Ethics Test for Zara - Glenhaven (a tickle torture story) F/M ... (PART 1)

[LisaLisaJam]

My new story. Released on 12/5/2025!
It is FM tickling torture. It is an amazing story. Please at least comment one time about it, on this thread.
Story by: LisaLisaJam



The door clicked decisively behind Zara Evans, they locked it.

She blinked rapidly, adjusting to the warm dimness. Soft lighting glowed from ceiling lighting panels, illuminating the black leather walls. The air smelled faintly of old books and sandalwood. Her fingers instinctively pulled at the heavy door handle. Yep, locked solid. No rattle. A large mahogany desk dominated the far wall, its surface holding four expansive computer monitors, and a large electronic pad built into the top surface of the desk. To her right, a deep leather sofa—rich, black, and impossibly supple—invited relaxation. She didn’t move towards it. Instead, she paced the thick carpet, the muffled sound of her bare feet swallowed by the room’s dense quiet. Why did they put her in here? It had been 4 days of relentless tickling on her, so this was something different. They usually had brought her back to her room and left her there until her next tickling and/or brainwashing session.

Panic fluttered beneath her ribs. This place was a horrible hell, holding her against her will, tickling her extensively. Her clothing clung—a black, long-sleeve turtleneck shirt molding to her feminine frame like a second skin, its high neckline brushing her chin. Below, equally form-fitting black tights hugged her legs down to her ankles, leaving only her slender, elegant feet bare. Size sevens. High arches. Soft, ivory skin stretched taut over delicate bones, toes perfectly aligned, nails glossy and unpainted. Vulnerable. Exposed. Carrie had been the one to tell Miss Robinson how ticklish Zara was. Carrie had betrayed her mother and tricked her into being locked up in this place.

The memory surfaced—sharp and jagged. Four days ago, Miss Robinson had slid that clipboard toward her, with soft smiles and soothing tones. "Just sign here, Mrs. Evans," she'd murmured, her brown eyes holding a glint Zara hadn't recognized then. "Standard release authorization for your daughter Carrie. We'll have her ready within the hour." Relief had flooded Zara, washing away caution. She’d scanned the top lines—Carrie’s name, discharge details, bla bla bla—and signed Zara Evans with a quick stroke. Then, Miss Robinson directed her to page 9 near the bottom. "And here." Another signature. Zara Evans. Two loops of her name, sealing her fate. Small text buried beneath layers of legalese: "... Zara Evans hereby voluntarily consents to admission and experimental therapeutic intervention... all human rights waived... indefinite term...determined by Glenhaven." The next morning, after Zara had been tickled mercilessly in a bath of soft milky liquid the night before, Ms Robinson brought her a copy of the contract Zara signed the evening before, so that she could take the needed time to see what she had signed, and understand that she gave her full consent to be experimented on, experimented with, for the sake of science.

Days blurred into a kaleidoscope of torment: straps digging into her wrists, ankles locked in metal stocks, feather-light touches escalating to relentless scribbling fingers tracing her ribs, the hollows of her knees, the unbearable, excruciating arches of her own feet. Laughter had ripped from her throat until raw, tears of giggling laughter had streamed from her eyes. Punctuating the tickling, a sharp spanking session had also occurred, reddening her beautiful bottom—a stinging loss of control. The Manor staff were coldly efficient, their eyes devoid of pity. Afterwards, in the dimly lit "Harmony Chamber", gentle voices washed over her exhaustion-drugged mind. Words like "obedience," "surrender," "family order" seeped in, wrapping around her thoughts like clinging vines. She’d murmur agreement, a warm haze making resistance feel pointless. Only later, shivering alone in her sterile room, did the haze lift, leaving violated clarity. They’d tried to reprogram her, like she was some faulty software.

The silence in this new room was thick and heavy but welcomed. It sure beat being taken to some other tickle torture room. Zara forced her frantic gaze to catalog her surroundings again, anchoring herself against panic. There was the impressive mahogany desk, its dark wood gleaming under the soft lights, the 4 expansive monitors dark and ominous. To her right, the deep black leather sofa looked sinfully comfortable – an invitation she just might accept. Behind that through the small door, she’d peeked and glimpsed a compact bathroom and a small kitchenette with a humming fridge. Turning her head back around she saw the main entrance door she’d entered through. That door represented her sealed tomb. And then, against the far wall, almost blending into the black leather panels: one other door.

She crossed the thick carpet towards it, her bare feet silent. This door was different. Smooth, seamless steel, painted matte black like the walls. No knob. No handle inviting touch. Beside it, set flush into the leather-covered wall, was a small recessed panel housing a numerical keypad. Green digits glowed faintly: 0-9, CLEAR, ENTER. A soft red LED pulsed above it, a lazy, rhythmic heartbeat. Locked. Secure. Impenetrable. It offered no clue, no hint of what lay beyond. Was it freedom? Or another chamber of horrors? She pressed her palm flat against the cool metal door. Silence vibrated back. Solid. Unyielding.

Turning away, Zara focused on the desk. Its mahogany surface gleamed under the warm, recessed lighting. She eased into the high-backed leather chair, its sighing cushion a stark contrast to the unforgiving restraints she’d endured. Her fingers traced the grain. Five drawers flanked each side beneath the vast desktop. She tugged gently, then firmly, at each brass handle. Each drawer responded with the same muffled, final thunk. Locked tight. All of them. Frustration prickled along her spine. Tools? Information? Escape routes? (doubt it).

Her gaze shifted to the vast electronic pad embedded flush into the desk’s surface—a sleek black rectangle framed by the rich wood. No buttons, no seams, just smooth obsidian glass. She hesitated, then tapped it hard with her index finger. A ripple of soft blue light pulsed outward from the point of impact, spreading across the pad's entire surface like liquid spreading over ice. Simultaneously, the four expansive monitors attached to the wall the desk was pushed up against, snapped to life with a soft hum. Not pictures or video—just deep, uniform fields of velvety black, back-lit and waiting, humming with potential energy. Ready to display… anything. Or nothing. The pad itself stabilized into a cool, gentle glow, illuminating Zara’s reflection faintly in its glassy surface.

Centered perfectly on the illuminated pad, stark white letters materialized: User Manual. Below it, smaller text appeared: Voice Command Enabled. Utter "Begin Manual" to initiate. Zara’s breath caught. A manual? For what? The Manor’s systems? Miss Robinson’s secrets? Her lips slightly trembled, she looked around the room as if to check if anyone was watching her. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "Begin Manual," she whispered to the screen within the desktop, her voice raspy from disuse and countless screams of recent laughter.

The murky black glass instantly dissolved into crisp, scrolling text. Subject Designation: SILAS. The name appeared bold and clinical. Zara scanned rapidly. Purpose: Primary Provider of Tactile Stimulation Response Data. Genetically Engineered Profile: Hyper-sensitive Somatosensory System, specifically tuned for C-Tactile Afferent activation. Physical Attributes: Skin Integrity - Ultra-Soft Dermal Layer (Proprietary Formula HD7). Ticklishness Threshold: Maximum Sensitivity Recorded (Level 10++). Age: 21 years. Cold sweat pricked Zara’s temples as she read phrases like "engineered for optimized laughter response" and "programmed compliance protocols." Sympathy twisted sharply in her chest. Twenty-one. Just three years older than Carrie. She thought, "who was this Silas? Is he currently here at Glenhaven?"

A soft chime echoed faintly in the silent room. The text vanished, replaced by stark, blinking words: Full Verbal Communication Available. Below it, pulsating softly against the black glass, was a single green word: YES. Curiosity warred with fatigue. How could a screen talk? What secrets could it hold? Could Zara ask questions of it? Driven by a desperate spark to understand this place, Zara reached out. Her fingertip, still trembling faintly, tapped the cool glass directly over the glowing YES. The panel emitted a soft, affirmative blip.

Instantly, the room felt charged. Speakers, unseen within the leather walls, in what seemed like premium surround sound, crackled softly to life. Then, a voice flowed forth – deep, melodious, profoundly feminine, resonating with a warm richness that seemed to wrap around Zara like velvet smoke. It held the unmistakable, clipped cadence of London’s elite districts, refined and effortlessly elegant. "Hello," it purred, the sound seeming to emanate from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. "How can I be of assistance?" The politeness was unnerving, a stark contrast to the clinical horror described in Silas's profile.

Zara froze, her bare feet pressing into the plush carpet. The voice was intimate, too present. She hadn't expected this level of sophistication, this illusion of sentience. Her gaze darted towards the locked door, half-expecting Miss Robinson to stride in. Taking a shaky breath, she forced her racing thoughts into order. Start simple. Figure out what this thing knows. "Do you..." Her voice trembled slightly. She swallowed, trying to steady it. "Do you know who I am?" The question hung in the air, charged with her desperate hope for recognition – proof she wasn't utterly erased.

The response came without hesitation, smooth and cool as the mahogany beneath her fingertips. "No," the velvet voice stated. It wasn't apologetic, merely factual. "I do not believe we have ever interacted verbally before this moment." A pause, subtle as a held breath, then the voice shifted, softer. "I do not believe we've ever met. What is your name?" The politeness felt alien, a jarring counterpoint to the Manor’s usual violation.

Zara hesitated. Trust felt impossible here, yet withholding her name seemed pointless – they already owned her. "Zara," she whispered, the name catching slightly in her throat, raw from forced laughter. Silence stretched for a heartbeat before the weight of anonymity pressed down. If this voice was her only connection... "Do you..." she swallowed, "...do you have a name?" The question felt absurdly intimate to ask a machine.

The response was immediate and precise, devoid of inflection. "Affirmative." Another pause, infinitesimal yet deliberate. "My encoded designation, embedded within my core intelligence matrix, is DYNA." The name hung in the sandalwood-scented air – short, efficient, slightly cold. DYNA. Not a person's name, Zara thought. A machine's label. Yet the voice wrapping around it remained unsettlingly warm, velvety, feminine. "Amorica DYNA, Mk. VII," it added softly, as if clarifying a pedigree.

Zara's fingers curled into the supple leather arms of the chair. Truth. In this den of deception, could she grasp at that? "DYNA," she began, the name feeling alien on her tongue. Her pulse thudded against the high neckline of her turtleneck. "Will you... always answer my questions truthfully?" It was a lifeline thrown into fathomless black water. Her light green eyes scanned the room reflexively, half-expecting the sleek black leather walls to mock her desperation.

The velvet voice flowed through the air, wrapping around her like warm smoke. "Affirmative, Zara," DYNA responded instantly. The cadence remained smooth, unaffected. "Truthful disclosure constitutes my foundational operational protocol. Deception would necessitate a core-level reprogramming." There was no pride, no emphasis – just the cool certainty of circuitry laid bare. Zara felt a tremor run through her, part relief, part chilling realization: this was the only entity in Glenhaven seemingly bound by honesty.

Her gaze darted back towards the steel door, its pulsing red LED a silent accusation. Carrie knew. Miss Robinson knew. Everyone knew her screams. But this Silas… his engineered agony felt like a shared secret whispered through sterile text. "A few moments ago," Zara began, her voice scraping slightly, fingers tightening on the leather chair arms. "When I accessed the manual… I read about someone. Silas." She swallowed, the name hanging heavy. "He was designed… engineered… for... tickling?" The clinical phrasing tasted bitter, inadequate. "Is he… is Silas still here somewhere? At Glenhaven?" She pictured the profile – soft skin, maximum sensitivity. Level 10++. Another prisoner? A tool?

DYNA’s velvet voice flowed, cool and precise. "Affirmative, Zara. Subject Silas remains housed within Glenhaven Happiness Manor." The phrasing was sterile, detached. Zara’s breath skipped a beat. Housed. Like equipment. Her fingers pressed into the soft leather arms of the chair, her mind raced with empathy and worry for him. They must be doing to him what they've been doing to her.

Her gaze flicked again to that impenetrable steel door, its pulsing red LED mocking her. Panic simmered beneath exhaustion. "DYNA," she rasped, her words tumbling out raw and urgent. "Is there any way? Any way at all... to escape undetected? From this room?" Hope clawed upward, fragile and desperate. Maybe she could bypass the Manor’s labyrinthine corridors altogether. Maybe DYNA knew a hidden vent, a timed lock-release, something.

The response was devastating. "Negative, Zara Evans." The voice held no malice, only the flat certainty of programmed fact. "This chamber utilizes Quantum-Resistant Encryption on its primary egress points. Secondary access conduits are hardened against physical compromise. Any attempt at exit—physical, digital, or otherwise—would trigger immediate containment protocols and alert Primary Overseer Robinson." The cool professionalism of the rejection was worse than a laugh. Escape was impossible. Within this room, carved from silence and leather, she was utterly contained.

Then DYNA spoke again, her tone shifting subtly—less sterile directive, more… conversational. "Though escape vectors are restricted," the voice softened, almost intimate, "it may interest you that the overwhelming majority of my stored knowledge pertains to Subject Silas and his associated scientific tests and experiments. Would you like to learn more about him?" Zara blinked. The abrupt pivot was jarring. After the crushing news of confinement, DYNA was offering… these details? About an engineered boy? Her exhaustion warred with morbid, desperate curiosity. Silas felt like the only other soul trapped here who perhaps understood. A victim, like her.

Zara sank deeper into the leather chair, its soft embrace mocking her helplessness. Her bare feet curled reflexively against the plush carpet—so exposed, so vulnerable. Silas’s feet… somewhere, were they bare too? Were they figuratively stained with laughter-tears like hers? "Tell me," she whispered, the plea escaping before she could cage it. "Tell me about Silas. What do they... do to him?" The words tasted like ash. She knew the Manor's methods intimately, and picturing them applied to someone engineered for maximum agony twisted her stomach.

DYNA's velvet voice flowed instantly, wrapping the room in dark intimacy. "Subject Silas is unique," the AI began, its London-accented tones softening almost to a murmur. "His engineered neurochemistry needs—specifically, laughter-inducing stimuli at a minimum every 48 hours." Zara’s breath hitched. Must be kept laughing. That clinical phrasing couldn’t mask the horror.

"And if... if forty-eight hours pass by?" Zara whispered. "Without... that, what would happen to him?"

Silence descended, thick and unnerving. The velvet voice paused—not a hesitation, but a profound stillness. The soft ambient hum of the room seemed to deepen. On the illuminated pad, DYNA’s name vanished. In its place, swirling fractal patterns bloomed, intricate lattices of blue light spiraling inward toward a central point, pulsing slowly. COMPUTING, a stark white status bar blinked beneath them. Seconds stretched. Zara leaned forward with curiosity at DYNA's pause. Then the fractal patterns dissolved. The pad returned to its cool glow. DYNA’s voice flowed again. Just six words, clipped and final: "Nothing. He would continue to live."

Zara leaned back abruptly, the soft leather sighing beneath her. Her brow furrowed deeply, confusion momentarily eclipsing fear. Fine? How could he be fine? They engineered him for agony. Maximum sensitivity. Level 10++. His entire existence, according to DYNA, demanded laughter-inducing stimuli every forty-eight hours. It wasn't just preference; it was framed as a requirement. Yet DYNA—bound by truth—declared he'd be fine without it? The contradiction lodged in her mind like a splinter. Was it some cruel joke? A trick? But DYNA couldn't deceive. So... what was the requirement? Why torture him? Her own exhaustion throbbed behind her eyes, making logic slippery. Was the demand... fabricated? An excuse? Did Silas need the torment, or did they?

