soft click, snug but not uncomfortable.
"Jesus Christ, your hands are freezing," Susan muttered. "You nervous, sweetie?"
"No, I-" Marcus cleared his throat. "Just want to make sure everything's calibrated correctly."
Each restraint activated the moment he fastened it, some kind of pneumatic system adjusting the tension to hold her firmly in place. Susan tested them experimentally, feeling the give - maybe an inch of movement, no more.
Susan heard him tap something on his tablet. The robotic arms hummed to life with a chorus of mechanical whirs.
The first touch came at her shoulders - two padded sensors that pressed against her skin, rolling down the length of her spine with warm, firm pressure. Susan exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in her back respond to the contact.
Another arm moved along her right leg, mapping the curve of her calf, her hamstring. Then her left. The sensors were warm, and they moved with uncanny precision - finding every knot of muscle, every point of stored tension.
One of the arms, the one with the smooth, segmented cylinder attachment, moved between her spread legs. Susan felt it brush against her inner thigh, mapping upward with methodical precision.
Higher.
Higher.
Susan's breathing quickened, and her fingers curled against the table surface, testing the restraints again.
"Marcus," she said slowly, keeping her voice level through sheer force of will. "What exactly does this machine do?"
The robotic fingers traced along Susan's ribcage with feather-light precision, mapping each individual rib through the thin fabric of her sports bra. The touch was clinical, methodical - but also maddeningly
gentle. It tickled.
Susan bit the inside of her cheek, trying to suppress the laugh that wanted to bubble up from her chest. The sensation was absurd - being strapped to a table in her own living room while a nervous tech-bro's expensive toy felt her up in the name of "biomechanical profiling."
"Just-" she started, then had to pause as another set of sensors ghosted along her waistline, making her abs twitch involuntarily. "Just scanning, huh?"
"Exactly," Marcus said, then babbled something about the system mapping her skeletal structure. She wasn't listening, because she was too distracted by the sensations she was feeling... and fighting.
One of the arms traced the curve of her hip bone, then dipped lower to measure the circumference of her upper thigh. Susan felt her yoga pants shift slightly, the fabric pulling taut across her ass.
She couldn't help it. A snort of laughter escaped.
"Something funny?" Marcus asked, and there was an edge of defensiveness in his tone that made Susan grin into the face cradle.
"Oh, nothing," she said.
Another arm joined the exploration, this one running along the small of her back where her sports bra ended and her yoga pants began. It found the thin strip of exposed skin and traced it with what felt like warm silicone pads, measuring the temperature of her flesh.
The touch made her shiver. Then, the arm between her legs moved again. This time it didn't stop at mid-thigh. The smooth cylinder attachment brushed against the fabric covering her pussy - just barely, just for a second - before withdrawing with a soft mechanical whir.
Susan's entire body went rigid.
"That's-" Her voice came out strangled. "That's not my skeletal structure, Marcus."
Marcus stammered something about pelvic floor mapping.
Another gentle touch between her legs, slightly firmer this time. The cylinder pressed against her through the thin fabric of her yoga pants, mapping the shape of her mound with clinical precision.
A laugh burst out of Susan - sharp, slightly hysterical.
"Jesus Christ, Marcus. Just admit this thing is a fucking sex toy."
"It's not... just a sex toy."
Susan felt another laugh building in her chest, but it died when the cylinder between her legs began to vibrate - soft, rhythmic pulses that sent sensation radiating through her core despite the barrier of fabric.
She caught a flash of the tablet he was operating from as he walked by, inspecting the mechanical arms - Treatment duration: forty-five minutes.
"Forty-five-!" Susan started, then gasped as the vibration intensified.
Two sensors traced the waistband of her yoga pants from hip to hip, following the elastic with such light, teasing pressure that Susan's whole torso jerked in the restraints. The leather held. She couldn't escape the touch even by a millimeter.
"Shit-" Another strangled laugh escaped. "Marcus! It-"
"The system is just-"
"The system is tickling me, you asshole!" The words burst out of her on a wave of hysterical giggles she could no longer contain. "Jesus Christ, this is-"
Another arm found the crease where her thigh met her ass, probing with clinical interest. Susan's leg tried to jerk closed reflexively, but the thigh restraints held her spread. The sensor traced the muscle group with maddening slowness, and Susan felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
This was absurd. This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman strapped to a table while a four-thousand-dollar robot felt her up like a teenage boy at prom, and she couldn't stop laughing.
Her whole body was shaking now, abs clenching, shoulders heaving. "Marcus! Make it - ah! - make it stop!"
The sensors found her lower ribs again, and this time Susan let out a full-throated shriek of laughter that echoed through her empty house. Tears streamed down her face. Her stomach hurt. She was going to piss herself if this didn't stop soon.
Another found the hollow of her armpit, probing with gentle circles that made her entire arm spasm uselessly against the restraint. One traced the curve of her waist where her sports bra ended, another mapped the sensitive skin behind her knee.
And that fucking cylinder between her legs pressed and vibrated and pulsed against her pussy through the thin fabric of her yoga pants, adding a layer of overwhelming sensation that short-circuited her brain.
"MARCUS!" Susan shrieked, her voice breaking on a cascade of helpless laughter. "Stop it! Stop it stop it STOP IT!"
She thrashed in the restraints with everything she had, but the leather held her perfectly immobile. Her body jerked and twisted, trying desperately to escape touches she couldn't avoid. Every movement just shifted which sensors were touching which spots - trading the torture of her ribs for the agony of her sides, the tickling of her armpits for the maddening sensation along her thighs.
"Please!" The word came out strangled between peals of laughter. "Marcus, turn it off! It's too much! I can't- I can't-"
Tears streamed down her face, dripping onto the leather. Her stomach muscles clenched so hard they nearly cramped. Her lungs burned from the force of her laughter - great, whooping gasps that left her dizzy and desperate.
"FUCK!" Susan screamed, and then dissolved into hysterical giggles. "Marcus! Marcus, goddammit! It tickles too much! Make it STOP!"
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but laugh and squirm and beg through tears and gasping breaths. Spots danced at the edges of her vision. She was going to pass out. She was going to die strapped to a massage table in her own living room while a robot tickled her to death.
The thought was so ridiculous that it triggered one more wave of hysterical giggles; high-pitched, breathless, edged with genuine panic.
Then, mercifully, a loud beep cut through the air and the arms froze.
Blessed, perfect stillness descended on Susan's body. The only movement was the gentle rise and fall of her back as she gasped for air, her entire body trembling.
Susan couldn't say anything. She lay there panting, tears still streaming down her face, her abs aching like she'd done a thousand crunches. Her heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
Slowly, shakily, she became aware of other sensations: the dampness between her legs that had nothing to do with sweat, and the way her nipples had hardened into painful points against the sports bra. And there was a pulse of arousal throbbing through her core despite - or possibly because of - the torture she'd just endured.
Then she felt Marcus' hands on her ankles.
"What are you-" she started, then felt him unlace her left sneaker with quick, efficient movements.
The shoe came off. Cool air kissed her overheated foot through the cotton sock.
"Marcus," Susan said, her voice still hoarse from screaming. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Silly me," he said, and there was something different in his tone now. Something that made the hair on the back of Susan's neck stand up. A kind of cheerful confidence that hadn't been there before. "I forgot the massage oil."
The right shoe came off next. Susan felt both sneakers thump to the floor somewhere behind her.
"Marcus." She tried to put warning in her voice, but it came out breathless and weak. "I don't want- I need you to let me up. Now."
His fingers found the elastic of her left sock. Peeled it down slowly, exposing her heel, her arch, her toes one by one to the air-conditioned room. Susan's foot flexed involuntarily. She tried to pull it back, but the ankle restraint held firm.
The right sock came off, and Susan was suddenly, acutely aware of how vulnerable her bare feet were. How sensitive. She curled her toes protectively, feeling the leather restraints shift against her ankles.
"Don't you fucking dare," she whispered.
"The oil also has muscle-relaxing properties," Marcus said. "Helps reduce the body's defensive tension responses. Makes the treatment more... effective."
Susan felt the first drops of warm oil hit her left sole. His thumbs pressed into her arch with surprising strength, working the oil into her skin. It felt good. Too good. She bit back a moan that wanted to escape her throat.
She tested the restraints again. Still firm. Still holding her spread and helpless.
"How much oil does this 'treatment' require?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Oh," he said casually, his oily hands sliding up from her feet to her calves, "quite a lot, actually. We want to make sure every inch of you gets the full therapeutic benefit."
"Marcus..."
"Of course," Marcus said, his voice dropping lower as his hands reached the hem of her yoga pants, "the treatment works best on bare skin."
Susan's heart stopped.
"Don't you fucking dare take off my-"
She was cut off as the robotic hands flared back to life, descending on her oil-covered feet with immediately, merciless precision. Soft rubber pads traced her arches, circled her heels, drew maddening figure-eights across her soles. The oil made every touch glide effortlessly, made her skin impossibly more sensitive. Susan's scream of laughter was instantaneous and desperate.
"NO! MARCUS, NO! NOT MY FEET! NOT~"
The words dissolved into helpless shrieks as more arms joined the assault: her ribs, her sides, the backs of her knees. But her feet were the worst. The oil-enhanced sensors found every nerve ending, exploited every sensitive spot with mechanical perfection.
These are really nice," Marcus said conversationally, and Susan felt the cold metal of the scissor blades slide against her hip. "Lululemon? Must have been, what, hundred and twenty bucks?"
The yoga pants split along her right hip, and she felt cool air on the newly exposed skin.
"MARCUS!" Susan's voice cracked with panic and rage and helpless laughter as the arms continued their assault on her feet. "STOP! Those cost- you can't-"
"Hundred and forty?" Marcus teased as he moved to her left hip. More cold metal against her skin.
Soon Susan's bare ass was exposed to the cool air of her living room. She felt goosebumps rise across her skin, felt her pussy clench reflexively as the cylinder between her legs pressed against her now with no barrier of fabric. The sensation made her entire body jerk in the restraints, but there was no escape.
Marcus moved to her upper body now. She felt his oil-covered hands trace the band of her sports bra.
"No," Susan sobbed, her laughter turning desperate. "Marcus, no, please not-"
Snip. Snip.
The sports bra parted down her spine. She felt it loosen, felt her breasts shift against the table as the support disappeared. Susan's bare breasts pressed against the leather table. Her nipples, hard and aching, dragged across the smooth surface as the robotic arms made her body shake with uncontrollable laughter.
She was completely naked now, completely exposed. Spread and restrained and helpless on a table in her own living room, while her son's former classmate systematically destroyed her expensive workout clothes and a four-thousand-dollar robot tickled her into hysteria.
And she was wet.
The cylinder between her legs confirmed it, pressing against her bare pussy with warming pressure that made her clench and gasp even through the tickling torture.
"There we go," Marcus said, his voice brimming with satisfaction. "Now we can really begin the treatment. The sensors work so much better on bare skin."
His finger traced down her bare spine, then he squeezed her exposed ass with casual possessiveness. Susan tried to form words - protest, threats, pleas - but all that came out was breathless, broken laughter as the robotic arms continued their relentless exploration of every newly exposed inch of her body.
Then, just as suddenly as they'd started, the machines stopped again. Her chest heaved as her breath came out in ragged gasps.
"Flip over," Marcus said sternly.
"What?"
"I said flip over," he repeated, pressing a button that unlocked the restraints around her ankles. "Com on. On your back."
Susan lay frozen, her mind racing. This was her chance. The restraints were off her legs. She could kick him, could fight, could... but the wrist restraints were still locked.
And the cylinder between her legs chose that moment to pulse with deep, rolling vibration that made her pussy clench and her thoughts scatter like dropped marbles.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Clock's ticking, Susan. The system's going to resume the full protocol in about ninety seconds whether you're positioned correctly or not."
Ninety seconds until the tickling started again.
Susan made a choice she knew she'd regret. She shifted her weight, lifting her hips awkwardly with her arms still restrained above her head. The table was wide enough that she could roll onto her back without falling off... barely. She ended up staring at her own ceiling, her breasts exposed to the cool air, her pussy still pressed against that maddening cylinder.
Marcus appeared in her field of vision, looking down at her with an expression that made her stomach churn. His eyes traveled hungrily down her naked body - her breasts, her stomach, the neat triangle of hair between her spread thighs.
"God, you're beautiful," he said softly. He settled his hands on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with a pressure that was definitely not therapeutic.
"You're sick," she said, glaring at him.
"These need oil too," he replied, ignoring her. "Don't want the sensors to miss any spots."
His thumbs circled her nipples again, and Susan bit her lip to keep from making a sound that would give away exactly how her body was responding to this.
The robotic arms resumed their dance across Susan's oil-soaked skin. They were gentle for now, just enough to keep her nerves singing, her body twitching with anticipation. They traced lazy patterns along her thighs, circled her ankles, brushed feather-light touches across her stomach.
She watched as Marcus pulled a pair of black latex gloves out of the suitcase. They didn't look like ordinary gloves - the fingertips and palms were covered in hundreds of tiny soft rubber nubbins, like the texture of a massage ball condensed onto his hands.
Then he pulled out a second bottle of oil. Pink liquid sloshed inside as he uncapped it.
"What is that?" Susan asked, her voice sharp with growing concern.
Marcus turned to her with that same cheerful smile that was starting to make her want to punch him.
"Aphrodisiac oil," he replied, like he was announcing the weather.
Susan's blood went cold.
"What?"
"It's perfectly safe," he told her. "All natural ingredients - ginger extract, cinnamon, some other stuff I can't pronounce. It increases blood flow, heightens sensitivity."
He poured a generous amount onto his gloved hands, the pink oil coating the nubbins. "Makes everything feel... more."
"Don't you fucking dare..."
But Marcus was already kneeling at her feet.
His nubbin-covered hands wrapped around her left foot, and the sensation was immediate and overwhelming. The tiny rubber points pressed into every nerve ending, the pink oil warming on contact with her skin. He worked it into her arch, between her toes, along her heel with methodical thoroughness.
Within seconds, Susan could feel the difference.
Her skin began to tingle. Then burn - not painfully, but with an intensity that made every touch feel magnified tenfold. The robotic arms that had been gently caressing her thighs suddenly felt like lightning strikes of sensation.
"Fuck!" Susan gasped.
"That's just the increased blood flow," Marcus said calmly, moving to her right foot. "It'll settle into a nice warm glow in a minute. Trust me, you're going to love how it feels."
He was right about the burning settling - but what replaced it was worse.
Her feet felt alive. Hypersensitive. When Marcus's nubbin-covered fingers traced her arch now, it sent sparks shooting up her leg straight to her core. The robotic arms exploring her calves made her hips buck involuntarily.
Next he moved to her upper body, starting with her outstretched torso. His hands - those awful, wonderful, terrible hands - traced each rib of her ribcage with agonizing thoroughness. The nubbins caught on the spaces between her bones, the aphrodisiac making her entire torso feel like one giant erogenous zone. The robotic arms joined in, and Susan couldn't tell where mechanical touch ended and human began.
She was laughing and gasping and making sounds she'd never heard herself make: high-pitched whimpers and desperate moans that had nothing to do with tickling and everything to do with the heat building between her legs.
The cylinder pressed against her pussy pulsed in rhythm with Marcus's touches, and Susan realized with horror that she was grinding against it.
"No," she sobbed. "No no no, I don't want..."
But when Marcus' gloved hands settled on her breasts, the sensation was electric.
His nubbin-covered palms cupped her completely, the hundreds of tiny points creating textures that made her back arch violently off the table. The aphrodisiac soaked into the sensitive skin, making her breasts feel swollen, aching, desperate for more touch even as she begged him to stop.
Then his fingers found her nipples.
The nubbins rolled over the hardened peaks, and Susan's vision went white. The aphrodisiac had made them so sensitive that each tiny rubber point felt like a separate tongue, a separate mouth, a separate source of overwhelming pleasure.
Marcus circled both nipples simultaneously, his thumbs and forefingers working in concert. Pinching. Rolling. Tugging gently while the nubbins created friction that Susan's oil-enhanced, aphrodisiac-soaked skin couldn't defend against.
Her orgasm hit like a freight train. Sudden, violent, unstoppable. Her entire body seized, her back arching hard off the table. A primal, shuddering scream tore from her throat.
Wave after wave of sensation crashed through her as Marcus continued working her nipples, as the robotic arms continued their tickling assault, as the cylinder pressed and pulsed against her spasming pussy.
"FUCK! OH FUCK! MARCUS!"
She came harder than she had in years - maybe ever. Her pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. Every nerve ending in her body fired at once, the aphrodisiac oil making the orgasm feel like it was happening in every cell simultaneously.
It lasted a full minute. When it finally subsided, Susan lay gasping on the table, tears streaming down her face, her body still twitching with aftershocks.
Marcus' hands remained on her breasts, gently cupping them now, his thumbs making slow circles around her oversensitive nipples.
"That's one," he said softly. "The premium package includes at least five."
Susan's eyes flew open in horror.
"WHAT!?" she gasped, her voice barely recognizable. "Marcus, no - you can't..."
But his hands were already on her inner thighs, spreading more of that cursed aphrodisiac oil into skin that was already hypersensitive. The nubbins dragged along the creases where her legs met her pelvis, and Susan's hips jerked violently against the restraints.
The robotic arms continued their relentless exploration - her ribs, her sides, the arches of her feet - keeping her in a constant state of overstimulation while Marcus worked his way closer to her center.
"Please," Susan sobbed through the involuntary giggles. "Please don't - I can't take - oh God ~ "
His nubbin-covered finger traced the outer lips of her pussy.
The sensation was beyond anything Susan had experienced. The hundreds of tiny rubber points created textures that her aphrodisiac-soaked flesh couldn't process.
Marcus worked methodically, coating her entire vulva with the pink oil. Her outer lips, her inner folds, circling her clit with maddening precision without quite touching it. The aphrodisiac soaked in immediately, making everything swell and pulse.
"Fuck," Susan whimpered, her head thrashing against the table. Her pussy clenched around nothing, desperate to be filled. "Stop, please stop, I'm begging you!"
His nubbin-covered thumb finally pressed against her clit, and she screamed.
The texture - oh God, the texture - combined with the aphrodisiac was too much. Her clit felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size, every nerve ending exposed and raw. Marcus circled it slowly, the nubbins creating friction that made her entire pelvis feel like it was on fire.
The robotic arms increased their assault. Her feet, her ribs, her armpits - everywhere the first oil had sensitized, everywhere the machines had learned she was most vulnerable. The tickling sensation mixed with the overwhelming pleasure until Susan couldn't tell the difference between torture and ecstasy.
Then she felt Marcus's other hand slide lower, and his nubbin-covered finger pressed against her asshole.
"NO!" Susan's voice cracked. "Marcus, don't - not there - I've never-!!!"
His finger circled the sensitive skin of her naked anus, coating it with pink oil. The aphrodisiac soaked in, and Susan felt the burn, the tingle, the overwhelming sensitivity spread to yet another part of her body she'd never associated with pleasure.
The sensation was alien. Wrong. And so fucking intense she could barely breathe. Marcus pressed gently, his nubbin-covered fingertip breaching her just slightly. The texture of the glove against her virgin asshole sent shocks through her system that went straight to her clit, which he continued to circle with his other thumb.
"Stop," Susan sobbed, but her hips were rolling now, grinding against both his hands, against the cylinder that pulsed between her legs. "Please, I can't - this is too much... I can't think!"
"Don't think, then," Marcus countered. "Just feel it."
His finger pushed deeper into her ass while his thumb pressed harder against her clit. The nubbins created sensations Susan didn't have words for - pressure and texture and friction all magnified by the aphrodisiac until every nerve ending in her lower body was lit aflame.
The robotic arms found a particularly sensitive spot on her ribs. The cylinder between her legs vibrated harder. Marcus's fingers worked in tandem - one circling her swollen clit, the other slowly, carefully penetrating her ass with those maddening nubbins.
Susan shattered into her second orgasm. However, this one was different. Deeper. It started somewhere in her core and exploded outward like a supernova, consuming everything in its path. Her entire body seized, her pussy clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms that she had no control over.
Then she felt it - a pressure building, something she'd only experienced once or twice in her entire life, usually alone with her strongest vibrator and an hour to build up to it.
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh FUCK!!!"
Susan's pussy spasmed violently, and she squirted. Liquid gushed from her in pulses, soaking Marcus's hands, the table, dripping onto the floor. The sensation was so intense it crossed the line into pain - her clit felt like it was being electrocuted, her ass clenched around Marcus's invading finger, her entire body convulsed with pleasure so overwhelming it felt like dying.
She was screaming. Words like "stop" and "please" and "Marcus" and "God" mixed with incoherent sounds, animal noises that came from somewhere primal and desperate.
Susan barely registered Marcus removing the latex gloves. Her mind was floating somewhere above her body, tethered only by the constant assault of sensation - the robotic arms still tracing patterns across her oil-slicked skin, the aphrodisiac making every nerve ending sing with hypersensitivity.