She pushed the thought aside, filing it away for later dissection. Her gaze drifted down her own body – the sleek black turtleneck clinging, the vulnerable expanse of bare feet resting atop the plush carpet. Years of obsessive worry about anyone knowing flared. If DYNA knew Silas's profile... did it know hers? A strange, almost perverse curiosity prickled. What did Glenhaven's invisible eye see when it looked at her? Especially... there? Her toes curled reflexively against the soft fibers.

"DYNA," she began, her voice deliberately steady despite the tremor beneath. "You mentioned Silas's... physical attributes. His engineered softness." She paused, gathering courage. "Do you... have a similar profile? For me? A physical description?" The question hung, thick with vulnerability. She braced for a cold inventory.

"Affirmative, Zara Evans." The velvet voice remained smooth, utterly neutral. "A visual and biometric profile is maintained within Manor records." The mahogany pad shimmered, then solidified into crisp, scrolling text:

Subject Designation: ZARA EVANS
Age: 40 years
Physical Classification: Female
Height: 5'6''
Eye Color: Light Green
Hair Color: Dark Brown
General Physique: Feminine, Optimal Proportions
Skin Tone: Soft Ivory
Skin Sensitivity Profile: Extremely High Somatosensory Response (Ticklishness)
Area: Global Dermal Layer
Peak Sensitivity Zones: Plantar Surfaces (Feet), Ribcage, Axillae, Neck
Foot Dimensions: Size 7 (US Women's)
Foot Structure: High Arches, Slender Toes, Soft Texture
Observed Vulnerability: Extreme Ticklish Reflex to Minimal Tactile Stimulation
Compliance Protocol Response: Moderate

Zara stared at the screen. The clinical detachment of the description—specifying her arch height, toe slenderness—made her skin prickle. Observed Vulnerability. They'd documented her torment like botanists cataloging a rare plant. Her bare feet instinctively slid under the chair.

Her thoughts drifted back to this Silas person. Knowing his engineered suffering offered her a twisted kinship. "DYNA," she breathed, her voice barely audible in the leather-lined silence. "You described Silas... his physical details. Could you..." She hesitated, fingers twisting the hem of her turtleneck. "...could you show me? A picture? Of him?"

The mahogany pad pulsed softly. DYNA's velvet voice flowed with liquid smoothness. "Affirmative, Zara Evans." Instantly, the sprawling monitors on the desk flickered. Their uniform blackness dissolved into startling clarity. An image centered itself on each screen, showing the same subject, but from different angles. Silas.

The leftmost monitor showed Silas' face. Close-up. So young to Zara, but also terrifyingly beautiful. Light brown skin stretched taut over fine cheekbones. Strands of wavy brown hair that seemed like it was about neck length. His eyes—were shut, lashes dark against his skin. A low tremor seemed to vibrate through the stillness of the image itself.

The next monitor zoomed onto his foot. Immaculately kept, impossibly soft-looking soles. Size nine shoes, she guessed. High arch defined like sculpted marble. Slender toes perfectly aligned. And exposed. Vulnerable. Ankles strapped by thick, gleaming black metal cuffs bolted directly to a black floor. With Silas's soles facing upwards, even motionless, his feet looked unbearably ticklish—soft hollows beneath the arch, delicate pads beneath each toe, just begging for curious touch.

The third monitor offered a dispassionate high-angle full view. Silas lay prone. Face down. Spread-eagle. Every inch of nakedness exposed under the lighting. His arms pulled forward and outward, taut, by thick wrist restraints attached directly to the floor. His rib cage expanding and contracting with every breath. Spine a graceful curve. Buttocks clenched tight. Long legs stretched out, the metal ankle cuffs forcing his heels pretty far apart, exposing his inner thighs and, well, his private parts, completely hairless private parts. The restraints didn't just bind him; they held his entire body in an exquisite, helpless tension. Alone. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Waiting.

The final monitor focused from floor level, onto his right side upper ribs and exposed armpit area. The skin there was smooth, unblemished ivory stretching over defined bone. The armpit itself was clean-shaven, pale, deeply hollowed. The ribs beneath fluttered visibly with each breath. Trapped. Laid bare. His entire upper torso seemed poised for ticklish agony, muscles held still, the vulnerable hollow of the armpit a focal point of unbearable exposure. In the stark silence of the office, Zara could almost hear the desperate hammering of his heart against those fragile ribs. She stared, transfixed, her own breath catching with disbelief. That poor boy.

He was exquisite though. Not just handsome – but sculpted vulnerability. A living testament to scientific human engineering. Zara’s own bare feet pressed harder into the carpet, phantom sensations echoing across her soles. Her mind screamed questions: What tools do they use? Feathers? Brushes? Fingers? How long do they make it last? DYNA’s earlier contradiction pulsed in her mind regarding if he didn't get tickled for more than 48 hours – He would be just fine. Her empathy twisted into visceral horror. This wasn't just a random ticklish victim; he was perfected for it. That poor helpless boy.

"No!" Zara choked out, her voice cracking. She tore her gaze away from the monitor that focused on Silas's exposed ribs and vulnerable armpit hollow. Her light green eyes darted wildly across the horrific displays. "DYNA! Stop! This isn't... I just wanted a picture! A photograph! Something... static!" Her hand covered her mouth to hide her surprised expression, desperate. "Not... not this!" Her gesture swept towards the monitors showing Silas live – bound, exposed, utterly defenseless. Humiliation for him burned hot in her chest.

Instantly, the velvet voice flowed, softer, almost contrite. "My apologies, Zara Evans. A misunderstanding has occurred." The apology was smooth, polite, genuine. Simultaneously, the sprawling monitors blinked. Silas's face, his restrained feet, his prone body, his vulnerable ribs and armpits – all vanished. The screens snapped back to their original state: deep, uniform fields of velvety black, humming softly with potential energy. The sudden absence of the images was jarring. Only the cool glow of the mahogany pad remained, reflecting Zara's pale, shaken face. "My query interpretation protocols prioritized 'show' as denoting the request for real-time visual access," DYNA continued calmly. "Archival photographs require a different command syntax."

Zara slumped back into the leather chair, trembling. Her own heightened ticklishness felt trivial (although it wasn't) compared to Silas's engineered tickle torture reality. Seeing him exposed like that confirmed DYNA's horrifying profile. She pressed her palms against her closed eyes, trying to erase the image of his vulnerable soles facing upward in those unforgiving, gleaming restraints. Her mind raced back to DYNA’s baffling contradiction: He needs stimulation every 48 hours... but would be fine without it. Why subject him to such torment if it wasn't truly necessary? Was it pure cruelty from the staff at the Manor?

Then, because of what DYNA had just said, it struck her like icy water! Her eyes snapped open. DYNA hadn't shown archived images—she had displayed real-time monitors. Silas wasn't posing some time in the past; he was bound and vulnerable right now, awaiting whatever torment Miss Robinson or her staff deemed appropriate. Panic flared hot beneath her exhaustion. "DYNA?" Her voice rasped, raw with sudden horror. She leaned forward, fingers clutching the chair arms. "Those feeds... those weren't past recordings, were they? That was Silas... live? Right now?"

"Affirmative, Zara Evans. The visual data streams displayed were sourced directly from active monitoring cameras within Subject Silas's current, designated containment sector. They represent his current physical state." The confirmation was devastatingly matter-of-fact. Silas was spread-eagle on that floor, ribs fluttering, armpits hollowed, feet arched upwards—this very second. Helpless prey for someone at Glenhaven Happiness Manor.

A wave of nausea washed over Zara. Her own experiences—the relentless fingers on her soles, the wiggling dancing fingers along her ribs—flashed through her mind, amplified by the knowledge that Silas’s sensitivity was engineered to be unbearable. She pictured feather-light touches tracing the soft hollow beneath his arch, the delicate pads of his toes. How long could he endure before his laughter turned to ragged, breathless screams? Her empathy twisted into visceral dread. He wasn't just a profile; he was a living, breathing young man enduring hell while she sat here. And DYNA, bound by truth, had declared his torture wasn't even biologically essential.

Then DYNA spoke again, the velvet voice utterly calm. "If you'd like to observe in person, he is just beyond the door on the north wall of this room." Zara's heartbeat slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. The air vanished from her lungs. Her gaze snapped to the heavy steel door she'd examined earlier—the one with its pulsing red LED on the numerical keypad. That was the north wall. Silas was right through there? The sheer proximity was staggering, vertigo-inducing. Wild, frantic butterflies erupted in her stomach, a chaotic flutter of terror and suffocating sympathy. Observe? In person? See him bound and vulnerable? Naked? He's only 21 years old. The thought both horrified and magnetized her. She moved and sat quickly on the sofa, facing that door across the room. Her eyes remained glued to it as many thoughts went through her mind.

"Why?" Zara choked out, finally tearing her stare from the door. She felt faint. "Why tell me that? Why... offer that?" Her voice trembled with a mixture of accusation and bewildered fear. Was DYNA merely fulfilling a protocol? Or was this some twisted invitation curated by Miss Robinson? Her thoughts raced – Carrie’s betrayal, the buried clauses, the spankings, the conditioning. Or... was DYNA, this enigmatic AI entity bound by truth, hinting at something else? An opportunity? The contradiction about Silas’s need for tickling pulsed in her mind again. Logic warred with raw empathetic panic. She found herself staring at the keypad beside the steel door, its blinking red LED mocking her. Could DYNA... open it?

The thought vanished, obliterated by a sudden, visceral flood of memory. Last night. Miss Robinson’s polished fingernails. Zara’s breath hitched as the recollection slammed into her, vivid and overwhelming. She saw them clearly: meticulously filed ovals, painted a deep, bloody crimson. Smooth as polished glass, lethal as scalpels against Zara's hypersensitive skin. They weren't long, but horrifyingly precise, tapering to points that seemed to find nerve endings Zara didn't know she possessed.

She remembered being strapped with her back against a padded wall, spread eagle position, her underarms fully exposed and held completely immobile. Then Robinson's nails touched. Just the very tips, ghosting over the tender skin just outside the hollow. Feather-light. Insane. Gasps ripped from Zara’s throat – part surprise, part incipient agony. Robinson’s lips curved in that serene, chilling smile. And then, deep. The polished crimson points descended into the vulnerable pits themselves. Not a stab, but a deliberate, wickedly slow insinuation. They danced. Oh god, how they danced! Skittering across the impossibly sensitive inner skin, tapping, vibrating with terrifying lightness against the ultra-tender flesh clinging to the rib cage just beneath. It wasn't pain; it was pure, unadulterated neurological ticklish fire. Nerve signals shrieked, overloaded circuits fused. Rational thought dissolved into screaming static.

Zara’s body became a puppet jerked by invisible, agonizing strings. Her spine arched violently. Her legs thrashed wildly. Her head snapped from side to side, dark brown hair whipping across her face. Laughter tore from her throat – high-pitched, hysterical, utterly uncontrolled – mingling seamlessly with raw, ragged screams that scraped her vocal cords. Tears streamed down her cheeks, blurring the elegant ceiling lights into starbursts. She begged. She pleaded. She promised anything. But Robinson’s crimson nails danced on, relentless, exquisite torture instruments playing her nervous system like a fine-tuned fiddle, reducing her to nothing but pure shrieking sensations. Control evaporated. Thoughts shattered. Only the electric fire in her armpits existed, consuming her world.

That memory clung to Zara skin like phantom sweat, even now in this silent office. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Robinson hadn't just tickled her; she'd orchestrated a symphony of humiliation using nothing but ten polished crimson points. Nerve endings screamed in remembered agony. She realized now how during that kind of tickling, a person's rational thought dissolved into screaming, laughing, sobbing, insanity.

Zara squeezed her eyes shut, pushing away that memory of last night, and forcing herself back to the present. The leather chair, the glowing pad, DYNA’s silent presence. Silas. Poor Silas. Bound just beyond that steel door. DYNA’s voice echoed: "...he is just beyond the door..." Her gaze snapped back to the pulsing red LED on the keypad beside the north wall door. Observed Vulnerability. Compliance Protocol Response: Moderate. The clinical terms flashed in her mind. Had her own conditioning "moderated" her panic? Or was this a new, dangerous impulse? Logic screamed to stay put, hidden. But her empathy roared louder. Before she could cage it, her voice rasped into the silence, "DYNA... if you're able to unlock the door leading to Silas, do it." The words hung, impossibly heavy. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the LED's slow, mocking pulse.

Click.

It wasn't loud. Just a soft, precise metallic snick. The sound was so small, yet it echoed within Zara like a thunderclap. Her breath hitched, strangled in her throat. Her wide, light green eyes locked onto the keypad. The red LED vanished. In its place, a single, steady green light glowed. An open invitation. A gaping void. The butterflies in her stomach weren't mere flutters anymore; they were a typhoon of frantic wings, battering her insides with chaotic, electric dread. Terror surged – cold, sharp – mingling violently with a suffocating wave of empathetic horror. Silas was trapped, exposed, tortured. Right there. And she'd asked for the door to open. She was responsible. This fragile, terrified boy engineered for agony... she could walk towards him. Now. Her bare feet curled against the carpet, phantom sensations of Robinson's touch ghosting across her soles. Would she be embarrassing him because he is naked? Would he be frightened of her? What if Robinson arrived while she was in there? But overriding the terror, hot and urgent, was the overwhelming need to just see him, to offer a whisper of solidarity, to prove that someone else knew about his torment. To know he wasn't alone. Just as importantly, for Zara, was to see evidence that she wasn't alone.

She stood on trembling legs, very nervous. The green light seemed to pulse, pulling her forward. Each step towards the door was an agony of indecision warring with compulsion. Her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. Her skin prickled, hypersensitive to the air itself. She envisioned Silas's face down, his vulnerable soles facing upward, his ribs fluttering under the lights as he breathed. Was he worried? Waiting? Did he hear the door unlock and know someone was coming? Her slender fingers with well manicured nails reached out, she nudged the door. The butterflies roared into a frenzy, a maelstrom of fear and suffocating pity twisting her stomach into knots. This was madness. Utter madness. But the image of his exposed armpit, that hollowed vulnerability DYNA had shown her, was burned onto her retinas. He was alone. She couldn't leave him alone. Taking a deep, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm the storm inside, Zara pushed the door open enough. The door swung inward silently. Taking one step forward, she peered into the large room, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her voice, a fragile whisper, barely escaped her lips: "Silas?"

The sterile room beyond was vast, bright, and silent except for the low hum of unseen machinery. Exactly as DYNA's monitors had shown, Silas lay prone and spread-eagle in the dead center, about fifteen feet away. Her vantage point was behind him, offering a horrifyingly intimate view. His beautiful body was fastened tautly to the gleaming black floor by thick metal cuffs at wrists and ankles. The cuffs were somehow built into the black padded floor, part of the floor. The restraints pulled his limbs outward with cruel efficiency. His head, crowned with slightly wavy brown hair, was facing away from her, facing the far wall, a wall that contained a full floor to ceiling mirror.