She heard rustling. The click of latches. The mechanical whir of something new powering on.
Through her half-lidded, tear-blurred vision, she watched Marcus pull one final robotic arm from his suitcase. The main shaft of this one branched into multiple appendages, each tipped with different attachments. Vibrating nodes. Rotating heads. Soft silicone protrusions that looked flexible and organic.
"This one's my favorite," he told her as he positioned the arm between her spread legs, adjusting it carefully. "Really integrates the whole experience."
He locked it into place on the table's mounting bracket. The appendages hovered inches from Susan's pussy and ass - close enough that she could feel the air displacement from their subtle movements, but not quite touching yet.
The anticipation was almost worse than the touch itself.
"Marcus," Susan tried again, her voice breaking. "Please. I'll pay you. Double. Triple. Just stop this. Let me up. I can't think straight anymore..."
"I know," Marcus said softly. He ran his hand along her thigh. Just his bare skin now, but even that felt overwhelming after everything her body had endured. "That's kind of the point. Sometimes you need to stop thinking, Susan. Sometimes you just need to feel."
He pressed a button on his tablet, and the specialized arm came to life.
The first appendage - a smooth, vibrating probe - pressed against Susan's pussy lips and slid inside with zero resistance. She was so wet, so stretched and ready from two orgasms and the aphrodisiac, that it encountered no friction at all. It pushed deep, then began to vibrate with a frequency that made Susan's eyes roll back.
"Ahhh.... fuck!"
A second appendage found her clit. This one had soft silicone bristles that rotated in slow circles, creating textures against her swollen, hypersensitive nub that made her entire body jerk like she'd been electrocuted.
Then she felt the third appendage press against her asshole.
"NO!" Susan's scream was pure desperation. "Not again! Please not there again!!!"
But the machine was merciless. The probe was smaller than Marcus's finger had been, lubricated with the same warming massage oil, and it pushed past her tight ring of muscle with steady, inexorable pressure.
The sensation of being penetrated in both holes simultaneously - of being filled while the bristled appendage worked her clit - shattered what little remained of Susan's coherent thought.
The robotic arms on the rest of her body increased their intensity. They found her feet, her ribs, her armpits, her nipples - every spot the aphrodisiac had sensitized, every nerve ending that had been mapped and catalogued by the system's learning algorithms.
Susan couldn't tell where one sensation ended and another began. The tickling on her feet sent sparks to her pussy. The vibrating probe inside her made her ribs feel more sensitive. The bristles on her clit made her nipples ache. Everything was connected, everything fed into everything else until she was just a writhing mass of overstimulated nerve endings.
"Can't - Marcus - too much - I can't- !!!"
Her mind began to fracture. Thoughts became impossible. Language dissolved into pure sound - screams and sobs and animal whimpers. She couldn't remember her name, couldn't remember where she was, couldn't remember anything except sensation.
The tickling on her feet felt like orgasm. The orgasms felt like tickling. Everything blended together into a synesthetic explosion that her brain couldn't process. Susan was drowning.
She squirted again, her body shaking against the restraints. Drool ran from her open mouth as her eyes rolled back from the ecstasy. Somewhere in the dissolved ruins of her consciousness, Susan felt something fundamental break. The part of her that had been holding on, that had been fighting, maintaining some core sense of self, simply... let go.
Another orgasm rolled through her. And another. Her pussy clenched weakly around the probe, no longer capable of the violent spasms from earlier. She was wrung out, emptied, reduced to nothing but a vessel for sensation she could no longer resist.
Time lost meaning. Susan floated in a space between consciousness and oblivion where there was no past, no future, no identity - only the eternal now of her body being used, stimulated, pleasured into complete and total submission. She might have been on the table for minutes. Hours. Days.
And then, finally, blessed unconsciousness claimed her.
## Part Two
When Susan's eyes fluttered open, the sun was setting.
Why am I in the living room? she wondered. The thought arrived sluggishly, and her body felt stiff and heavy. The leather beneath her back was cool now, tacky with dried... something. Oil? Her naked skin stuck to it as she tried to shift, and she felt a blanket had been cast over her.
Why am I naked?
Memories swam up through the haze, fragmentary and surreal: strong hands. Her own voice, ragged and desperate, begging for... what? Laughter, so much laughter. The sensation of being unmade, nerve by nerve, gasp by gasp, until nothing remained but pure sensation flowering into something catastrophic and divine.
Marcus.
His name resonated through her body and mind like a bell. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room, searching for him with an urgency that bordered on panic.
"Marcus?" The word comes out cracked, pathetic. Susan winced at the sound of her own voice - it was needy in a way that should humiliate her. Should. But the shame that tried to surface was smothered under something warmer, sweeter.
She managed to push herself upright, the massage chair's straps hanging loose now.
Where is he? Why did he leave me?
The questions spiraled, tinged with genuine distress. She needed to find him. Needed to see him.
"You're finally awake!"
Her head snapped toward the kitchen doorway, and there he was - her Marcus. Relief flooded through her.
"Marcus!" she called out, his name bursting from her lips with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm. But she didn't care - he was here, and the empty ache in her chest evaporated instantly.
Her hands moved instinctively to cover herself as she stood up, then fell away, uncertain.
Does he want to see? Should I hide?
The confusion swirled until he spoke again, giving her guidance.
"You were asleep for quite a while there," he said. "Why don't you get rinsed off, and put on something sexy for me?"
Susan felt something click into place at his words. A relief so profound, it makes her knees weak.
He's going to tell me what to do. He knows what I need!
The fog of confusion and anxiety lifted instantly, replaced by crystal-clear purpose. She eagerly scampered off to her bedroom to obey his commands, and the gratitude she felt was almost overwhelming. He was going to take care of her.
After the shower, she tore through her closet with a single-minded focus. She found the leopard-print bikini shoved in the back - a foolish impulse purchase from two summers ago, that she'd been too self-conscious to ever wear. The tags were still on it, even. It was perfect.
She shimmied into the bikini - the strings dug into her hips, and the triangles of leopard-print barely covered her nipples, which pressed obvious and peaked against the thin material. The bottoms were equally obscene, barely more than strings that left the curves of her ass completely exposed.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She no longer looked like a tired single mother. She looked sleek and sexy, even somewhat ridiculous. It was exactly what she'd hoped for.
Susan skipped back into the kitchen, her breasts bouncing in the inadequate top. Her heart hammered with anticipation - will he like it? Will she please him? The need for his approval felt as urgent as oxygen.
She rounded the corner into the kitchen, then struck a pose.
"Do you like it, Marcus?" she asked hopefully.
"Wow," Marcus gasped, clearly impressed. "you look gorgeous!"
His words were like a drug, better than any orgasm.
Gorgeous. He thinks I'm gorgeous.
The validation flooded through Susan's rewired neural pathways, triggering a cascade of dopamine that made her entire body flush with warmth.
"I have something special for you," he continued, and pulled out a fine leather collar with a ring on the front.
Susan's mouth went dry as her vision locked onto the collar, a hunger welling up within her.
Yes.
The old Susan would have thought this was insane, degrading. That she was a grown woman, a mother. But that was smothered under the crushing need to belong to Marcus. To be his, for everyone to see.
She tilted her chin up automatically, exposing the long line of her throat in unconscious offering as he slipped the collar around her neck. It felt perfect. She was his now, the collar proclaimed it.
No more decisions. No more uncertainty. No more exhausting responsibility of being in charge of her own life. The collar removed all that, replacing it with a blissful simplicity. He will tell her what to do, and she will obey.
"Let's take a picture of you to send to Brian," Marcus said, pulling his phone out.
She remained kneeling as he took a few pictures, smiling serenely. She briefly wondered what Brian would think, even if this was appropriate, but the thoughts were soon brushed aside. If Marcus wants Brian to see, then Brian should see. Marcus knows best.
Marcus' phone buzzed rapidly, multiple times in quick succession.
*BRIAN: What the FUCK*
*BRIAN: Is that my MOM???*
*BRIAN: What the fuck did you do to her Marcus*
*BRIAN: Why is she wearing a fucking COLLAR*
*BRIAN: She would NEVER*
*BRIAN: Answer me RIGHT NOW*
*BRIAN: I swear to god if you hurt her*
*BRIAN: Mom would never kneel for anyone what did you DO*
*BRIAN: I'm calling her right now*
*BRIAN: You sick fuck what is wrong with you*
*BRIAN: I'm getting on a plane TODAY*
*BRIAN: You better pray I don't find you*
The messages kept coming, each one angrier, more desperate.
"What... what did he say?" She asked. The question came out small, almost childlike.
"He loved them, and says he's happy for us," Marcus said jovially.
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Susan replied. Of course Brian would understand, surely he thinks as highly of Marcus as she does.
## Part Three
A few weeks later, Susan had finished moving in with Marcus, and had quickly settled into her new role as his pet-wife.
She bounced out of the kitchen on this particular day wearing a black and white maid outfit that was anything but modest, displaying her availability to Marcus at any time.
"I brought you this, Sweetie," she said to Marcus, handing him a cold beer as he sat in the living room watching TV.
"Dinner's in the oven," Susan continued, smoothing her hands down the apron front. "About forty minutes. I set the timer and everything."
Her tongue darted across her lower lip. The aphrodisiac oil had metabolized weeks ago, but its effects had carved new pathways in her brain, rewired circuitry that couldn't be undone. He still marveled at times, at how the woman who'd raised his tormentor now treated him like he was everything in the world.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, the movement making her breasts bounce slightly in their confines.
"I was thinking..." She started, twisting her manicured fingers through her hair. "We have time. Before dinner. If you wanted to..."
Marcus turned to look at her. Her blue eyes flickered towards his face, then away, unable to hold contact.
"We could...?" she let the question hang, and bit her lip while her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt, an unconscious attempt to create friction where she ached.
"Come sit on my lap, then," Marcus said, setting the remote aside.
Susan gasped so sharply that the bell at her throat chimed. She eagerly lowered herself onto him, the fabric of her costume riding up as she settled into his lap. The black lace of her fabric brushed against his jeans, and she could feel the ridge of his cock rising, wanting her barely-covered pussy.
She quickly unzipped his pants and let his erection spring free. In her excitement to get him inside of her, she tore her panties clean off.
"Oh god, oh fuck..." she moaned as she slowly eased herself onto his cock.
"Hands on your head," Marcus reminded her.
"Yes, yes, sorry-" Susan replied. Her hands flew upward, fingers lacing behind her head, elbows bent outward. The position thrust her breasts forward, jiggling with each bounce. It also exposed everything: her ribs, the sensitive hollows of her armpits, the vulnerable and ticklish skin that had become his playground.
She rode him facing forward, thighs burning as she lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, his cock hitting spots inside her that made stars explode in her vision. The leather chair creaked beneath their combined weight, a rhythmic rocking as her ass met his thighs again and again.
"Tell me about your day," Marcus said, lazily dragging his fingers along her ribcage. Susan's rhythm faltered immediately, her pussy clenching involuntarily around him as laughter exploded from her chest.
"I... hahaha! - I went to the -ohhh! - the groc - nohohoho!" Her words fragmented as his fingers danced across her ribcage. She bucked and writhed, trying to escape the sensation while simultaneously impaling herself deeper on his cock. The contradiction sent her nervous system into chaos, pleasure and torment braiding together until she couldn't distinguish between them.
"The what?" Marcus teased, his fingers migrating towards her armpits.
"AHAHAHA! - grocery store!" Susan shrieked, her elbows wanting desperately to clamp down, to protect the unbearably sensitive skin there. But she kept her hands locked behind her head, good girl, obedient girl, even as tears beaded at her eyes. "I bought - hehehe - steaks for din- NOOO!"
Susan's laughter turned hysterical, her whole body convulsing on top of him. Her thighs trembled violently. Her pussy spasmed. She was close, so fucking close, suspended between laughter and ecstasy, this broken thing that couldn't exist without his attention.
"And then I came home -hehehe- and cleaned the - AHAHAHA!" His fingers found a particularly sensitive spot, the place where her armpit met her ribcage, and Susan's grip on her narrative shattered. "The bathroom and - oh... oh god I'm gonna - vacuumed and... oh pleasepleaseplease!!!"
Their orgasms crescendo simultaneously, Marcus' cock pulsing deep inside her as her pussy clamped down, milking him ecstatically.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" she screamed.
Her hands finally broke from behind her head, clutching at his shoulders as the climax tore through her. Every muscle locked tight, her back arching, toes curling as her heels lay forgotten on the floor. She felt him flooding her, claiming her from the inside out. The bell at her throat jingled frantically with each spasm. Wetness gushed around his cock, soaking his jeans, dripping onto the leather chair beneath them.
"Ohhhh..." they both groaned.
The sound left her as a prolonged whimper as she collapsed forward against his chest, gasping for air. Her entire body trembled, aftershocks rolling through her in diminishing waves. His cock remained buried inside her, softening slowly, their combined fluids creating a warmth between her thighs.
For a moment, there was only breathing. Harsh and ragged, their chests rising and falling in sync with one another.
Then Marcus's hands moved to her costume, peeling the ruined bodice upward. Her breasts spilled free completely now, flushed pink from exertion, nipples hard and sensitive. Susan watched with a sleepy post-orgasmic stare as he lowered his mouth to first one peak, then the other.
The kisses were possessive. Claiming. His lips sealed over her left nipple, sucking gently before releasing with an audible pop. Then the right, his tongue swirling around the hardened bud, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
The kitchen timer chose that moment to chime its five-minute warning.
"Oh!" Susan exclaimed, her hand flew to her mouth. "Dinner!"
She spun on wobbly legs, the motion making more cum drip from her well-fucked pussy. The maid costume hung askew on her frame, the top pushed up over her breasts, skirt still bunched at her waist, one stocking torn. Her hair stood in wild disarray, makeup smeared across her face in raccoon patterns.
She giggled a bright, girlish giggle as she tried to straighten her outfit as best she could, then hurried towards the kitchen.
"I'll get it, don't worry!" she practically sang. She paused at the kitchen door, glancing back at Marcus - and shot him a smile that was genuine, radiant, completely unhinged from reality.
## Six Months Later
The kitchen filled with the rich aroma of garlic and herbs as Susan stirred the risotto, wooden spoon moving in slow, meditative circles. Steam rose from the pan, curling upward to caress her bare shoulders before dissipating into the air. The apron strings tied beneath the prominent swell of her belly - five months along now, unmistakable.
She hummed contentedly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her swollen breasts pressed against the apron's bib, nipples sensitive against the cotton fabric. Everything else remained bare: her ass, her legs, her back where fresh ink proclaimed ownership:
MARCUS
She'd been thrilled to prove her devotion by burning his name into her skin, and the thought still made her smile that anyone who saw it would know immediately who she belonged to.
Her free hand drifted unconsciously to her rounded belly, fingers brushing across the taut skin. The baby kicked, a strong and insistent flutter against her palm. His baby. Growing inside her, another permanent mark of ownership that made the tattoo seem almost quaint by comparison.
Brian didn't know yet. He called every week from the rig, and Susan listened to him talk about work, about the guys he'd met, about how much money he was saving. She made appropriate motherly sounds and never mentioned that she'd moved in with his former classmate. That she was carrying his half-sibling. That she spent her days cooking and cleaning and spreading her legs whenever Marcus wanted.
The apron shifted as she moved, the fabric brushing against her nipples. Her body had become a landscape of constant arousal since the pregnancy - hormones amplifying everything the oil had already rewired. She was perpetually wet, perpetually ready, her pussy aching with need that Marcus satisfied regularly and thoroughly.
He'd been so careful with her as she'd started to show. Adjusting positions, being mindful of her changing body, ensuring every touch brought pleasure instead of discomfort. The tenderness mixed with possession in a way that made her chest tight with emotion she had no words for.
The baby kicked again, stronger this time. Susan paused, both hands cradling her stomach, a smile spreading across her face. It was a genuine, radiant smile, one that belonged to a woman who'd finally found her purpose and her place. This was happiness. This was home.
It was everything she'd never known she needed.
Trapped and Entranced - A Tale of Revenge
In which a bullied nerd takes his revenge upon the bullies mother by tricking her into a tickle-torture machine, brings her to several orgasms, rewires her mind, and keeps her has his domestic pet.
Tickling * Forced Orgasm * Humiliation * Mind Break * Hypno/Aphrodisiac * Pregnancy
Sweat glistened along Susan's collarbones in the morning light, trickling down between her breasts as she held her downward dog position. Her breathing came steady and controlled as she worked through the familiar yoga routine that centered her before another day of managing accounts-receivable at the insurance firm.
At forty-three, Susan had maintained the kind of body that turned heads at the grocery store. Her blue yoga pants clung to every curve, riding low on her hips, while her sports bra struggled to contain breasts that had defied gravity better than most women half her age. Her blonde hair hung in a messy bun that still complimented her vibe of effortless beauty.
A knock at the door shattered her concentration.
"For fuck's sake," Susan muttered, holding the pose for three more deliberate breaths purely out of spite for whoever dared interrupt her. The knocking came again, louder. With an exasperated sigh she finally straightened, feeling the pleasant burn in her hamstrings.
She didn't bother throwing on a cover-up. If some solicitor wanted to peddle Jesus or vacuum cleaners at 7:30 AM, they could deal with seeing a woman's body. She padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, her jaw already clenched with irritation.
Susan yanked the door open to find a young man standing on her doorstep. Behind him sat an enormous metal-framed suitcase of some sort - he was clearly selling something.
The boy's eyes went wide behind his glasses. His gaze traveled down Susan's body - lingering on her chest, her flat stomach, the pronounced curve of her hips, before snapping back up to her face with the guilty jerk of someone caught stealing.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again like a gasping fish.
Susan folded her arms under her breasts, deliberately pushing them up, and cocked one hip against the doorframe. The movement was calculated and sexually aggressive, but he was the one bothering people at this ungodly hour. She watched a flush creep up the boy's neck, spreading across his cheeks until his entire face glowed red.
"Well?" she demanded. "I don't have all fucking day. What do you want?"
"Hi," the young man began. "I'm a friend of Brian's. Is he here yet? He told me to show up at eight."
"A friend of Brian's?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. She leaned forward slightly, invading the boy's space, and watched him flinch backward.
"First of all, you little shit, it's seven-thirty in the fucking morning. Not eight. Seven. Thirty."
She jabbed a finger toward his chest with each syllable, stopping just short of actual contact. The boy stumbled back another half-step, nearly tripping over his massive suitcase.
"Second," she continued, her voice raising, "Brian doesn't live here anymore. He moved out three weeks ago to work on an oil rig in fucking Oklahoma. So unless you're planning to swim through crude petroleum, you're shit out of luck finding him here."
She watched the boy's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting everywhere except directly at her face. His gaze kept slipping downward, to the shadow of cleavage visible above her sports bra, then to the slight gap between her thighs where her yoga pants stretched taut.
"So let me get this straight," she said, her voice dropping to something quieter but somehow more dangerous. "My asshole son... who can't even remember to call his own mother on her birthday... told you to show up at my house with..."
Her eyes traveled to the strange suitcase, taking in the size of it, the strange implications of it.
"...with that?" She gestured at the luggage with contempt. "What exactly did Brian tell you, sweetie? And don't you dare lie to me. I can smell bullshit from a mile away."
"I-I'm Marcus. Marcus Chen," he answered. His voice cracked on his own name, and he cleared his throat. "I work for Vertebral Dynamics. We make diagnostic equipment for chiropractors and physical therapists."
Susan's eyebrow arched. Vertebral Dynamics. She'd heard of them. Cutting-edge tech company, worth billions. They'd done a piece on NPR about their revolutionary imaging software.
Nonetheless, Susan felt her blood pressure spike. The audacity. The sheer fucking audacity of her son to volunteer her house, her space, her privacy to some stranger without even a goddamn phone call.
But Vertebral Dynamics. The kid worked for Vertebral fucking Dynamics. She'd been looking to make a career move, and they'd been on her short list. If she could get an in, some insider info and a strong reference from this kid just by inviting him in and making him a fucking sandwich... that just might be worth entertaining the twerp til her son showed up, and she could vent her frustrations on him later instead.
"How much do you make?" The question came out flat, clinical.
"I... what?" Marcus blinked behind his glasses.
"Your salary. How much?" Susan stepped aside from the doorway, not quite an invitation, but no longer a barrier. "And don't give me some humble bullshit. If you're installing equipment worth six figures, you're not making minimum wage."
Marcus swallowed hard. "Base is one hundred and twenty-five thousand. Plus commission and stock options."
For a moment, she felt dizzy. Giddy at the opportunity in front of her.
"Fine." The word came out sharp, businesslike. She turned and walked into the house, leaving the door open behind her. "Bring your shit inside."
She didn't look back to see if he was following, but she heard it - the scrape of the suitcase wheels against concrete, the hesitant shuffle of his footsteps crossing the threshold.
"And Marcus?" Susan called over her shoulder, her voice carrying that same dangerous edge from before. "Next time you stare at my tits, at least have the balls to do it without looking guilty. It's insulting."