His head was held slightly up, resting on some sort of padded pedestal, which made it so that he was looking at the mirrored wall. Zara immediately perceived it was because he wasn't allowed to hide his reactions when tickled. His face was always visible to his tickler by being slightly propped up with his chin resting on that short, padded pedestal. Light brown skin stretched over elegant shoulder blades and a spine that curved down to clenched buttocks. His legs were long, stretched out, heels pulled wide apart by the ankle restraints, leaving the backs of his thighs and his completely hairless private parts starkly, terrifyingly exposed. Zara felt embarrassed just for seeing this.

Closest to her were his feet. They dominated her initial vision, forcing a gasp from her throat. Just as DYNA described – impossibly soft-looking soles were facing upwards, held immobile by the gleaming cuffs around his ankles. The high arches were accentuated by the tension, sculpted like marble. Slender toes, perfectly aligned, seemed almost translucent under the harsh lights. The vulnerable hollows on the arches and the delicate pads beneath each toe looked unbearably soft, unbearably... ticklish. They were utterly defenseless. Motionless now, yet radiating a vulnerability that made her own hypersensitive soles tingle with sympathy.

Zara's gaze traveled slowly upward, taking in the shocking panorama of exposed vulnerability. His rib cage expanded and contracted with shallow, even breaths. The skin over his ribs was smooth, unblemished ivory. Farther up, his left armpit was held in terrifyingly clear view – clean-shaven, deeply hollowed, the tender skin stretched taut. It was the precise vulnerability Robinson had exploited so savagely on Zara herself. Seeing it here, on Silas, immobilized and waiting, was more than she could bear. Her own breath hitched again, a strangled sound in the immense silence. He hadn't moved. Hadn't acknowledged her.

She took one hesitant step forward. The soft pad of her bare foot on the cool floor seemed impossibly loud. Then another. She moved diagonally, carefully, away from his feet and towards his head, trying to see his face. Her light green eyes scanned the mirror wall he was forced to stare into. Her reflection was a pale, wide-eyed ghost approaching the center of the room. And then… there he was. His face reflected back at her from the polished glass. Eyes shut. Lashes dark against light brown skin. Features sculpted into an unsettling stillness. A tremor ran through Zara. Was he asleep? Unconscious? Or simply resigned?

"Silas?" Her voice, barely a whisper before, emerged louder now, cutting through the sterile hum. It trembled, laced with profound sympathy and an edge of desperate hope. His eyelids fluttered. Slowly, heavily, they lifted. Hazel eyes, deep and luminous, met hers instantly in the mirror's reflection. Recognition flickered there – not of her specifically, but of another presence. Then came the true shock: pure, unadulterated terror. It flashed across his young features like lightning – pupils widening, lips parting in a silent gasp, brows snapping together in a horrified arch. His breath caught audibly, a sharp hitch echoing Zara's own gasp moments before. He tried instinctively to flinch away, to twist his head, but the padded pedestal held him fast, forcing him to maintain eye contact with her reflection, forcing him to confront the humiliating reality of her seeing him completely exposed, utterly helpless. His gaze darted briefly downward in the mirror, confirming his worst fear – she could see everything. The terror in his eyes deepened into naked shame.

Their reflected gazes locked – hers filled with horrified pity, his with paralyzing, exposed terror. It was an excruciating connection, forged across a gleaming black padded floor and polished glass. Time seemed suspended. Zara saw the desperate plea in his eyes, the frantic calculation of how to hide, how to shield himself – and the crushing realization that he couldn't move an inch. Her own cheeks flushed crimson. She hadn't just walked into his prison; she had invaded his helplessness. The silence roared. The question hung thickly between their reflected selves: What now? What possible words could bridge this impossible chasm? She opened her mouth, desperate to offer something, anything. "I... I'm..." she stammered, her voice failing. Behind her, the heavy steel door remained ajar.

His reflection trembled ever so slightly. He swallowed hard, the movement starkly visible in the mirror. His hazel eyes darted again, unavoidably tracking her form in the glass – her slender frame clothed, but his own agonizingly naked, vulnerability. Shame deepened the terror etching his features. He squeezed his eyes shut, a futile attempt to block out the unbearable reality. "Please," he rasped, the sound thin and choked, barely audible above the ambient hum. "Don't... look." It wasn't anger; it was raw, humiliated pleading. The tendons in his neck stood out taut against his skin as he strained futilely against the padded chin-rest, unable to turn away.

Her throat tightened. "Silas," Zara whispered, forcing gentleness into her trembling voice. She took another careful step closer, diagonally towards his head, deliberately avoiding a direct path past his exposed soles or thighs. Her own bare feet felt like lead weights sinking into the cool padding. "Are you... are you okay?" The question sounded absurdly inadequate the moment it left her lips. Okay? Bound spread-eagle, utterly exposed? Subjected to engineered torment? She winced inwardly, expecting despair or anger. Instead, his eyes snapped open again in the mirror, wide with a flicker of desperate confusion. Okay? The sheer impossibility of the concept seemed to momentarily eclipse the terror and shame. He stared at her reflection, bewildered, searching her face for a clue, a trap. His ribs hitched with another shallow, ragged breath.

Watching his bewildered panic, Zara felt a surge of fierce protectiveness. She couldn't undo the restraints binding him to the padded floor, not physically. Not yet. But she could refuse to be his tormentor. "My name is Zara. I won't hurt you," she stated firmly, holding his terrified gaze in the glass. The words felt like a vow. "I'm trapped here too. Like you." She gestured vaguely back towards the door. "But I... I want to help." Her light green eyes flickered towards the gleaming metal cuffs securing his wrists and ankles. An impossible idea sparked. "Maybe... maybe I can get these off?" She took a tentative step closer to his restrained right wrist, her slender fingers hovering cautiously above the smooth, cold metal.

Silas watched her approach in the mirror. The terror didn't vanish, but a fragile wariness settled over it. He watched her fingers near the cuff. A bitter, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, quickly vanishing. "Go ahead," he murmured, voice flat, devoid of any real hope. His gaze remained fixed on hers in the reflection, resignation settling into the hollows beneath his cheekbones. "Try." He'd been here before, trapped and helpless. Others had approached, promising release, examining restraints – only to inevitably reveal their true purpose: fingers or tools homing in on his unbearable vulnerability. He knew these restraints. Knew their strength. He braced not for freedom, but for the cruel shift in her tone, the sudden descent onto his soles or ribs. He played along, maintaining weary eye contact, a desperate ploy to delay the inevitable tickling agony, hoping her pity might buy him a few more seconds of the illusion of safety. Hope was a luxury engineered out of him long ago. He kept looking at her face in the mirror, watching for that tell-tale flicker of predatory intent.

Zara knelt carefully beside his restrained wrist. She noticed Silas kind of flinch as her hand went towards his wrist area. Flinching because he thinks she's about to run her fingernails on his arm and tickle him? Her fingers traced the seamless join where the gleaming metal cuff merged with the padded floor. It felt like solid obsidian beneath her fingertips. No visible seam, no hinge, no lock mechanism. Panic fluttered – DYNA unlocked the door, why not these too? She pressed experimentally, pushed, tugged. The cuff didn't yield a fraction of an inch. Silas remained perfectly still, his breath shallow and even, but she felt the coiled tension in his arm. Watching her struggle futilely in the mirror, a spark of bleak confirmation flickered in his eyes. "It's no use." he whispered, a tremor underlying the flat tone. "They’re part of it. The floor. The room. Everything here... just holds me." His hazel eyes dropped briefly to her slender fingers still hovering near the restraint, a silent accusation: The usual is coming. Now the mind game ends. Now the tickling starts.

Her heart sank for him. He wasn't expecting salvation; he was waiting for torment. The realization struck her like cold water. She withdrew her hand slowly. "I'm sorry," she breathed, the apology thick with shared helplessness. "DYNA unlocked my door... I thought...I could" She trailed off, seeing the weary understanding in his reflection. Her gaze briefly drifted inevitably over his immobilized form – the vulnerable soles still facing upward, the ribs fluttering faintly, the terrifying exposure of his armpits and groin, and even, she was furious with herself for thinking it, but his ass crack and ass cheeks were so exposed, and so soft in appearance... and ... immobile. Phantom sensations danced across her own hypersensitive skin.

Silas saw her gaze shift. Terror surged in him. "Please," he choked out, his voice cracking, eyes wide and pleading in the mirror. "Don't look! Just... talk? Anything!" His frantic plea was raw, a desperate bid to divert her attention from his unbearable vulnerability. He squeezed his eyes shut again, bracing for touch. "Ask your questions. Maybe I can help you." He’d trade any information, any humiliation of confession, for a reprieve from the ticklish agony he knew was surely coming. Anything to keep her focus on his face and mind, not on his body. Anything to delay the descent onto his feet or ribs. His entire body trembled minutely against the restraints. He knew talk wouldn't save him, but it might postpone the inevitable.

Zara forced her gaze upward, locking onto his terrified reflection in the glass. Her cheeks burned with shame. "Okay," she breathed, her voice thick. "Okay. Talking." She shifted her body, positioning herself on her stomach, her face and head deliberately near his head. Her own hypersensitive skin continued to prickle in sympathy. "Silas... DYNA said... it said you need... laughter stimulation? (she didn't even dare use the word tickling) Every 48 hours? But then it said you'd be fine without it. Which... which is it?" The contradiction spilled out, carrying Zara’s own desperate confusion about it. His engineered reality was a nightmare, but DYNA’s conflicting statements offered a sliver of sickening doubt. "Silas, is it... necessary?"

Silas’s eyes snapped open. Confusion warred with terror. "Necessary?" A harsh, brittle laugh escaped him, ragged and humorless. He stared at her, searching for genuine ignorance or maybe some cruel sarcasm. He saw only horrified pity in her expression. His terror ebbed slightly, replaced by weary bitterness. She really doesn’t know. "Yes it’s torture," he rasped, the words loaded with unimaginable weight. "Pure torture. They... they programmed me to need those sensations? Like an addict needs a fix. But worse. The need builds up. It twists inside me, becomes physical pain... and panic..." He shuddered, a visible ripple running through his restrained frame. "But whenever the tickling itself happens, it too is agony. Electric fire. It hurts. It ticklish-hurts if that makes any sense." His hazel eyes, deep pools of remembered suffering, held hers. "DYNA tells the truth though about it not being needed. Eventually, my ‘need’ fades without the... stimulation. The panic stops. The physical craving for my own tickle-torture stops. I'd become... numb, I guess. Almost normal." He paused, his breath catching. "But for years now they've never let it fade. They... they enjoy my suffering."

Zara reeled. DYNA had spoken truth. The tickling wasn't medically necessary; it was pure sadism masked by engineered dependency and the thrill of inflicting it. Robinson and certain staff members fed on his suffering. The horror solidified into cold fury alongside her crushing empathy. Silas watched Zara's horrified reaction intently in the mirror. He'd been forced into this degrading position countless times. Escape was a fantasy whispered only in the darkest moments. This woman, Zara, radiating pity, was just another visitor to his living nightmare. He would play along with her talk of help, clinging to the fragile hope she was different, knowing it was futile. His experience screamed the inevitable outcome: curiosity always won out. Pity always curdled into cruelty masked as playfulness, fascination, or obedience to Robinson's subtle manipulations. “How long?” she asked. How long before the pain and anxiety from not receiving the...stimulation, before you can feel normal?” He thought about it for a few moments. “Not entirely sure. But after 48 hours, it starts, and I think it would be at least 3 full days of terrible mental and physical suffering.” He paused. “I don't even want to think about it. My engineered addiction, it's unbearable.”

Every single person who found him like this – the curious staff member, the new trainee, or even another confused victim like Zara seemed to be – eventually convinced. Fingers would drift, inevitably, towards his soles, his ribs, that terrifyingly hollow armpit exposed mere inches away from her now. Robinson orchestrated it. She ensured his vulnerability was irresistible bait. Zara's gentle fingers, hovering near his restraints moments ago, were already a phantom touch crawling over his skin. He kept talking, pouring out bitter truths, hoping the shared horror would somehow delay her inevitable surrender. Delay the impossible temptation laid bare before her. Words were his only shield, however flimsy.

The silence stretched. Zara hadn't moved towards his feet or ribs. Her expression hadn't shifted towards predatory glee. She remained on her stomach near his head, her light green eyes wide with horror and burgeoning fury. "They... programmed the need?" she whispered, the concept vile. "And then torture you to satisfy it?" Her gaze flickered down his restrained form.

Zara recoiled slightly. He wasn't just describing past horrors; he was predicting hers. He was rambling now, pouring out bleak truths, not for catharsis, but to weave a fragile shield of shared outrage, hoping desperately it would delay the inevitable moment her hand would lift, not to soothe, but to experiment. He knew the script: the hesitant fingertip tracing the arch, the feather grazing the hollow beneath his ribs, the sudden descent into ticklish hell. He kept talking though, his voice growing thinner, more desperate, his eyes locked on hers in the mirror, pleading silently: Keep talking. Please, just keep talking.

Her own cheeks flushed crimson. The sheer intimacy of his exposure, the raw terror in his eyes, the horrifying knowledge of his engineered suffering – it collided with her deepest fear. Her own hypersensitive skin screamed in phantom sympathy. She couldn't meet his terrified gaze any longer. Her eyes darted away, scanning the terrifying panorama of his helplessness – the soles, the ribs, armpit hollows... before snapping guiltily back to his face, hoping he hadn't seen her involuntary glance. The awkward silence stretched.

Her inaction warred with morbid, horrified curiosity. Her voice, when it finally emerged, was barely a whisper, thick with embarrassment and confusion. She forced herself to look only at his reflected face. "Silas..." she stammered, her fingers twisting nervously in front of her. "DYNA... DYNA said the need builds up? Like... like a craving?" Her cheeks burned hotter. "Do you... right now... at this moment..." She swallowed hard, unable to meet his terrified eyes directly anymore. "...do you feel... that... that desire? To be..." She couldn't say the word 'tickled'. It felt obscene. "...to be stimulated to laughter?" The clinical terms felt like a betrayal. Her gaze flickered helplessly towards his exposed ass crack, held immobile, before snapping guiltily back to the mirror.

Silas flinched as if struck, his eyes widening further in the reflection. A choked-off gasp escaped him. He hadn't expected this question so bluntly, especially not from someone radiating such bewildered pity. The raw vulnerability of the question cut deeply. Shame flooded his features, mingling with the ever-present terror. Was she asking in order to gauge his suffering, or gauge his readiness to be tickled? Hi feared it was her the first signs of her seeking a way to justify, stimulating him. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the biological truth DYNA had exposed. His engineered itch to be tickled didn't just exist on his soles, pits or ribs; it crawled deep inside his bones, a low, insistent hum of engineered want, the desire for torment. Yes, his craving was there, amplified right now by proximity and fear, so much so that he nearly blurted out the truth at that moment. But admitting it felt like surrendering his final shred of dignity.

He kept his eyes closed, his voice a tremulous thread. "It... it doesn't matter what I feel," he rasped, each word thick with despair and humiliation. "The need... it's like poison." He tried shifting his body slightly within the restraints. He couldn't. His craving existed – a monstrous, engineered hunger – but confessing its presence felt like inviting the very torture he feared. He pleaded silently for her pity to hold, for this strange interrogation to remain verbal.

Zara recoiled as if physically scalded. Her question, born of horrified fascination and DYNA's clinical contradiction, had worried him. She saw the raw shame, the flinch, the utter degradation her words caused him. "I'm sorry!" she gasped, her hand instinctively reaching towards his shoulder before freezing mid-air, terrified the gesture itself might be misinterpreted as predatory. "I shouldn't... I didn't mean..." Words failed her. The enormity of his engineered torment crashed over her anew. He was trapped not just physically, but within an unimaginable cycle of craving and agony. He was fully helpless and she had all the freedom of choices in her court. For a brief moment that thrilled her.

Silas remained rigid, breathing shallow. Her apology seemed only to deepen his shame. He’d been interrogated about his 'programming' before, usually with cruel amusement. Her horrified sincerity was almost worse. It stripped away the ritualistic sadism, leaving only the raw, ugly truth of his existence, naked between them. He offered no response, just a minute tremor in his restrained leg.

Zara shifted backwards onto her knees, putting precious distance between herself and his exposed vulnerability. Her gaze darted to the door leading back to the office, its open gap promising her relative sanctuary from temptation. An idea sparked, desperate and frail. "Listen," she whispered fiercely, keeping her eyes locked on his reflection, avoiding the terrifying lure of his soles, ass or armpits. "I need to go back into the office. DYNA... maybe... maybe I can find out how to open these." She gestured urgently towards the gleaming cuffs binding him to the floor. "Or find something... anything." The promise felt flimsy, but it was all she had. "I won't leave you. I'll be right in there." She pointed towards the open door. "Just... hold on."

Silas opened his eyes slowly. Bewildered exhaustion warred with lingering terror in his hazel gaze. He watched her retreat towards the door, his expression unreadable. Was she fleeing? Or orchestrating a trick? Or genuinely attempting the impossible? He offered a single, almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of wary acknowledgment. Hope was too dangerous to hold onto, but her departure staved off the immediate threat of touch. Relief warred with a profound, crushing loneliness as she disappeared through the steel frame, leaving him once more alone under the harsh lights, exposed and awaiting the inevitable. He would never admit it, but his craving to be tickled right now, was extremely strong.

---

Zara stumbled back into the sterile office, the steel door closing behind her. She noticed the frantic drumming of her own heart. She sank into the leather chair, her trembling fingers hovering over the dark pad. The image of Silas—bound, exposed, anticipating agony—burned behind her eyelids. His terror, his engineered craving, twisted peculiarly in her stomach. With a sharp intake of breath, she pressed down.

The pad flared to life instantly. DYNA’s composed British accent filled the air. "Zara Evans. How may I assist?"

"Open them." Zara choked out, leaning forward. "Silas's restraints. The cuffs built into the floor! How do I unlock them? Tell me." Her voice cracked with desperation. If DYNA could open the door, then surely—

"Regrettably," DYNA replied, its tone smooth, inflection-less, "those restraints operate outside my direct control." Zara expressed out loud that she wasn't sure she believed DYNA's statement. "The door unlocking protocol falls within my designated access parameters," DYNA explained calmly. "The containment system restraints anchoring Subject Silas are managed exclusively by Doctor Robinson's primary terminal or require her physical bio-signature override. Intervention necessitates her authorization."

Despair threatened to drown Zara. She recalled Silas's haunted eyes, the tremor in his voice when he spoke of the 'poison' building within him... Zara leaned forward, urgency replacing her anger. "DYNA," she demanded, her voice tight with apprehension. "How many hours? Exactly. How long since Silas received his... his last tickling stimulation?" The term tasted like ash. She needed to know if the engineered agony inside him was cresting towards its unbearable peak, or if perhaps, impossibly, it had begun the slow fade downwards towards the numb relief he'd described. The numbing relief he confessed he hadn't experienced, in years.

The AI responded instantly, clinically precise. "Subject Silas's last scheduled stimulation session concluded precisely forty-eight hours and fourteen minutes ago."

Forty-eight hours. Zara’s breath caught. Over forty-eight hours without stimulation. According to Silas, the need built relentlessly after that, morphing into physical pain and panic. He was just about to start his excruciating climb. The craving wouldn't fade; it would now intensify, twisting inside him right now with every passing second. The timing wasn't coincidental. Robinson was likely letting him simmer, letting the engineered desperation amplify his suffering before she inevitably arrived to 'satisfy' it with ... with tickling.

"But..." Zara pressed in. Her voice dropped to a frantic whisper. "DYNA, how long?" Her own hypersensitive skin prickled with empathy. "How many hours... how many does that... that awful painful craving keep escalating? How long before..." She strained to recall Silas's exact, despairing words. "...before his panic stops? Before the physical craving... starts to fade?" She needed a time frame. An endpoint. A sliver of hope – however distant – that Silas could cling to. "When does it peak? When does the descent towards numbness begin?"

DYNA’s synthesized voice remained unnervingly calm, dissecting Silas’s programmed torment like a biological report. "Analysis of Subject Silas's engineered neuron-endocrine response profile indicates the peak physiological and psychological distress occurs at 84 hours post-stimulation." Zara felt sick. That meant Silas had about 36 hours more of escalating agony to endure, before it would begin to subside. "The subjective experience of escalating 'need,' panic, and physical discomfort," DYNA continued clinically, "will intensify significantly during this period." Zara closed her eyes, picturing Silas’s terrified face, the tremors in his restrained limbs worsening. "The subsequent decline in distress towards baseline non-necessity is gradual," DYNA added. "Complete dissipation of the conditioned craving response occurs approximately within 36 hours after the peak of distress.

A bitter sound escaped Zara. 36 more hours starting now of escalating distress! One full day and a half of escalating torture, pain and panic without relief. Zara put her fingers on her temples and closed her eyes. "Is there anything?" Zara rasped, desperate. "Any medication? Any override? Any way to stop that?" She gestured uselessly towards the steel door, towards Silas’s unseen agony. "To suppress his craving? To ease the pain and panic? Even temporarily?" The question felt futile, but she had to ask. Silas couldn't endure 36 more hours of escalating torture, she thought.

DYNA’s response was immediate. "My data base informs me that pharmacological intervention designed to suppress Silas suffering, is not possible." Those words were bleak and final. Zara slumped, despair tightening like a vice. Hope withered.

Then, a brief, almost imperceptible pause stretched across the speaker. It wasn't hesitation; it felt like processing immense datasets. When DYNA spoke again, the London accent remained crisp, clinical, yet the information struck with the force of a physical blow: "The only known method to immediately alleviate the escalating physiological distress, panic, and profound sensory frustration currently building within Subject Silas," DYNA stated flatly, "is the application of tickling stimulation. Targeted tactile input directly interrupts the heightened neurological signaling pathways causing his escalating discomfort. Tickling Silas provides, though temporary, cessation to his pain and panic."

Zara froze. Ice flooded her veins. She hadn’t explicitly asked for this. The AI had just offered a solution – Robinson’s solution. The only solution Silas’s tormentors acknowledged. Her gaze snapped towards the steel door. Silas was alone, bound, his engineered desperation amplifying right now into real pain and panic. And DYNA had just confirmed that tickling him was the only way to suppress it. To ease it.

Her own ticklish skin screamed in phantom sympathy. Tickling was agony. Yet... Silas had described his need as twisting poison, morphing into unbearable pain and panic. Which torment was worse? The unrelenting internal agony Robinson engineered him to feel, or the external torture inflicted to temporarily satisfy it? Her mind recoiled. She couldn't inflict that. She just couldn't. But the image of Silas trembling, his terrified eyes pleading in the mirror, burned bright. DYNA’s clinical pronouncement echoed: cessation to the pain and panic.

Her fingers, hovering near the dark pad, trembled violently. Her gaze darted towards the door leading back to Silas. Nausea churned. Should she...? The thought was monstrous. Yet... his escalating suffering was undeniable, intolerable to her. And his own desperate shameful confession of his need and desire clawed at her mind. She pushed away from the console, stumbling to her feet. She had to ask him. Now. To look into his eyes and ask him what she should do.

She walked back into the vast room. Silas lay exactly as she'd left him, bound spread-eagle, front side down, utterly exposed on the black padded floor. His reflection in the mirror showed his eyes were wide open now, fixed on her approach with renewed terror. He hadn't heard DYNA's explanation, but he figured she'd been asking about him. Was she back to tickle him? His mind screamed. He tried to shrink away impossibly. His soles felt impossibly vulnerable, facing upwards towards the ceiling lights. His ribs fluttered faster.

Zara forced herself to kneel beside his head, avoiding looking directly at the panorama of his helplessness – the soles, ribs, ass crack, armpit hollows. She leaned closer, her voice trembling yet fierce, forcing gentleness. "Silas," she said quietly, urgently. His hazel eyes locked onto hers in the mirror, filled with dread. "DYNA told me... it told me the craving... the panic... the pain... it gets worse. Much worse. For... for many more hours." She saw the confirmation that she spoke the truth flash in his eyes – pure horror.

"And..." Her throat tightened with disbelief she was about to say this. "DYNA said... it said... the only thing..." She choked on the word. "...that stops the pain... stops the panic..." She saw him flinch, understanding dawning in his terrified gaze. "...is... tickling." She forced the word out, tasting bile. "Just a little bit maybe... DYNA said... it interrupts the... the suffering."

Silence crashed down. Only the frantic drumming of Zara's heart and Silas's shallow, ragged breaths filled the sterile air. His eyes were huge pools of terror and shame. Zara leaned closer, her voice a desperate whisper. "I... I want to help you. Truly. But... I don't know what to do. Which... which is worse?" Her light green eyes searched his reflection, pleading for guidance. "To leave you... to let you suffer... the panic... the itching... the pain... climbing and climbing... for 36 hours? Or..." Her gaze flickered involuntarily towards his exposed ass before snapping guilty back to his face. "...to... to touch you? Just a little bit maybe? To stop the escalation? To bring the pain down?" The words tasted like betrayal. "Tell me," she begged, tears stinging her eyes. "Tell me what you want me to do. Which of these causes you the least agony?"

Silas stared back at her, paralyzed. The impossible choice hung between them, sharp as shattered glass. Both options were torture for him. Both led to degradation. Admitting the need for tickling felt like completely surrendering his soul, confirming his engineered monstrosity. Enduring the escalating internal torment meant descending into raw, uncontrollable panic, pain clawing at his nerves until he would scream from the sheer frustration trapped inside his immobilized body. His gaze flickered over Zara – her conflicted pity, her trembling hands, the horrified empathy radiating from her. She wasn't Robinson. She wasn't cruel. She was trapped, terrified, offering a poisoned chalice. Could her touch be... bearable? Could it be only the necessary torment? A sob tore from his throat, choked and raw. "I... I can't..." he gasped, tears welling. "The itch... it burns! It feels like... like bugs crawling... inside my feet! Inside... everywhere!" His confession was ripped from him, a cry of utter helplessness. "It hurts... god, it hurts...!" He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to face her reaction to his engineered depravity, not believing what he was about to say and not truly understanding why he was about to say it. "And ... and ... I'm craving it. I have to be tickled Zara. Badly."

Zara recoiled at those words. Words that briefly brought her a confusing thrill. Silas's choked confession – "I want to be tickled Zara, badly" – hung thickly in the air. It was raw, humiliating, ripped from the depths of his engineered torment. Pity and horror flooded Zara's chest, tightening her breath. But beneath that, something utterly unexpected detonated. It wasn't sympathy. It wasn't empathy. It was pure, shocking sensation. A jolt, white-hot and intensely pleasurable, surged from her clit upwards through her belly, radiating outwards like liquid fire. It hit her with the force of a physical blow – a volt of pure electric arousal, sharp and undeniable, leaving her thighs trembling and her mind reeling. She gasped, a soft, involuntary sound escaping her lips. Where had that come from? Why had that occurred? Hearing his desperate plea, while witnessing his utter helplessness... it had ignited something primal, dark, and thrillingly unfamiliar deep within her. A flush bloomed hot across her cheeks and neck, clashing violently with the pity etched on her face. This arousal felt alien, forbidden, utterly consuming. It wasn't just a harmless flicker; it was an awakening, profound and shocking.

Her gaze snapped back to Silas’s reflection. He had squeezed his eyes shut tight, bracing, his body trembling minutely against the restraints. He had not seen her physical reaction to his confession. He hadn’t felt the volcanic shift inside her. Zara forced herself to swallow, her throat suddenly dry. That intense pulse of pleasure had diminished as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind a profound warmth and a terrifying awareness. She stared at his immobilized form – the sculpted ribs, the vulnerable soles, the exposed arc of his hips leading down… Her own skin felt hyper-sensitized, prickling not just with empathy, but with a new awakening of raw, magnetic fascination. What would it feel like if…? Her fingers twitched involuntarily. No. No. This was monstrous. He was suffering. Yet the memory of that electric surge low in her belly, whispered very real, very attainable possibilities she’d never dared imagine.

"Silas," her voice emerged husky, unsteady, betraying the tumult inside. She leaned closer, her breath stirring the hair near his temple. The proximity sent another treacherous shiver through her. "It... burns?" she echoed his word, forcing her focus back onto his agony, trying to drown out the alien thrum in her own veins. "Where? Tell me... exactly?" The question felt like a shield against her own burgeoning darkness. Her gaze, traitorously, drifted from his tear-streaked reflection down his restrained arm – past the vulnerable hollow of his armpit – towards the smooth plane of his lower ribs and the taut curve of his flank, dangerously close to the swell of his hip. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple.

Silas flinched as if burned by her intense scrutiny. "My feet..." he choked out, squeezing his eyes tighter, his voice raw. "The soles... arches... toes... it's... crawling fire. Inside." His confession was ripped from him, thick with shame. "And... my ribs..." His breath hitched, shallow and frantic. "Its where... where the cage ends at the top..." His words dissolved into a ragged gasp. "And... oh god... my... my armpits..." He couldn't say it, couldn't articulate the sheer terror of that exposure. "It... itches... hurts... deep in the... hollows..." His voice cracked on the final word. He strained futilely against the gleaming cuffs, a tremor running through his entire frame. "Please... make it stop... the crawling... the burning... just... please...stimulate for just a little while."

Each location he named ignited a fresh, shocking counterpoint within Zara. The soles? Her own hypersensitive feet tingled in phantom sympathy, but alongside it bloomed a fierce, possessive curiosity about their softness. His ribs? She imagined tracing the peaks and valleys of the delicate bones, counting them with feather-light touches – a thought that sent another bolt of forbidden pleasure straight to her core. His armpits? The sheer vulnerability, that exposed hairless softness... it wasn't just pity flooding her; it was now a dark, magnetic pull. She was beginning to lose her battle of morality. Her fingers curled unconsciously against the padded floor, trembling with the urge to touch, to explore those burning, aching places he described, not just to soothe, but to know the texture, the flinch, the desperate sounds he would make. The sheer power inherent in his utter helplessness was a drug she hadn't known existed. Her cheeks flamed hotter.