"Yes ma'am, sorry" he replied.
"So why exactly are you here?" she asked.
"Ah, perfect! You already have a table," Marcus exclaimed as he noticed her massage table in the den. "That will make things much easier."
"Make what easier?" she demanded, growing exasperated again. It hadn't escaped her that he'd ignored her question.
"I shouldn't spoil the surprise, but... your son got you something special for mother's day."
"He did!?" she gasped, surprised and somewhat touched. Her son had forgotten Mother's Day for the last several years.
"Brian spared no expense in ordering you the premium package, which includes the household visit."
"This looks rather... involved," she remarked as he opened his large suitcase and began affixing large robotic arms to the legs of her massage table.
"It's cutting-edge technology," he remarked. "But I assure you, it's undergone rigorous quality and safety testing."
Susan stood with her arms crossed, hip cocked to one side, watching Marcus work.
"Cutting-edge," she repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. "Right."
The robotic arms Marcus was attaching looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Sleek chrome appendages with multiple joints, each terminating in what appeared to be padded clamps or sensors. They hissed softly as he locked them into place along the table's legs, pneumatic systems equalizing with little tsss sounds that made the whole setup seem alive.
Marcus worked with surprising efficiency despite his nervous demeanor.
"The system uses a combination of AI-driven pressure point analysis and haptic feedback," he explained without looking up. "It maps your skeletal structure in real-time, identifies areas of tension and misalignment, then applies precisely calibrated therapeutic pressure."
Susan moved closer, circling the table. One of the robotic arms tracked her movement with an almost imperceptible whir, its sensors glowing a soft blue.
"And Brian paid for this? My son dropped actual money on a premium package for me?"
She couldn't keep the disbelief out of her voice. Brian had been a selfish little shit since puberty. The transformation from sweet boy to entitled asshole had happened somewhere around age thirteen, and she'd watched him become more like his deadbeat father with every passing year. Forgotten birthdays. Unreturned calls. Moving out without so much as a thank you for eighteen years of room and board.
And now this?
Marcus finally looked up, pushing his glasses into place. "He seemed... I don't know, maybe guilty? We were drinking after the trade show, and he got kind of emotional. Talked about how hard you worked, how he didn't appreciate you enough." The kid shrugged. "Said he wanted to do something nice for once."
Something twisted in Susan's chest, an unwelcome flutter of emotion she immediately crushed. She wasn't going to get soft over her damned massage table and some sob story.
"How much did this 'premium package' cost?" she demanded.
"Four thousand dollars."
Susan's eyes widened in spite of herself. Four thousand. For a fucking massage. Her son had spent four thousand dollars? Either he'd suffered a traumatic brain injury on that oil rig, or...
She narrowed her eyes at Marcus, watching the way his hands trembled slightly as he attached a cylinder to one of the lower robotic arms.
"This looks rather... involved," she said slowly, gesturing at the increasingly complex array of mechanical appendages now surrounding her massage table. There had to be at least eight of them, all at different heights, all equipped with different attachments. Some had soft padding. Others had what looked like rollers. And that cylinder...
"It is cutting-edge technology," Marcus repeated, not meeting her eyes. His fingers flew across his tablet screen, making final adjustments. "But I assure you, it's undergone rigorous quality and safety testing. Thousands of satisfied customers. Five-star reviews across the board."
He was lying.
Susan could tell. Not about everything - the equipment was clearly real, expensive, professional. But something in the way he wouldn't look at her, the way his voice pitched just slightly higher when he said "safety testing."
"So how does this work?" she asked, running one finger along the padded surface of the table. "I just... lie down?"
Marcus nodded, and gave an audible gulp.
"Face down, initially. The system needs to map your posterior chain first - spine, shoulders, glutes, hamstrings." He gestured awkwardly at her body without actually looking at it. "The, uh, the yoga pants and sports bra are actually perfect. The sensors need skin contact for accurate readings, but minimal clothing works fine."
"And the straps?" She nodded toward the leather restraints attached to the table at various points - wrists, ankles, waist, even what looked like a thigh restraint. She couldn't restrain shooting Marcus a dubious smirk.
"Safety feature," Marcus said quickly. Too quickly. "The machine applies significant pressure. The straps keep you properly positioned so the treatment stays targeted and effective. Some of the... deeper tissue work can cause involuntary muscle spasms. The restraints prevent injury."
Bullshit, Susan thought. But she didn't say it.
Instead, she climbed onto the table with a slow and deliberate grace, feeling Marcus's eyes on her ass as she positioned herself face-down. The padding molded to her body, somehow both firm and yielding. It smelled new, giving off the scent of fresh leather.
"Arms here," Marcus instructed, his voice strained. "And, uh, spread your legs slightly. The system needs access to your hip flexors and lower back."
Susan complied, feeling the vulnerability of the position even through her irritation. The cool air of her living room kissed the small of her back where her yoga pants rode low. She turned her head to the side, watching Marcus work.
His hands shook as he secured the first restraint around her left wrist. The leather was soft, lined with something that felt like silk. It tightened automatically with a soft click, snug but not uncomfortable.
"Jesus Christ, your hands are freezing," Susan muttered. "You nervous, sweetie?"
"No, I-" Marcus cleared his throat. "Just want to make sure everything's calibrated correctly."
Each restraint activated the moment he fastened it, some kind of pneumatic system adjusting the tension to hold her firmly in place. Susan tested them experimentally, feeling the give - maybe an inch of movement, no more.
Susan heard him tap something on his tablet. The robotic arms hummed to life with a chorus of mechanical whirs.
The first touch came at her shoulders - two padded sensors that pressed against her skin, rolling down the length of her spine with warm, firm pressure. Susan exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in her back respond to the contact.
Another arm moved along her right leg, mapping the curve of her calf, her hamstring. Then her left. The sensors were warm, and they moved with uncanny precision - finding every knot of muscle, every point of stored tension.
One of the arms, the one with the smooth, segmented cylinder attachment, moved between her spread legs. Susan felt it brush against her inner thigh, mapping upward with methodical precision.
Higher.
Higher.
Susan's breathing quickened, and her fingers curled against the table surface, testing the restraints again.
"Marcus," she said slowly, keeping her voice level through sheer force of will. "What exactly does this machine do?"
The robotic fingers traced along Susan's ribcage with feather-light precision, mapping each individual rib through the thin fabric of her sports bra. The touch was clinical, methodical - but also maddeningly
gentle. It tickled.
Susan bit the inside of her cheek, trying to suppress the laugh that wanted to bubble up from her chest. The sensation was absurd - being strapped to a table in her own living room while a nervous tech-bro's expensive toy felt her up in the name of "biomechanical profiling."
"Just-" she started, then had to pause as another set of sensors ghosted along her waistline, making her abs twitch involuntarily. "Just scanning, huh?"
"Exactly," Marcus said, then babbled something about the system mapping her skeletal structure. She wasn't listening, because she was too distracted by the sensations she was feeling... and fighting.
One of the arms traced the curve of her hip bone, then dipped lower to measure the circumference of her upper thigh. Susan felt her yoga pants shift slightly, the fabric pulling taut across her ass.
She couldn't help it. A snort of laughter escaped.
"Something funny?" Marcus asked, and there was an edge of defensiveness in his tone that made Susan grin into the face cradle.
"Oh, nothing," she said.
Another arm joined the exploration, this one running along the small of her back where her sports bra ended and her yoga pants began. It found the thin strip of exposed skin and traced it with what felt like warm silicone pads, measuring the temperature of her flesh.
The touch made her shiver. Then, the arm between her legs moved again. This time it didn't stop at mid-thigh. The smooth cylinder attachment brushed against the fabric covering her pussy - just barely, just for a second - before withdrawing with a soft mechanical whir.
Susan's entire body went rigid.
"That's-" Her voice came out strangled. "That's not my skeletal structure, Marcus."
Marcus stammered something about pelvic floor mapping.
Another gentle touch between her legs, slightly firmer this time. The cylinder pressed against her through the thin fabric of her yoga pants, mapping the shape of her mound with clinical precision.
A laugh burst out of Susan - sharp, slightly hysterical.
"Jesus Christ, Marcus. Just admit this thing is a fucking sex toy."
"It's not... just a sex toy."
Susan felt another laugh building in her chest, but it died when the cylinder between her legs began to vibrate - soft, rhythmic pulses that sent sensation radiating through her core despite the barrier of fabric.
She caught a flash of the tablet he was operating from as he walked by, inspecting the mechanical arms - Treatment duration: forty-five minutes.
"Forty-five-!" Susan started, then gasped as the vibration intensified.
Two sensors traced the waistband of her yoga pants from hip to hip, following the elastic with such light, teasing pressure that Susan's whole torso jerked in the restraints. The leather held. She couldn't escape the touch even by a millimeter.
"Shit-" Another strangled laugh escaped. "Marcus! It-"
"The system is just-"
"The system is tickling me, you asshole!" The words burst out of her on a wave of hysterical giggles she could no longer contain. "Jesus Christ, this is-"
Another arm found the crease where her thigh met her ass, probing with clinical interest. Susan's leg tried to jerk closed reflexively, but the thigh restraints held her spread. The sensor traced the muscle group with maddening slowness, and Susan felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
This was absurd. This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman strapped to a table while a four-thousand-dollar robot felt her up like a teenage boy at prom, and she couldn't stop laughing.
Her whole body was shaking now, abs clenching, shoulders heaving. "Marcus! Make it - ah! - make it stop!"
The sensors found her lower ribs again, and this time Susan let out a full-throated shriek of laughter that echoed through her empty house. Tears streamed down her face. Her stomach hurt. She was going to piss herself if this didn't stop soon.
Another found the hollow of her armpit, probing with gentle circles that made her entire arm spasm uselessly against the restraint. One traced the curve of her waist where her sports bra ended, another mapped the sensitive skin behind her knee.
And that fucking cylinder between her legs pressed and vibrated and pulsed against her pussy through the thin fabric of her yoga pants, adding a layer of overwhelming sensation that short-circuited her brain.
"MARCUS!" Susan shrieked, her voice breaking on a cascade of helpless laughter. "Stop it! Stop it stop it STOP IT!"
She thrashed in the restraints with everything she had, but the leather held her perfectly immobile. Her body jerked and twisted, trying desperately to escape touches she couldn't avoid. Every movement just shifted which sensors were touching which spots - trading the torture of her ribs for the agony of her sides, the tickling of her armpits for the maddening sensation along her thighs.