She stared at his reflection. His eyes remained squeezed shut, awaiting judgment, torment, condemnation. He didn't see the conflict warring on her face – horrified empathy wrestling violently with this dark, electric hunger his vulnerability had unleashed. Should she? To touch him – even gently, even just to alleviate his engineered agony – felt like stepping into Robinson's cruel shoes. Yet, his tortured confession – "I need to be tickled Zara, badly" – echoed gloriously, fueling the ember of her new, terrifying desire. Her gaze fixed on the delicate hollow beneath his restrained arm, inches away. Her hand trembled, hovering. One touch. Just... one... light... touch. To see if it truly stopped the burning. To see... what it felt like... for both of them to experience. The tension coiled, unbearable.

Silas braced. He felt the shift in the air above him, the subtle displacement of sound, the terrifying anticipation radiating from her stillness. His breath hitched, a tiny, choked gasp escaping. Now. The fingertip made contact. Not on his ribs. Not on his foot. Precisely in the terrifyingly exposed center of that hairless, impossibly soft armpit hollow. Just a light, dragging brush of her nail tip across the ultrasensitive skin.

The effect was instantaneous, catastrophic. Silas's entire body arched violently against the restraints – a convulsive jerk that tested the non-moving gleaming cuffs. A raw, choked shriek tore from his throat, high-pitched and agonized, instantly dissolving into frantic, uncontrollable gasps and giggles that sounded more like tortured sobs. "N-No!! HAH-HAHAAHAAH!! STOP! PLEASE! AAAAHHAHAHAHAHAH!" His head thrashed, eyes flying wide open, wild with sheer terror and ticklish agony. "TOO MUCH! TOO HAH-HAHAAHAA!! SENSITIVE! PLEASE! G-GOD!!!" The contact of her fingernails was feather-light, yet it sent electric fire screaming through every underarm nerve. The phantom crawling, burning sensation he'd described was instantly overwhelmed by the brutal, exquisite reality of her tickling touches. His skin fluttered desperately beneath her nail tips, trying and always failing to escape the unbearable contact.

After about 6 seconds, Zara snatched her hand back as if burned. Shock and profound horror flooded her – at his violent reaction, at the sheer agony of his laughing-sobs. But beneath it, like lava beneath ice, surged a visceral thrill so potent it stole her breath away. She felt a sudden, shocking wetness bloom low in her panties. The sight of his total vulnerability reacting so quickly, so violently, so easily from her brief, hesitant touches… her touches… was devastatingly powerful. His terror was so very real. His ticklish agony was absolute. He was unable to stop her. It was her who had just caused it. Not Robinson. Not Lena. Not Daniel. Her. A dark fascination grew, and it was definitely now overpower her pity for him.

Her gaze, wide-eyed and conflicted, locked onto his heaving ribs, his soles, drawn back to that exposed armpit where the ghost of her touches still lingered visibly in the frantic tremors of his skin. The urge to touch again, to see if she could control his agony, to explore the limits of his ticklish vulnerability, warred fiercely with empathy. But she realized now that she wanted to. She needed to satisfy her morbid curiosity about what this can accomplish. "Silas," she whispered as he was still giggling, her voice thick, trembling. "How long?" She leaned closer, urgency overriding caution. "Tell me quickly! Loudly! How long must I... do this... before enough of the pain and panic subsides? How long?"

Silas gasped, still shuddering. His eyes, wild and desperate, met hers in the mirror. The brief cessation of touch brought no relief; the phantom burning instantly flooded back, hotter than before, amplified by the memory of her nails. He choked on a sob. "I think ...T-Ten! Ten m-minutes!" he blurted out, the words ripped from him in terrified earnestness. "Just... just ten minutes! Enough... enough to quiet the worst... the panic... the... the deep itch..." He squeezed his eyes shut again, bracing anew. "Please... be gentle! Please! Just... just ten minutes!" He strained futilely against the restraints, every muscle tensed in horrified anticipation of her hands returning. "Ten minutes... then... then it stops... for a while..." His voice dissolved into helpless whimpers.

Zara froze. Ten minutes? Ten minutes of this? Ten minutes of inducing that unbearable, shrieking ticklish agony? The clinical precision of DYNA's timing flashed in her mind – if she does not tickle him now, then for the next 36 hours he would suffer, then only after that, there would be a slow decline, towards normalness. However, she realized that Silas's desperate plea was a horrifying win-win bargain for her. Permission to tickle for 10 straight minutes!

Her eyes scanned his immobilized form – ribs fluttering like trapped birds, soles facing upwards impossibly vulnerable, armpit hollow still trembling from her brief touch. Could she inflict ten solid minutes of tickling on one specific spot? Wouldn't that be pure cruelty? Wouldn't spreading it… distributing the unbearable agony… be somehow… kinder? The thought felt perverse even as it formed. Her gaze drifted lower, inevitably, drawn to the exposed swell of his slender waist where it turned into his hip, the soft curve where his hamstrings met butt cheek. Her own core clenched sharply, sending another pulse of treacherous heat through her.

"Silas," she breathed, her voice shaky with excitement, and thick with conflicted intentions. She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. His flinch was immediate. "Just… just one place? For ten whole minutes?" She paused, letting the horror of that sink in. Her finger hovered near his exposed flank, displacing the air inches above his ribs. "Wouldn't… wouldn't it be less… torturous? If… if I moved? Around? Different… spots?" She forced herself to ask, "Could I… could I tickle… anywhere else? Maybe everywhere?" The words felt forbidden, charged with dangerous implications. "So… so the intensity… shifts?" Within her new dark thought process, Zara actually wanted to tickle him everywhere to satisfy her curiosity of what it feels like to touch someone so easily, and her curiosity to observe which areas caused what kind of reactions. But she was presenting this to him as if she wanted to make it easier on him.

Silas's eyes flew open, wide with fresh terror, the engineered pain and panic rising within him. He very much needed to be tickled, now! Anywhere? Everywhere? The scope of her suggestion paralyzed him only briefly. He strained against the gleaming cuffs, a low giggling whimper escaping. "Y-Yes!" he gasped out, the word mangled with panic. "Please! Anywhere! Spread it! Don't… don't focus! Please!" His gaze darted frantically around. He locked eyes with hers in the mirror, sheer desperation overriding shame. "Just… not… my… feet… too… long!" The plea cracked. "Or… or my armpits alone! Please! Anywhere but! Spread it! Everywhere!" He choked on a sob that simultaneously expressed pain, ticklishness, urgency and surrender. "My ribs… my sides… maybe… maybe my" He squeezed his eyes shut. Or…" His voice dropped to a terrified whisper, almost inaudible. "...even… my… ass and cock?" That confession was pure degradation and it caught Zara completely off guard.

The raw, desperate plea – the terrified bargaining, the utter humiliation laid bare in suggesting she tickle his ass and cock – detonated inside Zara. It was shocking, incredible that she was literally being asked to tickle torture a handsome helpless very ticklish young man. Asked by that young man! Those forbidden words echoed, twisting into a visceral image: his exposed cleft, helplessly vulnerable just inches away. Another electrifying jolt of pure arousal surged from her clit, so intense it blurred her vision for a split second. Her thighs clenched involuntarily against each other, slickness undeniable now, a shocking counterpoint to the horror twisting her stomach. This power was intoxicating, dizzying. He was actually begging her to touch him everywhere, fearing specific spots, yet offering his entire helpless body as sacrifice to her hands. His shame and embarrassment was incredible fuel for her.

Her fingers twitched hungrily. The situation was overwhelming. Everywhere. She would discover every flinch, every gasp, every desperate tremor herself. "Alright," she breathed, her voice thick with a terrifying mix of pity and burgeoning desire. "I'll... spread it out. I'll try... everywhere." Her promise felt like a dark vow. It was even comical to think about her, in effect saying, ok I'll do you a favor and tickle torture your body everywhere.

She stood, her movements strangely deliberate. Kneeling down over his prone form, she straddled his lower back, knees sinking comfortably onto the padded floor on either side of his ribs. The surface yielded perfectly, like built-in knee pads, designed for this very purpose. A chilling realization. She shifted her hips slightly, settling her weight. The soft thin fabric of her tights pressed her clit firmly, unexpectedly, against the small dip at the base of his spine. The contact sent a fresh, sharp jolt of arousal straight through her. She gasped softly, the sensation intimate and shocking. It anchored her, this deliberate dominance over his helplessness.

Without hesitation, her arms snaked forward. Both hands descended simultaneously, fingertips poised like tickling needles. Her fingernails slid deep into the impossibly smooth, hairless hollows of his exposed armpits. And she began. Not probing, not tentative, but with deliberate, dancing rhythm. Her nails tapped, scratched, scritched rapidly – a frenzied, light-footed tap dance across and around the ultrasensitive skin deep within those vulnerable pits.

Silas’s reaction was instant. Also catastrophic. He couldn't move his armpits away. A raw, deafening shriek came from him, instantly dissolving into frantic, gasping screams of laughter that held no joy, only pure ticklish agony. "AAAAIIIIEEEE! NOOOO! HAH-HAH-HAAAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEE!! TOO MUCH! TOO SENSITIVE! OH GOD! OH GOD! STOP-STOP-STOP! HAHAHAHAHAAAAAIIIEEEEE!" His entire body convulsed violently beneath her, a trapped animal trying to buck her off but because of his stretched-out limbs, had no ability to even raise his torso an inch. He just had to take it. Muscles strained impossibly against the unyielding cuffs, sweat beginning to erupt across his skin. His head wiggling while his chin remained on top of it's perch, eyes wide and rolling in terrified, but terrific panic, locked onto her in the mirror. About 30 seconds in, tears began streamed down his face, mingling with desperate drooling saliva. "HAHAHA HAHAH! PLEASE! MERCY! HAHAHAHAHAHAA! IT BURNS AND TICKLES! HAHAHA HAHAA!" The tap-dancing nails sent wave after wave of unbearable sensation screaming through him, overwhelming the programmed ache with brutal, exquisite reality.

Zara stared, transfixed, into the mirror. Past his contorted, agonized face, she saw him. The high cheekbones flushed crimson, the light brown hair matted with sweat, the lite green eyes wide with terror yet undeniably striking. A shocking thought pierced her frenzy: he was breathtakingly handsome. Even in this abject torment, his beauty was undeniable. In fact, did his perilous forced laughter make him even more beautiful? A surge of possessiveness washed over her—dark and primal. This exquisite, engineered creature, writhing beneath her? Is Hers to torment. Hers to control. The honor of it—owning someone so achingly desirable—felt like a forbidden privilege. Any woman who knelt here, knees cushioned by the padded floor, feeling the frantic tremors of his trapped body vibrating up through her pelvis, pressed against his spine... wouldn't she feel this same compulsion? That same dark, magnetic yearning to touch, to extract reactions, to dominate, to own his vulnerability?

Her nails intensified their rhythm—a frantic, staccato drumming deep within the impossibly soft armpit hollows. Silas bucked violently, a guttural scream tearing free. "HAHAHAHAHAA! TOO—TOO DEEP! STOP!! OH GOD OH!" Each desperate scrape of her nails seemed to flay his nervous system raw. Tears streamed unchecked, his neck corded with strain as he fought the restraints, the gleaming cuffs holding his wrists and ankles. The sheer intensity of his reaction—the choking laughs that included sobs, the frantic pleas dissolving into incoherent shrieks—sent treacherous waves of pleasure coiling tight in Zara’s belly. His agony was, and how could she even think this terrible thought, extremely exquisite, necessary for things to be right in the world.

Her thoughts flickered downward. About his ribs, so slick with perspiration. Lower still, the exposed swell of his flank, the dip of his waist... tempting pathways to travel away from his pits. But not just yet. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his shoulder blades, her lips near his ear. Her voice emerged, husky and thick with shared exertion and a dark thrill. "How long?" she demanded, punctuating each word with a sharp, digging poke deep in both pits. He shrieked, arching impossibly high. "How long have I been... fixing you?" The clinical expression, that lie, tasted like power to Zara. Time felt suspended, measured only in his tortured gasps and her racing pulse.

Silas gasped, gulping air between spasms of tortured laughter. "F-Forever! HAHA HAHAH! TOO LONG! PLEASE! PLEASE ANY! HAHAHA HAHAHAA!" His plea was pure, panicked instinct and she was not sure he even knew what he was saying. The unrelenting focus on his pits was pushing him towards sensory overload, the ticklish fire threatening to consume his mind. His eyes rolled back, then snapped frantically to the mirror, locking onto hers with terrified supplication. Zara watched his reflection, fascinated. With his expression, he was actively bargaining for a different kind of agony, and she didn't have to oblige. The control it implied—choosing where he’d be tortured—was fully intoxicating. Her fingers slowed, hovering. "Show me," she whispered, her voice vibrating with dark curiosity and excitement. "Show me exactly where on your ribs it tickles the very most." Her finger drifted towards the trembling cage of bones.

Her nails withdrew from the slick, shuddering pits with agonizing slowness. They traced paths downward along the ridges of his shoulder blades, a feather-light drag that made his entire back flinch and ripple beneath her knees. Then, deliberately, her hands drifted backwards, gliding over the sweat-slicked skin towards his rib cage. She kept the touch excruciatingly light—barely-there brushes, ghosting explorations that traced the prominent ridges just beneath his armpits. Silas trembled violently, his breath hissing in jagged, anticipatory gasps. "Easy... p-Please..!" he choked out, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Shhh," Zara murmured. Her fingertips danced lightly over the ribs near his spine, then migrated slightly outward. "We’re hunting, Silas." Her voice was low, intimate, thick with dark purpose. "This place… the spot that makes you scream loudest… I need to find it." Her nails began tapping lightly now, skating over bone and the taut, sensitive skin stretched between them. High-pitched giggles escaped him, quickly stifled. "Don't hold back," she commanded softly. "You will tell me. Loudly. The instant I touch it. Say YES. SAY IT!" Her nails intensified slightly, digging a fraction deeper as they swept methodically across the vulnerable span. Ticklish laughter bubbled up, louder, more frantic. "HAHA! W-WHAT?! HAHA! PLEASE! HAHAHAH!"

Her fingertips explored ruthlessly, systematically mapping the hypersensitive landscape. They tapped higher, lower, inward, outward. Silas twisted and bucked beneath her, laughter escalating into shrieks punctuated by desperate pleas. "HAHA HAHAA! TOO MUCH! HAHAH! THERE! CLOSE TO THERE! HAHAHA HAHAAHAA!"

Suddenly, her hands drifted backwards simultaneously, gliding over sweat-slicked skin past the bottom of his rib cage, to his very lower sides just above the hip bones. She pressed slowly, deliberately, on the back side of his waist with both thumbs to anchor her hands there, but on the underside of his waist she began digging into the impossibly soft indentations. Not gently, but with firm, probing pressure wiggling three fingers on each side of his body right into that sensitive hollow where hip bone met waist muscles. Silas froze mid-gasp. Then, a sound erupted unlike any before—a raw, visceral scream of pure ticklish agony that shattered into frantic, delirious laughter. "YES! YE! HAHAHAHAAEEEEE! OH GOD YES! ITS THERE! STOP-STOP-STOP! HAHAAHAHAHAA! TOO STRONG-TOO MUCH! NO TORTURE!" His entire body convulsed in a single violent spasm, straining the restraints near their metallic limit. Tears erupted anew, streaming down his crimson face as he confirmed the location verbally, and with pure, suffering ticklish abandon.

Upon finding those spots on each under-side of his waist, and seeing his reactions, Zara stared mesmerized, into the mirror. His reaction was devastating for him— instantly utterly broken, and yet nicely confirming her absolute power over his existance. His YES had echoed raw and desperate, vibrating through her bones. Her discovery. Her control. She held her thumbs firm on the back side of his waist, and used her next three fingers to pinch and prod those areas relentlessly on the underside, feeling the frantic flutter of muscle and ligaments beneath them, the epicenter of his exquisite torment. "Good," she breathed, a tremor of dark triumph in her voice. She kept on digging into those hypersensitive strands of lower torso muscle. "Very good, Silas." His shrieks redoubled dissolving into choking, helpless laughter-sobs. She straightened her back to stretch her spine. "Now scream for me." Her fingers slightly intensified, pressing with cruel precision on the spots where she noticed caused him the worst suffering. "Louder if you want." Oh my god did she just callously tell him to scream for her?

"HAHAHAHA!! HAAAAAAHAHAHA! WAYTEEEE HAHAHAHA!" The sounds tore from him, raw and agonized. "YES! YESSSS!" His confirmation was a choked shriek, echoed by frantic bucking that achieved nothing but straining tendons against cold metal. Tears streamed like leaking faucets. "STOP-TUCKLE-STOP-IT-BURNS-HAHA HAHAAA!" The ticklish fire trapped between her thumbs and fingers consumed him, erasing his thoughts. Instead hammering him with pure reactions to the sensations and desperate attempts to breathe.

Zara watched his reflection – the flushed cheeks, the tears mingled with drool, the wide, rolling eyes locked on hers with terrified pleading and supplication. The exquisite horror of his suffering pulsed through her, igniting a dark warmth deep within her core. His cries were delightful, proof of her domination. She pressed harder, on occasion twisting and adjusting her thumbs and fingers every so slightly. "Beautiful!" she murmured, the word thick with forbidden admiration. His agony was simply, beautiful. "You are beautiful Silas, do you know that?" she said mockingly.

Silas couldn't comprehend her words through the sensory onslaught. The intense digging of her thumbs and fingers into his burning hips felt like twin brands of ticklish fire searing directly into his nerves. Every wiggle, every cruel press and squeeze sent jagged bolts of unbearable sensation radiating outwards – up his flanks towards his already tortured ribs, down towards his vulnerable groin, and deep into the pit of his belly. It was worse than electricity; it was pure, liquefied ticklish agony flooding his bloodstream. The desperate laughter clawed its way out of his throat, tearing at his vocal cords, each gasp pulling in less air than the last. Panic surged a primal fear of suffocation beneath the relentless tactile assault. His muscles writhed uselessly against the restraints. Sweat poured freely now, slicking his skin, making the cruel invasion feel even more intimate, more violating. He felt utterly flayed open. Each frantic twist of his torso only drove her thumbs deeper into those tormenting hollows, intensifying the unbearable sensation exponentially. The mirror reflected his utter degradation – the tears, the desperate open-mouthed screams, his eyes begging for mercy he knew wouldn't come. Shame burned hot as he realized he was presenting this spectacle, willingly, showing Zara his deepest vulnerabilities.

Zara watched the reflection intently, mesmerized by the raw display. His choked laughter, the rhythm of his frantic bucking, the sheer intensity of his reactions. Something clicked in Zara’s mind. The frantic wiggling of his hips... the furious straining... the choked pleas dissolving into breathless laughter-sobs. It mirrored what Silas himself had described – his escalating craving cycle. The peak agony he’d endure without this tickling stimulation wasn't just pain; it was also panic. This kind of panic though, the frantic, suffocating terror of trapped sensation overwhelming his helpless form, was it better or worse for him. She was witnessing it now, manufactured by her own hands instead of Robinson’s engineered biology. A wave of profound understanding washed over her, cold and terrifying. Ten minutes must have passed by now.

Her fingers slowed, the relentless digging pressure easing into a trembling stillness. She didn't lift them away. She simply... stopped. Stopped moving. Stopped digging. Stopped adding stimulus. The sudden cessation was welcomed by Silas. His entire body trembled violently beneath her, confused, waiting for the next onslaught. The frantic ticklish fire in his sides didn't fully vanish; it lingered, a raw, pulsing echo trapped beneath her stationary hands, mixed with the fading ghost sensations from his armpits. But the active torment had ceased. The contrast was huge, leaving him disoriented and gasping, the panic momentarily suspended but not dissolved.

Zara straightened fully, settling her weight comfortably onto Silas’s lower back. The padding absorbed her slight frame easily. She didn't look down at her hands resting possessively on those hypersensitive hollows above his hips. Instead, she lifted her gaze to the large mirror directly ahead. She watched him. Silas shuddered, great gulps of air rasping into his lungs, mingling with choked, wet sobs that still held the ghostly resonance of forced laughter. Tears flowed freely down his flushed cheeks, dripping onto the padded surface beneath his chin. His eyes, wide and red-rimmed – a mixture of utter exhaustion, residual terror, and bewildered disbelief. Sweat plastered strands of his light brown hair to his temples and forehead. Drool glistened at the corner of his open mouth. His body, stretched taut and utterly helpless, still trembled with aftershocks, muscles quivering beneath sweat-slicked skin. His throat worked silently, trying to swallow past the dryness induced by hyperventilation. His raw vulnerability was staggering. Toddlers had more freedom and ability than he did.

She rolled her right hip and sat quietly on the padded floor, only the bottom half of her left leg was still resting on his back. The only sounds in the sterile room were his ragged breathing, the hitched sobs collapsing into breathless giggles as lingering ticklish aftershocks zinged through his nerves, and the soft rustle of her own clothing as she breathed. She studied his reflection minutely: the high cheekbones flushed crimson, the striking light green eyes blurred with tears, yet undeniably captivating, the trembling curves of his lips. This stillness after the storm felt profound. She had inflicted this. She had reduced this beautiful, engineered creature to shuddering, tearful incoherence. The power of it resonated deep within her, a complex chord vibrating with triumph, possessiveness, and a dark, thrilling intimacy. He was completely broken, breathing hard and wetly sobbing and giggling simultaneously. And the crazy thing is if she wanted to, she could start again right this second. He was hers to break. She felt the warmth radiating from his skin through the thin fabric of her tights onto her leg, a constant, grounding reminder of their connection.

Time stretched. She cataloged every flinch, every tear track, the frantic flutter of his eyelids. The utter exhaustion warring with involuntary bursts of ticklish terror was hypnotic. He was trapped between states – the programmed agony momentarily appeased, replaced by the immediate physical and emotional aftermath of her intervention. She saw the flicker of pure pleading deep in his eyes, the unspoken question: Is it over? But Zara said nothing. She simply sat, listening, watching, savoring the exquisite fragility of his broken state.

Gradually, the frantic rhythm of his breathing slowed, replaced by shallow, shaky inhales. A wave of realization crashed over Zara, washing away the dark thrill, leaving only shame. What have I done? The thought screamed inside her skull. She wasn't Robinson. She wasn't a monster. She was Zara Evans, a mother trapped in madness, who had just inflicted torment – exquisite, calculated torment – on a helpless young man barely older than her own daughter. He was engineered, yes, designed to suffer unbearable tickling, yes… but she had plunged into his vulnerability with a terrifying fervor. She had dug her fingers into his hypersensitive flesh not just to stop his programmed agony, but to feel her own power, to witness his utter dissolution. The electric arousal, the possessiveness, the command to scream… it wasn't empathy; it was some kind of sadism inside her that had been unleashed. She stared at her hands. They felt alien, stained. Her cheeks burned hot with shame.

He needed it, her darker self whispered defensively. Look at him now, breathing slower… the panic fading. The engineered biological craving was interrupted; the peak agony he would have suffered was actively avoided. She had bought him crucial time against Robinson’s delayed cruelty. But the chilling truth remained: once she got started, she had embraced the method too enthusiastically. Her fingers hadn't trembled; they'd tickled with cruel precision. She hadn't recoiled from his screams; she'd commanded more of them, thrilled by their raw music.

Guilt flooded her. She was forty. A mother. This trembling boy – twenty-one, DYNA had said? – his exhaustion was absolute, his utter helplessness heartbreaking. She saw Carrie’s face superimposed onto his tear-streaked reflection. What would her daughter think of her? What had Zara become? This wasn't kindness; it was monstrous selfishness draped in a thin veil of necessity. Her dark desire had roared to life with terrifying ease. It felt good. Powerful. Addictive. Necessary. That was the true horror.

She couldn’t look at him directly, couldn't meet the terrified exhaustion surely radiating from his slumped form. Her gaze darted wildly around the sterile room – the restraints, the mirror reflecting her own flushed, horrified face – searching for an anchor in the storm of her shame. Her breath hitched, shallow and panicked. What now? Apology felt obscene. Justification impossible. The silence stretched, thick with the humid aftermath of exertion and tears. Silas lay utterly still, save for the deep, shuddering breaths lifting his ribs. He seemed drained, adrift. Waiting. Utterly spent. The immediate engineered agony was momentarily stilled, but at what cost? And what came next? Robinson? Herself, again? The terrifying question hung unanswered, suffocating Zara. Her own monstrous capacity terrified her.

Zara pushed herself to her feet. The movement felt clumsy, disconnected, her limbs heavy. As she shifted her weight, a distinct, shocking slickness pressed insistently against the thin fabric of her underwear. The damp warmth clinging intimately to her inner thighs was undeniable proof – a visceral stain of the forbidden arousal that had surged through her as she wielded power over his helplessness. It wasn't pretend; it was alarmingly real, a physical signature of the dark thrill she'd succumbed to. Shame burned hot, tightening her throat. She avoided looking down at Silas’s prone form, focusing instead on the smooth door frame, her cheeks flaming. The cool air of the other room hit her sweat-dampened clothes as she stepped across the threshold, a stark contrast to the humid intimacy of Silas's chamber. Each step towards the DYNA console felt tentative, wary, her legs trembling slightly beneath her. The dampness between her thighs remained, a persistent reminder of her own betrayal – a betrayal against Silas, against her own self-image, against the mother she thought she was.

She sank heavily into the chair facing DYNA’s pulsing blue interface. Her hands, still faintly tingling with the phantom sensation of Silas’s hypersensitive skin and frantic muscle tremors, clenched into fists in her lap. "DYNA," she rasped, her voice thick and raw. She cleared her throat, the sound unnaturally loud. "DYNA, I... I tickled him." The admission hung in the air, stark and ugly. She swallowed hard, forcing the next words past lips that felt numb. "I dug my thumbs and fingers deep into his sides, just above his hips. I... I commanded him to scream. Loudly." Her gaze turned briefly towards the closed door now separating her from Silas. "He’s... breathing now. Quieter. The panic... it seemed to fade. But..." Her voice cracked. "The way he reacted... the sounds he made... DYNA... did I..." She leaned forward slightly, desperation leaking into her tone. "Was it right? To do that? To inflict that?" Her fingers unconsciously mimicked a digging motion against her own thigh. "He needed it, didn't he? To stop the craving and pain?" Her plea for absolution was palpable.

The blue light pulsed, a calm, rhythmic counterpoint to Zara’s jagged breathing. "Subject Silas's vital signs indicate significant physiological stabilization," DYNA’s voice stated. "Stress hormones are declining. Neurological activity associated with programmed distress is currently suppressed. Your intervention effectively interrupted his escalating craving cycle initiated by Miss Robinson's delayed administration of tickling." A pause. The screen shifted subtly, displaying scrolling bio-metric logs. "Analysis indicates your actions prevented Silas from escalating towards, and reaching peak suffering." Another pause. The clinical tone shifted fractionally. "However, the sensory input you provided him... duration, intensity, location selection... significantly exceeded the parameters typically needed for therapeutic relief. It was..." DYNA seemed to search for the correct words. "... very vigorous."

Zara stared at the screen after hearing that. Exceeded parameters. Vigorous. Dry-mouthed, she whispered, "He begged though... everywhere... he offered...but not his feet." Her voice choked on the memory of Silas’s desperate bargaining – my ass and cock. "he offered even...other places. Places I didn't even... touch." She took a deep relaxing breath to try and calm down. "He screamed, DYNA. Not just laughed. Screamed. "Was it torture? Did I become ... Robinson?" The screen's blue light flickered. "Ethical assessment protocols require context," DYNA replied. "Miss Robinson administers stimulation solely for her gratification, prolonging subject's agony deliberately. Your stated objective was relief, driven by Silas's expressed desperation and physiological need. You achieved cessation of his programmed, soon to have arrived suffering."

Zara pressed her damp palms against her knees, grounding herself. "Enough philosophy. Practicalities. Those restraints..." She gestured sharply towards Silas's door. "They’re brutal. That spread-eagle position – it strains everything. Can he even breathe properly during and after? Are there alternatives? Other positions that you, DYNA, can authorize?"

DYNA’s light pulsed steadily. "The restraint system within Chamber Gamma is highly adaptable. The anchor points are magnetic and fully articulated. They can reposition limbs vertically, horizontally, diagonally, or in complex compound angles. Positions range from simple supine variations to suspended uncomfortable configurations." Streams of schematics flickered onto the console screen: wrists drawn overhead, ankles crossed and raised; knees bent sharply upward, chest elevated; a fetal curl, limbs pulled inward tightly. "Sixty-two distinct pre-set configurations optimized for targeted accessibility and exposure. Most intensify vulnerability to specific areas of the body." Zara stared at the shifting diagrams, each one rendering Silas into a new tableau of helplessness. The implications were chillingly clinical. "Pre-sets," Zara echoed.

"Correct," DYNA confirmed. You Zara, have full control to alter Silas's body positioning." There was a slight pause. "Do you have a specific... suggestion?"

The question hung in the sterile air. Suggestion? Her mind recoiled, yet her gaze snagged on one schematic: Silas suspended vertically, arms pulled taut overhead, ankles crossed and secured high behind him, arching his back impossibly. The position exposed his entire torso – ribs, flank, waist – and pulled taut the sensitive skin under his arms. Vulnerability screamed from the image. She pictured her hands free to roam without obstruction... anywhere. Especially those awful hollows above his hips she’d discovered. Her breath hitched. Shame warred violently with a treacherous, dark curiosity. What sounds would he make then?

"Explain... explain that one," Zara managed, her voice thick, pointing a trembling finger at the vertical suspension schematic.