"Please!" The word came out strangled between peals of laughter. "Marcus, turn it off! It's too much! I can't- I can't-"
Tears streamed down her face, dripping onto the leather. Her stomach muscles clenched so hard they nearly cramped. Her lungs burned from the force of her laughter - great, whooping gasps that left her dizzy and desperate.
"FUCK!" Susan screamed, and then dissolved into hysterical giggles. "Marcus! Marcus, goddammit! It tickles too much! Make it STOP!"
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but laugh and squirm and beg through tears and gasping breaths. Spots danced at the edges of her vision. She was going to pass out. She was going to die strapped to a massage table in her own living room while a robot tickled her to death.
The thought was so ridiculous that it triggered one more wave of hysterical giggles; high-pitched, breathless, edged with genuine panic.
Then, mercifully, a loud beep cut through the air and the arms froze.
Blessed, perfect stillness descended on Susan's body. The only movement was the gentle rise and fall of her back as she gasped for air, her entire body trembling.
Susan couldn't say anything. She lay there panting, tears still streaming down her face, her abs aching like she'd done a thousand crunches. Her heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
Slowly, shakily, she became aware of other sensations: the dampness between her legs that had nothing to do with sweat, and the way her nipples had hardened into painful points against the sports bra. And there was a pulse of arousal throbbing through her core despite - or possibly because of - the torture she'd just endured.
Then she felt Marcus' hands on her ankles.
"What are you-" she started, then felt him unlace her left sneaker with quick, efficient movements.
The shoe came off. Cool air kissed her overheated foot through the cotton sock.
"Marcus," Susan said, her voice still hoarse from screaming. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Silly me," he said, and there was something different in his tone now. Something that made the hair on the back of Susan's neck stand up. A kind of cheerful confidence that hadn't been there before. "I forgot the massage oil."
The right shoe came off next. Susan felt both sneakers thump to the floor somewhere behind her.
"Marcus." She tried to put warning in her voice, but it came out breathless and weak. "I don't want- I need you to let me up. Now."
His fingers found the elastic of her left sock. Peeled it down slowly, exposing her heel, her arch, her toes one by one to the air-conditioned room. Susan's foot flexed involuntarily. She tried to pull it back, but the ankle restraint held firm.
The right sock came off, and Susan was suddenly, acutely aware of how vulnerable her bare feet were. How sensitive. She curled her toes protectively, feeling the leather restraints shift against her ankles.
"Don't you fucking dare," she whispered.
"The oil also has muscle-relaxing properties," Marcus said. "Helps reduce the body's defensive tension responses. Makes the treatment more... effective."
Susan felt the first drops of warm oil hit her left sole. His thumbs pressed into her arch with surprising strength, working the oil into her skin. It felt good. Too good. She bit back a moan that wanted to escape her throat.
She tested the restraints again. Still firm. Still holding her spread and helpless.
"How much oil does this 'treatment' require?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Oh," he said casually, his oily hands sliding up from her feet to her calves, "quite a lot, actually. We want to make sure every inch of you gets the full therapeutic benefit."
"Marcus..."
"Of course," Marcus said, his voice dropping lower as his hands reached the hem of her yoga pants, "the treatment works best on bare skin."
Susan's heart stopped.
"Don't you fucking dare take off my-"
She was cut off as the robotic hands flared back to life, descending on her oil-covered feet with immediately, merciless precision. Soft rubber pads traced her arches, circled her heels, drew maddening figure-eights across her soles. The oil made every touch glide effortlessly, made her skin impossibly more sensitive. Susan's scream of laughter was instantaneous and desperate.
"NO! MARCUS, NO! NOT MY FEET! NOT~"
The words dissolved into helpless shrieks as more arms joined the assault: her ribs, her sides, the backs of her knees. But her feet were the worst. The oil-enhanced sensors found every nerve ending, exploited every sensitive spot with mechanical perfection.
These are really nice," Marcus said conversationally, and Susan felt the cold metal of the scissor blades slide against her hip. "Lululemon? Must have been, what, hundred and twenty bucks?"
The yoga pants split along her right hip, and she felt cool air on the newly exposed skin.
"MARCUS!" Susan's voice cracked with panic and rage and helpless laughter as the arms continued their assault on her feet. "STOP! Those cost- you can't-"
"Hundred and forty?" Marcus teased as he moved to her left hip. More cold metal against her skin.
Soon Susan's bare ass was exposed to the cool air of her living room. She felt goosebumps rise across her skin, felt her pussy clench reflexively as the cylinder between her legs pressed against her now with no barrier of fabric. The sensation made her entire body jerk in the restraints, but there was no escape.
Marcus moved to her upper body now. She felt his oil-covered hands trace the band of her sports bra.
"No," Susan sobbed, her laughter turning desperate. "Marcus, no, please not-"
Snip. Snip.
The sports bra parted down her spine. She felt it loosen, felt her breasts shift against the table as the support disappeared. Susan's bare breasts pressed against the leather table. Her nipples, hard and aching, dragged across the smooth surface as the robotic arms made her body shake with uncontrollable laughter.
She was completely naked now, completely exposed. Spread and restrained and helpless on a table in her own living room, while her son's former classmate systematically destroyed her expensive workout clothes and a four-thousand-dollar robot tickled her into hysteria.
And she was wet.
The cylinder between her legs confirmed it, pressing against her bare pussy with warming pressure that made her clench and gasp even through the tickling torture.
"There we go," Marcus said, his voice brimming with satisfaction. "Now we can really begin the treatment. The sensors work so much better on bare skin."
His finger traced down her bare spine, then he squeezed her exposed ass with casual possessiveness. Susan tried to form words - protest, threats, pleas - but all that came out was breathless, broken laughter as the robotic arms continued their relentless exploration of every newly exposed inch of her body.
Then, just as suddenly as they'd started, the machines stopped again. Her chest heaved as her breath came out in ragged gasps.
"Flip over," Marcus said sternly.
"What?"
"I said flip over," he repeated, pressing a button that unlocked the restraints around her ankles. "Com on. On your back."
Susan lay frozen, her mind racing. This was her chance. The restraints were off her legs. She could kick him, could fight, could... but the wrist restraints were still locked.
And the cylinder between her legs chose that moment to pulse with deep, rolling vibration that made her pussy clench and her thoughts scatter like dropped marbles.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Clock's ticking, Susan. The system's going to resume the full protocol in about ninety seconds whether you're positioned correctly or not."
Ninety seconds until the tickling started again.
Susan made a choice she knew she'd regret. She shifted her weight, lifting her hips awkwardly with her arms still restrained above her head. The table was wide enough that she could roll onto her back without falling off... barely. She ended up staring at her own ceiling, her breasts exposed to the cool air, her pussy still pressed against that maddening cylinder.
Marcus appeared in her field of vision, looking down at her with an expression that made her stomach churn. His eyes traveled hungrily down her naked body - her breasts, her stomach, the neat triangle of hair between her spread thighs.
"God, you're beautiful," he said softly. He settled his hands on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with a pressure that was definitely not therapeutic.
"You're sick," she said, glaring at him.
"These need oil too," he replied, ignoring her. "Don't want the sensors to miss any spots."
His thumbs circled her nipples again, and Susan bit her lip to keep from making a sound that would give away exactly how her body was responding to this.
The robotic arms resumed their dance across Susan's oil-soaked skin. They were gentle for now, just enough to keep her nerves singing, her body twitching with anticipation. They traced lazy patterns along her thighs, circled her ankles, brushed feather-light touches across her stomach.
She watched as Marcus pulled a pair of black latex gloves out of the suitcase. They didn't look like ordinary gloves - the fingertips and palms were covered in hundreds of tiny soft rubber nubbins, like the texture of a massage ball condensed onto his hands.
Then he pulled out a second bottle of oil. Pink liquid sloshed inside as he uncapped it.
"What is that?" Susan asked, her voice sharp with growing concern.
Marcus turned to her with that same cheerful smile that was starting to make her want to punch him.
"Aphrodisiac oil," he replied, like he was announcing the weather.
Susan's blood went cold.
"What?"
"It's perfectly safe," he told her. "All natural ingredients - ginger extract, cinnamon, some other stuff I can't pronounce. It increases blood flow, heightens sensitivity."
He poured a generous amount onto his gloved hands, the pink oil coating the nubbins. "Makes everything feel... more."
"Don't you fucking dare..."
But Marcus was already kneeling at her feet.
His nubbin-covered hands wrapped around her left foot, and the sensation was immediate and overwhelming. The tiny rubber points pressed into every nerve ending, the pink oil warming on contact with her skin. He worked it into her arch, between her toes, along her heel with methodical thoroughness.
Within seconds, Susan could feel the difference.
Her skin began to tingle. Then burn - not painfully, but with an intensity that made every touch feel magnified tenfold. The robotic arms that had been gently caressing her thighs suddenly felt like lightning strikes of sensation.
"Fuck!" Susan gasped.
"That's just the increased blood flow," Marcus said calmly, moving to her right foot. "It'll settle into a nice warm glow in a minute. Trust me, you're going to love how it feels."
He was right about the burning settling - but what replaced it was worse.
Her feet felt alive. Hypersensitive. When Marcus's nubbin-covered fingers traced her arch now, it sent sparks shooting up her leg straight to her core. The robotic arms exploring her calves made her hips buck involuntarily.
Next he moved to her upper body, starting with her outstretched torso. His hands - those awful, wonderful, terrible hands - traced each rib of her ribcage with agonizing thoroughness. The nubbins caught on the spaces between her bones, the aphrodisiac making her entire torso feel like one giant erogenous zone. The robotic arms joined in, and Susan couldn't tell where mechanical touch ended and human began.
She was laughing and gasping and making sounds she'd never heard herself make: high-pitched whimpers and desperate moans that had nothing to do with tickling and everything to do with the heat building between her legs.
The cylinder pressed against her pussy pulsed in rhythm with Marcus's touches, and Susan realized with horror that she was grinding against it.
"No," she sobbed. "No no no, I don't want..."
But when Marcus' gloved hands settled on her breasts, the sensation was electric.
His nubbin-covered palms cupped her completely, the hundreds of tiny points creating textures that made her back arch violently off the table. The aphrodisiac soaked into the sensitive skin, making her breasts feel swollen, aching, desperate for more touch even as she begged him to stop.
Then his fingers found her nipples.
The nubbins rolled over the hardened peaks, and Susan's vision went white. The aphrodisiac had made them so sensitive that each tiny rubber point felt like a separate tongue, a separate mouth, a separate source of overwhelming pleasure.
Marcus circled both nipples simultaneously, his thumbs and forefingers working in concert. Pinching. Rolling. Tugging gently while the nubbins created friction that Susan's oil-enhanced, aphrodisiac-soaked skin couldn't defend against.