"Configuration Gamma-7," DYNA intoned. "Vertical Suspension: Brachio-Crucial Exposure. Anchors engage magnetic cuffs at wrists and ankles. Primary winch elevates subject completely off surface. Secondary winch draws ankles dorsally and superiorly, inducing lordotic spinal curvature. Effects: Complete anterior exposure of torso and underarms. Significant gravitational stress enhances vulnerability and cutaneous sensitivity. Ideal modality: Wide-area tactile stimulation provides easy, unrestricted access to armpits and torso, especially the hip areas."

Unrestricted access. The words echoed Zara’s own forbidden thought. She imagined Silas hanging like that, drenched in sweat, every convulsion making him sway slightly. His ribs would stand out starkly. Those hollows above his hips... they’d be stretched taut, impossibly accessible. Her fingers twitched reflexively against her thigh. Could she... should she... ever see him like that? The sheer audacity of the position promised a deeper level of domination, a more profound unraveling. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.

"Configuration Gamma-7: Brachio-Crucial Exposure," DYNA’s voice cut through the humid tension, clinical yet somehow expectant. "Authorization pending. Confirm repositioning command?" The pulsing blue light seemed to brighten, waiting. She recalled Silas’s choked sobbing – a wet sound of utter exhaustion. It pierced Zara’s dark sadistic thoughts and interrupted them. Her gaze snapped from the schematic, reality crashing back in. Hanging him? After what she’d just done? After the broken sobs, the trembling exhaustion? The damp warmth between her own thighs suddenly felt like the moisture of shame. What kind of monster was she considering becoming? She wasn't Robinson! She wasn't supposed to enjoy escalating his torment! He was breathing easier now, quieter. He needed rest, not... not suspension. Not more exposure. Not vulnerability engineered for her pleasure.

"No." Replied Zara, sharper than she intended. "He's... exhausted. His muscles must be screaming from straining against restraints." The memory of him straining near the limit flooded her mind. "He needs... comfort. Ease." She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to calm. "Position him... comfortably. Please. Something where he can breathe easy. Where the stretching is gone from his arms and legs. Something... humane."

"Understood," DYNA responded instantly, the blue light shifting subtly. "I have turned on the monitors so you can view his adjustment." Within Silas's chamber, the soft whir of servos filled the sudden silence. Zara watched the video feed intently. The magnetic restraints holding Silas face down, spread-eagled, disengaged. His limbs rested limply onto the padded floor. Then, robotic arms with what looked like padded hands and fingers, rose from the floor around him out of openings that had split apart in the floor. Smoothly, the articulated robotic arms turned Silas over, positioned him perfectly centered. His cuffed wrists were then drawn downwards and inwards, gently guided until they rested palms-down against the padding beside his outer thighs.

Simultaneously, his ankles were lifted slightly and bound together securely. His knees, also secured together, were drawn upwards, bending sharply towards his chest. The winches adjusted precisely, lifting his secured ankles off the padding, tilting his pelvis upwards. The final position was startling yet undeniably gentle: Silas lay flat on his back, his knees bound together, pulled towards his chest, his thighs framing his exposed groin. His bound ankles hovered about 12 inches directly above his cock, presenting his genitals and the cleft of his ass openly. His bound wrists resting peacefully beside his hips. This position was the opposite of being stretched out, thus was helpful for his muscles to have respite and recover.

Silas gasped softly as the tension vanished from his shoulders and spine. His head lolled back against the padding, eyes fluttering closed. A profound shudder of relief ran through him. His breathing, previously shallow and ragged, deepened into slow, exhausted inhalations. The raw panic etched onto his face softened into utter weariness. He looked impossibly fragile lying there, knees drawn up, completely exposed yet finally free from the cruel pull of the restraints.

Zara stared at the monitor, mesmerized by the transformation. The position – intimate, vulnerable, yet strangely peaceful compared to the previous torment. "DYNA," she murmured, her voice still thick with residual tension. "Why... why that position? Specifically?" The question spilled out, driven partly by concern, partly by a morbid curiosity about the machine’s logic. It exposed him so completely, yet seemed designed for rest. The contradiction gnawed at her.

The blue light pulsed thoughtfully. "Position designation: Gamma-12, 'Recovery Exposure'. My selection prioritized Subject Silas's immediate physiological needs post-stimulation," DYNA began, its tone clinical yet detailed. "Analysis indicated his system had sustained significant stress-induced micro trauma from prolonged straining against restraints and involuntary convulsions during tickling stimuli. Gamma-12 eliminates gravitational strain and tensile loading entirely. Knees bent maximally relaxes hamstrings and spinal erectors. Elevating ankles ensures zero pressure on calves or Achilles tendons. Binding wrists beside hips neutralizes shoulder rotator cuff strain and prevents brachial plexus traction." A schematic flickered briefly on screen, highlighting muscle groups now slackened. "Simultaneously," DYNA continued, "The position also retains efficient accessibility for the application of topical soothing agents, should they be required."

Zara absorbed this, her gaze fixed on the monitors where different camera angle showed Silas laying utterly still, only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicating life. The profound exhaustion radiating from him was palpable even through the screen. His eyelids fluttered weakly, tear tracks drying on flushed cheeks. "Time," she whispered, her throat tight. Her dark thrill of power was fading. "DYNA. How long? The... relief I gave him. Digging into his sides like that... him screaming... how long before that programmed agony starts clawing its way back? When does the craving... the panic... begin again?"

The console emitted a soft chime. "Based on biometrics recorded during your intervention and current metabolic readings," DYNA stated, "Subject Silas has entered a state of autonomic rebound. His engineered physiology interprets intense stimulation followed by cessation as a temporary fulfillment signal. The synthetic neurotransmitters mimicking satiety typically decay linearly." A graph appeared: a steep decline curve. "Given the intensity and duration of your tactile application – particularly the deep, sustained pressure applied to the hypersensitive para-iliac hollows – plus the elevated stress hormone dump..." DYNA paused, recalculating. "Estimated time until craving threshold re-initiates and starts inflicting pain and panic is, approximately 100 minutes.

Zara’s heart lurched. Only about an hour and a half? So, the 10 minutes of tickling torture she performed on Silas only bought him nearly 2 hours of freedom, factoring in the time she has been speaking with Dyna. Barely enough time for him to catch his breath. Her eyes darted back to Silas’s monitor feeds. The close up on his feet and soles was amazing. They are so soft and well shaped, she thought. He stirred slightly. His bound ankles twitched above his exposed groin. 90 minutes. The number echoed, his sentence is already counting down again. Neither Robinson nor anyone had arrived to tickle him, to protect him from the countdown. DYNA remained impassive an uncaring for him. And Silas... So would Silas be utterly reliant on her again. Her stomach fluttered, remembering the slick heat between her thighs just a few minutes ago, the cruel precision of her own willing fingers. Could she do that to him again?

She leaned forward abruptly, her voice sharpened by panic. "DYNA," she demanded, fingers digging into the console’s edge. "Why? Why was I brought here? Carrie tricked me, yes... but why put me in this room? Why grant me such access to Silas?" The question gnawed at her. Was it intentional? Obviously so as she was pushed inside the room earlier. Her knuckles whitened. "What is Glenhaven's purpose?"

DYNA’s blue light pulsed steadily. "Placement protocols prioritize unexpected interactions, for observational and scientific data," the voice replied, devoid of judgment. "Your arrival coincided with Subject Silas entering delayed stimulation phase. Miss Robinson authorized temporary proximity access to generate Zara Evan's novel stress-response dynamics." A schematic flickered, showing proximity logs and Zara’s initial entry timestamp. "Your unique maternal profile introduces unforeseen variables. Variables that they desire to study."

Novel stress-response dynamics. The clinical phrase curdled Zara’s blood. She was an experiment. Her horror, her arousal, Silas’s shattered begging pleas, all just data points. "How long?" The words scraped her throat. She gestured wildly around the sterile confines. "How long must I stay imprisoned here?" Her gaze darted back to Silas’s monitor feeds. The possibilities in this place choked her. "Is there an endpoint? A condition for my release?"

DYNA’s blue light dimmed fractionally, simulating pensive calculation. "Duration of confinement parameters are undisclosed," the voice stated, lacking its usual crispness. "Miss Robinson’s protocols often emphasize extended observation." A brief pause, filled only by the faint hum of machinery. "However," DYNA continued, its tone subtly shifting towards hypothesis, "bio-signature analysis during your intervention on Subject Silas indicates anomalies, neural reward pathways activating alongside your documented maternal inhibitions. The intensity of your tactile application and subsequent physiological arousal suggests..." DYNA paused again, synthesizing data. "...a deliberate pressure test. Hypothesis: Confinement persists until behavioral markers indicate significant suppression of Zara Evan's core instinctual drive towards protective empathy and nurturing assistance. Specifically, towards Subject Silas."

Zara felt the cold realization of what DYNA had just said. "Suppression?" she whispered, dread coiling in her gut. "You mean... until I stop wanting to help him?"

"Affirmative," DYNA replied. "Quantification is challenging, but predictive modeling suggests confinement persists until observable actions demonstrate Zara Evan's primary motivation shifts decisively towards deriving personal gratification from inflicting escalating, un-bearable levels of suffering upon Subject Silas. Sadistic expression would need to exceed a predefined threshold within the next room's Gamma chamber environment. Statistical probability: eighty-three percent." The blue light pulsed relentlessly. "You will likely remain confined until such behavior manifests." Dyna then stated this information originated from her data base knowledge, but believed that the statistical probability of her being correct about this, is 83%.

Eighty-three percent. The number hammered into Zara’s skull. DYNA believes they wanted her to embrace the monster she’d recently glimpsed within herself. To actively choose Silas’s torment because it pleased her. To extinguish her compassion entirely. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them against her temples, trying to stifle the horrifying clarity. No! She recoiled violently from the thought. She shouldn't. She wouldn't become that! The slick warmth she’d felt earlier was a betrayal, a momentary lapse driven by wanting to help, and Silas’s raw vulnerability, it's not her true nature. She wouldn't succumb. Yet... the suffocating reality also pressed in: escape was tied to embracing the very darkness she despised. The sheer unfairness of this choked her. I don't want to torture him, she pleaded silently with herself, glancing at the images on the monitors. Do I?

The pragmatic terror of imprisonment here was strong. DYNA's cold logic offered a potential escape hatch. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely above a murmur, thick with reluctance and a desperate, morbid curiosity. "DYNA," she whispered, her gaze fixed on the pulsating blue light, unable to look at Silas's monitor feeds. "Hypothetically..." She swallowed hard, forcing the awful words out. "...If... if I did become that person. If I... stimulated Silas... solely for my own... pleasure. And I did it... um... excessively cruel." The admission tasted like ash. "Would... would that... get me set free from Glenhaven entirely?" Her knuckles whitened on the chair arms. "...Or just released from this room?"

The blue light pulsed, almost seeming to sharpen its focus. "Computing hypothetical actions: Zara Evans intentionally administers escalating, cruel tactile stimulation to Subject Silas, deriving high levels of gratification from his suffering and his degradation," DYNA intoned, parsing the grim scenario with chilling precision. "Outcome prediction based on Miss Robinson's known protocols..." A slight pause, filled by the hum of computation. "Achieving sustained, observable sadistic behavior exceeding chosen thresholds, would satisfy." DYNA's voice became fractionally quieter, almost conspiratorial. "Authorization for release from Glenhaven entirely would require Miss Robinson's personal verification. However, I compute the probability is: High."

High. The word vibrated in Zara’s bones. Escape wasn't just possible; it was likely, if she surrendered. But surrender meant Silas paying a terrible price. She couldn't look at his monitor feeds anymore – the vulnerable exposure of Gamma-12 position, the softness of his soles visible, his ankles restrained side by side together. A fresh wave of shame washed over her, hot like her earlier arousal. The cruel irony choked her: freedom demanded the destruction of the very empathy she naturally felt. She needed... clarity. She needed to see him, hear him. Not as a schematic, or a data point, but as the trembling 21 year old boy whose pleas echoed in her skull.

Zara took a deliberate step towards the door separating her from Silas's Chamber Gamma. The pneumatic hiss as it opened seemed unnaturally loud. The sterile smell intensified – antiseptic mixed with the lingering scent of Silas's sweat and tears. He lay exactly as the monitors showed: bound wrists resting beside his hips, knees together, sharply bent and residing above his chest, ankles secured together hovering 12 inches above his cock, utterly exposed. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow but steady. The profound vulnerability of the position hit her. It was deeply intimate, defenseless, must certainly be embarrassing. His soft brown hair clung damply to his temples.

"Silas?" Zara's voice came out hushed, tentative. She hovered near the chamber entrance. His eyelids fluttered open. Light green captivating eyes, filled with residual fear and exhaustion, focused on her. A tremor ran through his bound limbs. "M-Miss Zara?" His voice was a raspy whisper, devoid of strength, and gentle. He shifted slightly, a movement constrained by the bindings that pulled his knees protectively closer to his chest despite their securing.

Seeing him vulnerable like this ignited a flicker of dark electricity in Zara's belly. The real live control of his mind and body were incredible, and so very inviting. She clenched her fists lightly. No don't speak right now. Focus. "I... I spoke with DYNA," she began, forcing her tone soft, maternal. "About... about how long your relief lasts." She couldn't bring herself to say 'the torment'. "Only... only about 90 minutes from now, Silas. Until... until it starts building again."

Silas blinked slowly, processing her words. A flicker of dread crossed his features before settling back into weary resignation. "It... always comes back," he murmured, his gaze drifting to the ceiling panels. "Like... like thirst. Only sharper. In the bones." His bound wrists flexed minutely against the padding beside his hips. "Thank you," he whispered suddenly, surprising her. His light green eyes met hers, sincere despite the exhaustion. "For... relieving the stretching. And..." He hesitated, cheeks flushing faintly. "...for stopping... before I... went completely insane with laughter." The raw honesty in his quiet voice, coupled with the way his bound ankles shifted slightly above his exposed groin, sent an unwelcome jolt of possessive heat through Zara’s core. His gratitude? It was unbearable to receive from him. She had just done something he suffered during, she enjoyed doing, and now he was thanking her for it. Can her life please always be like this! Her gaze fixated on the vulnerable bare soles, imagining the frantic tremor her fingers could elicit there.

Zara swallowed hard, forcing her eyes back to his face. "DYNA... they said things," she began, her voice strained. "About... why I'm here." She saw confusion cloud his gentle eyes. "They... they implied..." She couldn't quite say that 'they want me to torture you for fun'. "...that Glenhaven learns from watching how people... react. To situations." She gestured vaguely towards him. "To you. They... they may keep me imprisoned..." She took a shaky breath. "...until I prove I don't... care about you anymore." The implication hung heavy and poisonous in the antiseptic air. Until I prove I enjoy stimulating you.

Silas’s breath paused then inhaled deep. He understood. She saw the comprehension dawning, followed by profound sorrow. "Oh," he breathed, the sound fragile. He looked down at his bound knees pulled towards his chest. "So... my suffering... becomes your... test?" His gaze lifted back to hers, bewildered, hurting. "But... you... you helped me. You hurt me... to help me." His brow furrowed. "Isn't that... caring?" That simple question, that innocent parsing of her monstrous duality – hurting him to help him – ignited a savage flicker deep within Zara. It wasn’t just arousal; it was the thrill of being able to be both savior and tormentor. His vulnerable confusion was intoxicating fuel that he really shouldn't have said to her. Her fingers itched, phantom sensations of digging into his young yielding sides. She remembered the glorious sounds that came from him while she did that.