Her orgasm hit like a freight train. Sudden, violent, unstoppable. Her entire body seized, her back arching hard off the table. A primal, shuddering scream tore from her throat.
Wave after wave of sensation crashed through her as Marcus continued working her nipples, as the robotic arms continued their tickling assault, as the cylinder pressed and pulsed against her spasming pussy.
"FUCK! OH FUCK! MARCUS!"
She came harder than she had in years - maybe ever. Her pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. Every nerve ending in her body fired at once, the aphrodisiac oil making the orgasm feel like it was happening in every cell simultaneously.
It lasted a full minute. When it finally subsided, Susan lay gasping on the table, tears streaming down her face, her body still twitching with aftershocks.
Marcus' hands remained on her breasts, gently cupping them now, his thumbs making slow circles around her oversensitive nipples.
"That's one," he said softly. "The premium package includes at least five."
Susan's eyes flew open in horror.
"WHAT!?" she gasped, her voice barely recognizable. "Marcus, no - you can't..."
But his hands were already on her inner thighs, spreading more of that cursed aphrodisiac oil into skin that was already hypersensitive. The nubbins dragged along the creases where her legs met her pelvis, and Susan's hips jerked violently against the restraints.
The robotic arms continued their relentless exploration - her ribs, her sides, the arches of her feet - keeping her in a constant state of overstimulation while Marcus worked his way closer to her center.
"Please," Susan sobbed through the involuntary giggles. "Please don't - I can't take - oh God ~ "
His nubbin-covered finger traced the outer lips of her pussy.
The sensation was beyond anything Susan had experienced. The hundreds of tiny rubber points created textures that her aphrodisiac-soaked flesh couldn't process.
Marcus worked methodically, coating her entire vulva with the pink oil. Her outer lips, her inner folds, circling her clit with maddening precision without quite touching it. The aphrodisiac soaked in immediately, making everything swell and pulse.
"Fuck," Susan whimpered, her head thrashing against the table. Her pussy clenched around nothing, desperate to be filled. "Stop, please stop, I'm begging you!"
His nubbin-covered thumb finally pressed against her clit, and she screamed.
The texture - oh God, the texture - combined with the aphrodisiac was too much. Her clit felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size, every nerve ending exposed and raw. Marcus circled it slowly, the nubbins creating friction that made her entire pelvis feel like it was on fire.
The robotic arms increased their assault. Her feet, her ribs, her armpits - everywhere the first oil had sensitized, everywhere the machines had learned she was most vulnerable. The tickling sensation mixed with the overwhelming pleasure until Susan couldn't tell the difference between torture and ecstasy.
Then she felt Marcus's other hand slide lower, and his nubbin-covered finger pressed against her asshole.
"NO!" Susan's voice cracked. "Marcus, don't - not there - I've never-!!!"
His finger circled the sensitive skin of her naked anus, coating it with pink oil. The aphrodisiac soaked in, and Susan felt the burn, the tingle, the overwhelming sensitivity spread to yet another part of her body she'd never associated with pleasure.
The sensation was alien. Wrong. And so fucking intense she could barely breathe. Marcus pressed gently, his nubbin-covered fingertip breaching her just slightly. The texture of the glove against her virgin asshole sent shocks through her system that went straight to her clit, which he continued to circle with his other thumb.
"Stop," Susan sobbed, but her hips were rolling now, grinding against both his hands, against the cylinder that pulsed between her legs. "Please, I can't - this is too much... I can't think!"
"Don't think, then," Marcus countered. "Just feel it."
His finger pushed deeper into her ass while his thumb pressed harder against her clit. The nubbins created sensations Susan didn't have words for - pressure and texture and friction all magnified by the aphrodisiac until every nerve ending in her lower body was lit aflame.
The robotic arms found a particularly sensitive spot on her ribs. The cylinder between her legs vibrated harder. Marcus's fingers worked in tandem - one circling her swollen clit, the other slowly, carefully penetrating her ass with those maddening nubbins.
Susan shattered into her second orgasm. However, this one was different. Deeper. It started somewhere in her core and exploded outward like a supernova, consuming everything in its path. Her entire body seized, her pussy clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms that she had no control over.
Then she felt it - a pressure building, something she'd only experienced once or twice in her entire life, usually alone with her strongest vibrator and an hour to build up to it.
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh FUCK!!!"
Susan's pussy spasmed violently, and she squirted. Liquid gushed from her in pulses, soaking Marcus's hands, the table, dripping onto the floor. The sensation was so intense it crossed the line into pain - her clit felt like it was being electrocuted, her ass clenched around Marcus's invading finger, her entire body convulsed with pleasure so overwhelming it felt like dying.
She was screaming. Words like "stop" and "please" and "Marcus" and "God" mixed with incoherent sounds, animal noises that came from somewhere primal and desperate.
Susan barely registered Marcus removing the latex gloves. Her mind was floating somewhere above her body, tethered only by the constant assault of sensation - the robotic arms still tracing patterns across her oil-slicked skin, the aphrodisiac making every nerve ending sing with hypersensitivity.
She heard rustling. The click of latches. The mechanical whir of something new powering on.
Through her half-lidded, tear-blurred vision, she watched Marcus pull one final robotic arm from his suitcase. The main shaft of this one branched into multiple appendages, each tipped with different attachments. Vibrating nodes. Rotating heads. Soft silicone protrusions that looked flexible and organic.
"This one's my favorite," he told her as he positioned the arm between her spread legs, adjusting it carefully. "Really integrates the whole experience."
He locked it into place on the table's mounting bracket. The appendages hovered inches from Susan's pussy and ass - close enough that she could feel the air displacement from their subtle movements, but not quite touching yet.
The anticipation was almost worse than the touch itself.
"Marcus," Susan tried again, her voice breaking. "Please. I'll pay you. Double. Triple. Just stop this. Let me up. I can't think straight anymore..."
"I know," Marcus said softly. He ran his hand along her thigh. Just his bare skin now, but even that felt overwhelming after everything her body had endured. "That's kind of the point. Sometimes you need to stop thinking, Susan. Sometimes you just need to feel."
He pressed a button on his tablet, and the specialized arm came to life.
The first appendage - a smooth, vibrating probe - pressed against Susan's pussy lips and slid inside with zero resistance. She was so wet, so stretched and ready from two orgasms and the aphrodisiac, that it encountered no friction at all. It pushed deep, then began to vibrate with a frequency that made Susan's eyes roll back.
"Ahhh.... fuck!"
A second appendage found her clit. This one had soft silicone bristles that rotated in slow circles, creating textures against her swollen, hypersensitive nub that made her entire body jerk like she'd been electrocuted.
Then she felt the third appendage press against her asshole.
"NO!" Susan's scream was pure desperation. "Not again! Please not there again!!!"
But the machine was merciless. The probe was smaller than Marcus's finger had been, lubricated with the same warming massage oil, and it pushed past her tight ring of muscle with steady, inexorable pressure.
The sensation of being penetrated in both holes simultaneously - of being filled while the bristled appendage worked her clit - shattered what little remained of Susan's coherent thought.
The robotic arms on the rest of her body increased their intensity. They found her feet, her ribs, her armpits, her nipples - every spot the aphrodisiac had sensitized, every nerve ending that had been mapped and catalogued by the system's learning algorithms.
Susan couldn't tell where one sensation ended and another began. The tickling on her feet sent sparks to her pussy. The vibrating probe inside her made her ribs feel more sensitive. The bristles on her clit made her nipples ache. Everything was connected, everything fed into everything else until she was just a writhing mass of overstimulated nerve endings.
"Can't - Marcus - too much - I can't- !!!"
Her mind began to fracture. Thoughts became impossible. Language dissolved into pure sound - screams and sobs and animal whimpers. She couldn't remember her name, couldn't remember where she was, couldn't remember anything except sensation.
The tickling on her feet felt like orgasm. The orgasms felt like tickling. Everything blended together into a synesthetic explosion that her brain couldn't process. Susan was drowning.
She squirted again, her body shaking against the restraints. Drool ran from her open mouth as her eyes rolled back from the ecstasy. Somewhere in the dissolved ruins of her consciousness, Susan felt something fundamental break. The part of her that had been holding on, that had been fighting, maintaining some core sense of self, simply... let go.
Another orgasm rolled through her. And another. Her pussy clenched weakly around the probe, no longer capable of the violent spasms from earlier. She was wrung out, emptied, reduced to nothing but a vessel for sensation she could no longer resist.
Time lost meaning. Susan floated in a space between consciousness and oblivion where there was no past, no future, no identity - only the eternal now of her body being used, stimulated, pleasured into complete and total submission. She might have been on the table for minutes. Hours. Days.
And then, finally, blessed unconsciousness claimed her.
## Part Two
When Susan's eyes fluttered open, the sun was setting.
Why am I in the living room? she wondered. The thought arrived sluggishly, and her body felt stiff and heavy. The leather beneath her back was cool now, tacky with dried... something. Oil? Her naked skin stuck to it as she tried to shift, and she felt a blanket had been cast over her.
Why am I naked?
Memories swam up through the haze, fragmentary and surreal: strong hands. Her own voice, ragged and desperate, begging for... what? Laughter, so much laughter. The sensation of being unmade, nerve by nerve, gasp by gasp, until nothing remained but pure sensation flowering into something catastrophic and divine.
Marcus.
His name resonated through her body and mind like a bell. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room, searching for him with an urgency that bordered on panic.
"Marcus?" The word comes out cracked, pathetic. Susan winced at the sound of her own voice - it was needy in a way that should humiliate her. Should. But the shame that tried to surface was smothered under something warmer, sweeter.
She managed to push herself upright, the massage chair's straps hanging loose now.
Where is he? Why did he leave me?
The questions spiraled, tinged with genuine distress. She needed to find him. Needed to see him.
"You're finally awake!"
Her head snapped toward the kitchen doorway, and there he was - her Marcus. Relief flooded through her.
"Marcus!" she called out, his name bursting from her lips with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm. But she didn't care - he was here, and the empty ache in her chest evaporated instantly.
Her hands moved instinctively to cover herself as she stood up, then fell away, uncertain.
Does he want to see? Should I hide?
The confusion swirled until he spoke again, giving her guidance.
"You were asleep for quite a while there," he said. "Why don't you get rinsed off, and put on something sexy for me?"
Susan felt something click into place at his words. A relief so profound, it makes her knees weak.
He's going to tell me what to do. He knows what I need!
The fog of confusion and anxiety lifted instantly, replaced by crystal-clear purpose. She eagerly scampered off to her bedroom to obey his commands, and the gratitude she felt was almost overwhelming. He was going to take care of her.
After the shower, she tore through her closet with a single-minded focus. She found the leopard-print bikini shoved in the back - a foolish impulse purchase from two summers ago, that she'd been too self-conscious to ever wear. The tags were still on it, even. It was perfect.
She shimmied into the bikini - the strings dug into her hips, and the triangles of leopard-print barely covered her nipples, which pressed obvious and peaked against the thin material. The bottoms were equally obscene, barely more than strings that left the curves of her ass completely exposed.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She no longer looked like a tired single mother. She looked sleek and sexy, even somewhat ridiculous. It was exactly what she'd hoped for.
Susan skipped back into the kitchen, her breasts bouncing in the inadequate top. Her heart hammered with anticipation - will he like it? Will she please him? The need for his approval felt as urgent as oxygen.
She rounded the corner into the kitchen, then struck a pose.
"Do you like it, Marcus?" she asked hopefully.
"Wow," Marcus gasped, clearly impressed. "you look gorgeous!"
His words were like a drug, better than any orgasm.
Gorgeous. He thinks I'm gorgeous.
The validation flooded through Susan's rewired neural pathways, triggering a cascade of dopamine that made her entire body flush with warmth.
"I have something special for you," he continued, and pulled out a fine leather collar with a ring on the front.
Susan's mouth went dry as her vision locked onto the collar, a hunger welling up within her.
Yes.
The old Susan would have thought this was insane, degrading. That she was a grown woman, a mother. But that was smothered under the crushing need to belong to Marcus. To be his, for everyone to see.
She tilted her chin up automatically, exposing the long line of her throat in unconscious offering as he slipped the collar around her neck. It felt perfect. She was his now, the collar proclaimed it.
No more decisions. No more uncertainty. No more exhausting responsibility of being in charge of her own life. The collar removed all that, replacing it with a blissful simplicity. He will tell her what to do, and she will obey.
"Let's take a picture of you to send to Brian," Marcus said, pulling his phone out.
She remained kneeling as he took a few pictures, smiling serenely. She briefly wondered what Brian would think, even if this was appropriate, but the thoughts were soon brushed aside. If Marcus wants Brian to see, then Brian should see. Marcus knows best.
Marcus' phone buzzed rapidly, multiple times in quick succession.
*BRIAN: What the FUCK*
*BRIAN: Is that my MOM???*
*BRIAN: What the fuck did you do to her Marcus*
*BRIAN: Why is she wearing a fucking COLLAR*
*BRIAN: She would NEVER*
*BRIAN: Answer me RIGHT NOW*
*BRIAN: I swear to god if you hurt her*
*BRIAN: Mom would never kneel for anyone what did you DO*
*BRIAN: I'm calling her right now*
*BRIAN: You sick fuck what is wrong with you*
*BRIAN: I'm getting on a plane TODAY*
*BRIAN: You better pray I don't find you*
The messages kept coming, each one angrier, more desperate.
"What... what did he say?" She asked. The question came out small, almost childlike.
"He loved them, and says he's happy for us," Marcus said jovially.
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Susan replied. Of course Brian would understand, surely he thinks as highly of Marcus as she does.
## Part Three
A few weeks later, Susan had finished moving in with Marcus, and had quickly settled into her new role as his pet-wife.
She bounced out of the kitchen on this particular day wearing a black and white maid outfit that was anything but modest, displaying her availability to Marcus at any time.
"I brought you this, Sweetie," she said to Marcus, handing him a cold beer as he sat in the living room watching TV.
"Dinner's in the oven," Susan continued, smoothing her hands down the apron front. "About forty minutes. I set the timer and everything."
Her tongue darted across her lower lip. The aphrodisiac oil had metabolized weeks ago, but its effects had carved new pathways in her brain, rewired circuitry that couldn't be undone. He still marveled at times, at how the woman who'd raised his tormentor now treated him like he was everything in the world.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, the movement making her breasts bounce slightly in their confines.
"I was thinking..." She started, twisting her manicured fingers through her hair. "We have time. Before dinner. If you wanted to..."
Marcus turned to look at her. Her blue eyes flickered towards his face, then away, unable to hold contact.
"We could...?" she let the question hang, and bit her lip while her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt, an unconscious attempt to create friction where she ached.
"Come sit on my lap, then," Marcus said, setting the remote aside.
Susan gasped so sharply that the bell at her throat chimed. She eagerly lowered herself onto him, the fabric of her costume riding up as she settled into his lap. The black lace of her fabric brushed against his jeans, and she could feel the ridge of his cock rising, wanting her barely-covered pussy.
She quickly unzipped his pants and let his erection spring free. In her excitement to get him inside of her, she tore her panties clean off.
"Oh god, oh fuck..." she moaned as she slowly eased herself onto his cock.
"Hands on your head," Marcus reminded her.
"Yes, yes, sorry-" Susan replied. Her hands flew upward, fingers lacing behind her head, elbows bent outward. The position thrust her breasts forward, jiggling with each bounce. It also exposed everything: her ribs, the sensitive hollows of her armpits, the vulnerable and ticklish skin that had become his playground.
She rode him facing forward, thighs burning as she lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, his cock hitting spots inside her that made stars explode in her vision. The leather chair creaked beneath their combined weight, a rhythmic rocking as her ass met his thighs again and again.
"Tell me about your day," Marcus said, lazily dragging his fingers along her ribcage. Susan's rhythm faltered immediately, her pussy clenching involuntarily around him as laughter exploded from her chest.
"I... hahaha! - I went to the -ohhh! - the groc - nohohoho!" Her words fragmented as his fingers danced across her ribcage. She bucked and writhed, trying to escape the sensation while simultaneously impaling herself deeper on his cock. The contradiction sent her nervous system into chaos, pleasure and torment braiding together until she couldn't distinguish between them.
"The what?" Marcus teased, his fingers migrating towards her armpits.
"AHAHAHA! - grocery store!" Susan shrieked, her elbows wanting desperately to clamp down, to protect the unbearably sensitive skin there. But she kept her hands locked behind her head, good girl, obedient girl, even as tears beaded at her eyes. "I bought - hehehe - steaks for din- NOOO!"
Susan's laughter turned hysterical, her whole body convulsing on top of him. Her thighs trembled violently. Her pussy spasmed. She was close, so fucking close, suspended between laughter and ecstasy, this broken thing that couldn't exist without his attention.
"And then I came home -hehehe- and cleaned the - AHAHAHA!" His fingers found a particularly sensitive spot, the place where her armpit met her ribcage, and Susan's grip on her narrative shattered. "The bathroom and - oh... oh god I'm gonna - vacuumed and... oh pleasepleaseplease!!!"
Their orgasms crescendo simultaneously, Marcus' cock pulsing deep inside her as her pussy clamped down, milking him ecstatically.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" she screamed.
Her hands finally broke from behind her head, clutching at his shoulders as the climax tore through her. Every muscle locked tight, her back arching, toes curling as her heels lay forgotten on the floor. She felt him flooding her, claiming her from the inside out. The bell at her throat jingled frantically with each spasm. Wetness gushed around his cock, soaking his jeans, dripping onto the leather chair beneath them.
"Ohhhh..." they both groaned.
The sound left her as a prolonged whimper as she collapsed forward against his chest, gasping for air. Her entire body trembled, aftershocks rolling through her in diminishing waves. His cock remained buried inside her, softening slowly, their combined fluids creating a warmth between her thighs.
For a moment, there was only breathing. Harsh and ragged, their chests rising and falling in sync with one another.
Then Marcus's hands moved to her costume, peeling the ruined bodice upward. Her breasts spilled free completely now, flushed pink from exertion, nipples hard and sensitive. Susan watched with a sleepy post-orgasmic stare as he lowered his mouth to first one peak, then the other.
The kisses were possessive. Claiming. His lips sealed over her left nipple, sucking gently before releasing with an audible pop. Then the right, his tongue swirling around the hardened bud, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
The kitchen timer chose that moment to chime its five-minute warning.
"Oh!" Susan exclaimed, her hand flew to her mouth. "Dinner!"
She spun on wobbly legs, the motion making more cum drip from her well-fucked pussy. The maid costume hung askew on her frame, the top pushed up over her breasts, skirt still bunched at her waist, one stocking torn. Her hair stood in wild disarray, makeup smeared across her face in raccoon patterns.
She giggled a bright, girlish giggle as she tried to straighten her outfit as best she could, then hurried towards the kitchen.
"I'll get it, don't worry!" she practically sang. She paused at the kitchen door, glancing back at Marcus - and shot him a smile that was genuine, radiant, completely unhinged from reality.
## Six Months Later
The kitchen filled with the rich aroma of garlic and herbs as Susan stirred the risotto, wooden spoon moving in slow, meditative circles. Steam rose from the pan, curling upward to caress her bare shoulders before dissipating into the air. The apron strings tied beneath the prominent swell of her belly - five months along now, unmistakable.
She hummed contentedly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her swollen breasts pressed against the apron's bib, nipples sensitive against the cotton fabric. Everything else remained bare: her ass, her legs, her back where fresh ink proclaimed ownership:
MARCUS
She'd been thrilled to prove her devotion by burning his name into her skin, and the thought still made her smile that anyone who saw it would know immediately who she belonged to.
Her free hand drifted unconsciously to her rounded belly, fingers brushing across the taut skin. The baby kicked, a strong and insistent flutter against her palm. His baby. Growing inside her, another permanent mark of ownership that made the tattoo seem almost quaint by comparison.
Brian didn't know yet. He called every week from the rig, and Susan listened to him talk about work, about the guys he'd met, about how much money he was saving. She made appropriate motherly sounds and never mentioned that she'd moved in with his former classmate. That she was carrying his half-sibling. That she spent her days cooking and cleaning and spreading her legs whenever Marcus wanted.
The apron shifted as she moved, the fabric brushing against her nipples. Her body had become a landscape of constant arousal since the pregnancy - hormones amplifying everything the oil had already rewired. She was perpetually wet, perpetually ready, her pussy aching with need that Marcus satisfied regularly and thoroughly.
He'd been so careful with her as she'd started to show. Adjusting positions, being mindful of her changing body, ensuring every touch brought pleasure instead of discomfort. The tenderness mixed with possession in a way that made her chest tight with emotion she had no words for.
The baby kicked again, stronger this time. Susan paused, both hands cradling her stomach, a smile spreading across her face. It was a genuine, radiant smile, one that belonged to a woman who'd finally found her purpose and her place. This was happiness. This was home.
It was everything she'd never known she needed.