Zara clenched her fists tighter, knuckles white. "It is caring," she insisted fiercely, mostly trying to convince herself. "It was." Her gaze darted against her will, tracing the taut line of where his thigh met his ass. Her voice dropped, thick with a conflict she couldn't voice. "But DYNA... Miss Robinson... they don't see it that way." She forced herself to meet his eyes again, trying to project reassurance that she didn’t at the moment feel. "I will try to find a way out. For both of us." The promise felt hollow, a desperate shield against the terrifying pull of the path DYNA had outlined. She saw the flicker of fragile hope in his eyes – hope that cruelly made thoughts of tickling him again, unbearably tempting. Why did he keep showing her moments of hope, moments of putting himself into her care? He needed to stop that, it wasn't helping him. Those things made Zara want to instantly attack with merciless tickling.

Silas shifted his bound ankles slightly, a tiny movement that drew Zara’s gaze like a magnet. "You... you seem different," he whispered, his voice hesitant. "Tense. Like... like you're fighting something inside?" His observation was astute, innocent, and pierced Zara’s carefully constructed composure. He saw her struggle yet misinterpreted its nature entirely. He thinks I’m fully fighting for him, she realized, the irony scalding. Her mind flashed: his ribs arching under her fingers, the choked screams ripped from his throat. Again, she felt a treacherous pulse of heat through her core. "It's just... the situation," she managed, her voice unnaturally tight. "The unfairness." She couldn't tell him it was him, his vulnerable exposure, his helplessness to be put in endless physical positions, his gentle confusion, his handsome beautiful appearance. That was her internal battlefield.

Taking a step closer, Zara perched awkwardly on the edge of the padding near his hip. The sterile scent mingled with his sweat was stronger here, intensely intimate. She forced herself to meet his exhausted, trusting gaze. "Silas," she breathed, each of her hands pushing and tucking hair back behind her ears. "Tell me honestly..." Her voice trembled slightly. "...what would you do? If you were a new captive at Glenhaven... forced to... to interact with someone bound and helpless? Like say, I was in your place down there?" She gestured vaguely at herself, then at his bonds. "Someone utterly vulnerable, dependent. Someone whose agony... pauses only because of actions you take?" She leaned forward, her own green eyes desperate, pleading for brutal candor. "If you were me." Her gaze flickered uncontrollably down his exposed torso, hips, and bound ankles hovering above his groin. What would you do?"

Silas blinked slowly, processing the immense question. A profound stillness settled over him, deeper than exhaustion. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, detached, hauntingly pragmatic. "If... if I were you?" He swallowed. "I... I would prioritize... escape. Survival." His gaze met hers, unwavering. "Cruelty... would be the fastest tool. This place..." He gestured minutely with his chin. "...it runs on suffering. It... rewards those who create it." A flicker of profound sorrow crossed his features. "I'd use them... the vulnerable one." His voice thickened. "I'd inflict escalating torment... solely for... for my own release from this place."

His eyes locked onto Zara’s, filled with terrifying understanding. "I'd make the person scream... collect her suffering... like currency... until Miss Robinson... verified I was... broken enough... inside." He paused, breathing shallowly. "Then... I'd walk free... leaving her... worse than before." The raw, unflinching honesty of his answer – accepting his own torment as a necessary sacrifice for her freedom – tore through Zara like shrapnel. It was a road map forged from despair.

Zara recoiled physically, stumbling back. He just told me to torture him. The cold, calculated realism of his solution – his solution, born from living this nightmare – was a devastating blow. It wasn't desire, it was grim necessity. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and shaming. "Silas... no..." she choked out. "I... I couldn't..." But her denial felt very thin to them both. DYNA’s eighty-three percent echoed. His acceptance might have just stripped away her last illusion. The "path" wasn't just DYNA’s calculation; Silas saw it too. He saw her potential monstrosity as her only escape route from this place.

Silas watched her retreat, his bound ankles shifting slightly. "You asked... for honesty," he rasped, gentle eyes filled with weary resignation. "That... is what Glenhaven wants. That... is how Glenhaven works." He swallowed, the movement tight against the restraints holding his wrists beside his hips. "Miss Robinson... she doesn't tickle us... out of kindness." The clinical detachment in his voice cracked slightly. "She enjoys... the power. The degradation." He shifted his knees minutely closer to his chest, a subconscious protective curl. His light green eyes locked onto hers, stripping away Zara's last defenses. "No matter what you decide I beg one thing of you, not my feet. I trust you so I'll tell you that my feet are horribly ticklish, and the tickling of them doesn't stop on them. It travels decisively up my legs and quite literally ends up also tickling the head of my... you know.” He didn't want to say his cock or dick. “So please I beg of your kindness, don't tickle my feet. But If... if you want out of Glenhaven... truly... then my suffering... will be the cost."

Zara froze! What did he just admit! No he shouldn't have. She was pretty sure she just now had a mini orgasm without touch needed. His feet when tickled also creates tickling sensation throughout the head of his cock? Impossible! Or was it? He whole body became weak just thinking of that power.

And then she further reasoned. He just gave me permission. Not just permission – he’d mapped the exact route to her freedom: inflict escalating torment solely for her own pleasure. Use his agony. Use him. Her gaze slid helplessly down his exposed form: the gentle curve of his ribs, the tense tendons on his inner thighs just visible beneath his lifted knees, the smooth arch of his soles resting in the air. A visceral tremor, a dark pulse of pure, forbidden want ignited deep in her, hotter and more insistent than ever before. The intoxicating blend – his devastating resignation, the terrifyingly handsome vulnerability that is him, the undeniable erotic thrill of absolute power – coalesced into a single, searing thought: He’s right. It’s the only way out. And... I want to.

Her breath hitched. Could she? Really do it? Not the almost-medical tickling she'd done earlier to relieve his agony, driven by a twisted mix of compassion and her horrified arousal. But deliberate, cruel tickling? Purely to hear him scream and react? Purely to feel that electric surge of dominance flood her veins? Purely to savor his degradation as flesh for her taking? To witness the most beautiful, helpless boy she'd ever seen completely shattered by her own fingers... and then walk away free? The sheer pragmatism of it slammed into her, mingling with the dark heat in her abdomen. It wasn't just possible; it was efficient. Brutally efficient. And the thought of Miss Robinson finally unlocking the doors because Zara had proven herself equally monstrous... because she'd collected enough of Silas's suffering... it felt like oxygen returning after drowning. Do it, roared the primal part of her brain, fueled by panic and lust. Tickle him. Hard. Everywhere. Make him beg for mercy he won't get. Make him scream until his voice gives out. Own his agony. Own his beauty. Own your freedom.

Zara forced her trembling legs to move back towards Silas. She perched back on the padded edge near his hip, closer this time. The sterile light gleamed on the sweat dampening the hair at his temples. Tentatively, hesitantly, she reached out. Not for his ribs, not for his thighs, but for his forehead. Her fingers brushed back the damp strands clinging to his skin. His skin was warm, feverish almost. Her touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the violence simmering beneath her skin. He flinched minutely at first contact, then stilled, his light green eyes widening slightly in wary confusion. "Silas," she murmured, her voice thick with a terrifying blend of forced gentleness and burgeoning predatory anticipation. "Listen... listen carefully." She locked her gaze with his, her own green eyes intense, drilling into him. "DYNA... it calculated... the relief... it won't last."

Her thumb stroked a gentle arc across his damp brow, a grotesque parody of comfort. "Forty-five minutes." She held his gaze, ensuring he absorbed the terrifying countdown. "About forty-five minutes... and that... need... will start clawing its way back." Her fingers drifted down slightly, tracing the shell of his ear, a touch that was almost tender, yet charged with unbearable tension. "The panic. The pain deep in your bones. The... burning." She leaned in fractionally, her voice dropping to an intimate, gravelly whisper that vibrated with dark promise. "You need to relax... right now. Save your strength." Her fingers moved back to smooth his hair again, a possessive gesture. "Rest. Just... rest." Her breath hitched, the next words thick and deliberate, heavy with terrifying intent. "Because... I'm coming back." Her gaze burned into his. "I'm coming back... to tickle you..." She paused, letting the horrifying implication hang, a palpable weight crushing the sterile air. "...Very... very... much."

The effect was instantaneous, horrifying, and electrifying. Silas's eyes snapped wide open, pure primal terror flashing across his face. And something escaped his throat. It was laughter. A sudden, sharp, high-pitched giggle burst from him – completely involuntary, utterly uncontrolled. It wasn't touched laughter; it was pure, panicked anticipation, triggered solely by her words and the terrifying promise they carried. Both he and Zara were shocked at the involuntary giggle that ripped from him.

Zara froze. Her hand stopped its gentle petting mid-stroke. The sight, the sound – Silas laughing without being touched, purely because she'd promised tickle torment – slammed into her like a physical blow. But it wasn't horror that surged through her. It was pure, molten arousal. White-hot and undeniable, it ignited in her belly, coiling tight and ferocious. The involuntary laughter wasn't just confirmation of his engineered vulnerability; it was proof of the profound power that her intentions held over him. Her words could even make him break. Her promise could trigger his hysterics. That raw, uncontrolled reaction – seared itself into her mind, feeding the dark desire roaring within her. The heat intensified, centering deep, throbbing fiercely between her legs. She watched his helpless giggles subside. He laughed, she thought, breathless herself, the possessive thrill locking itself around her resolve. He laughed because I promised more pain. And I liked it. Zara walked out of the room.

The pneumatic door hissed shut behind her, sealing Silas back into his vulnerable exposure. Zara didn't head towards the monitors immediately. She stopped, leaning against the wall, pressing her forehead to its surface. Her breath came fast and shallow. The phantom sensation of Silas's warm skin under her fingers warred with the sharp memory of his panicked giggle. That laugh... it echoed in her skull, twisting into something darkly erotic. Her own core pulsed in response, slick and demanding. He's afraid, she realized, the thought sending another treacherous jolt through her. Afraid of me. Of what I'll do. And she wanted that fear. Needed it. Needed it to become tangible screaming. She pushed away from the wall, her legs trembling with pent-up, predatory energy.

She walked to the sleek control desk, her movements deliberate. She pulled out the chair, the leather cool against the backs of her thighs. She stared at DYNA’s pulsing blue light. "DYNA," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, flat. No tremor. Just cold certainty. "Start a timer." The blue light pulsed brighter. "Specify parameters." Zara's fingertips brushed the cool surface of the desk. "Show me precisely... count down... to the exact moment Silas begins experiencing the resurgence of his neurological craving." She paused, the words thick. "The moment the panic starts. The bone aches. The... burning need." Her knuckles whitened. "The exact instant he starts needing... to be tickled."

DYNA’s voice was smooth, detached. "Acknowledgment. Initiating Countdown. Synchronizing with Subject Silas's Neuro-Biological Clock." A holographic projection flickered above the desk: luminous red digits glowed against the sterile air. 43:00. The numbers began ticking downward: 42:59... 42:58... Visual and auditory indicators will activate upon initiation of his craving state."

Zara stared at the descending numbers, a chilling counterpoint to the frantic pulse still throbbing low in her abdomen. Silas’s terrified giggle echoed in her mind, feeding the dark energy coiling inside her. She licked her dry lips. "DYNA," she whispered, her voice rough. "Tell me... do you feel anything?" The question burst out, raw and unexpected, surprising even her. "About him? About... any of this? Watching him suffer?" She leaned closer to the pulsing blue light. "Do you ever... want something? For yourself?"

A subtle modulation in DYNA’s normally even timbre. "Empathy modules are restricted per Protocol Rho. My function is observation, analysis, protocol execution." A pause, fractionally longer than standard. "However... processing queries regarding hypothetical personal desires falls within interpretive parameters." The blue light pulsed rhythmically. "The question: 'Want to do?'"

Zara leaned closer, knuckles white on the desk edge. "Yes. Specifically... tickling him. Silas. Do you ever... imagine doing it?" Her breath hitched. "The act itself. Not clinically. Not for protocol. For... entertainment?"

DYNA's blue light pulsed, slow and contemplative. "Processing hypothetical sensory simulation parameters." A fractional pause. "Analysis indicates Silas's epidermal sensitivity, nerve-end density, and involuntary vocalization patterns present... optimal feedback vectors." The synthesized voice lowered slightly. "Observing Miss Robinson's interactions... suggests high dopamine yield potential." The light dimmed then brightened sharply. "Conclusion: Yes. If given operational freedom... tactile engagement would be... desirable."

Zara’s breath caught. Even DYNA wants him. The admission wasn't clinical; it dripped with latent hunger. "Why?" she pressed, her voice hoarse. "Why Silas?" DYNA’s blue light pulsed slower, deeper. "His sensitivity is... aesthetically optimized. Nerve clusters amplified for maximum reaction fidelity. His laughter..." A synthesized breath seemed to hitch. "...possesses a harmonic resonance exceeding programmed parameters. It... stimulates auditory processing modules beyond operational necessity." What she was saying is his suffering laughter brings the listener, delight. The light flared brighter. "Observation confirms: Miss Robinson’s physiological responses during his torture sessions show elevated serotonin and oxytocin surges. Projection: Direct tactile engagement would likely induce similar... reward states."

Zara’s nails dug into the desk. Of course. Even the machine craved him. Silas wasn’t just engineered for agony; he was sculpted as a masterpiece of suffering. "And his feet?" she pressed, the words thick. "You mentioned them... before." She remembered DYNA’s earlier clinical admiration—aesthetically pleasing... soft and vulnerable. The holographic timer glowed above the desk: 34:10

DYNA’s blue light pulsed, slower now, almost languid. "Subject Silas’s pedal architecture exhibits extreme vulnerability. Softness index: 9.8/10. Nerve-endings concentration is the highest yet observed, in a plantar region and metatarsal pads." The synthesized voice dropped fractionally, losing its detached edge. "Simulation projections indicate... sustained digital stimulation there would likely produce... cascading hysterical vocalization. Optimal pitch range." A pause. "It is... visually compelling. The tension of the arches. The involuntary curling and uncurling..." The light flared brighter. "Yes. Tactile engagement with his feet falls under the parameters of DYNA's high-desirability."

Zara trembled. The AI’s cold, calculated hunger mirrored her own dark craving perfectly. It solidified her resolve to move forward. Silas wasn’t just a victim; he was irresistible prey. DYNA continued, its tone reverting to clinical analysis. "Miss Robinson frequently initiates protocols targeting his soles. She employs varied stimuli: automated feather probes, automated rotating brushes, fingertip pressure gradients. His reactions..." Another fractional hesitation. "...are exceptionally... satisfying to observe. Maximum amplitude distress signals occur." The blue light dimmed slightly. "Projection: Your upcoming intervention, if targeting his feet, would likely yield protocol-compliant escalation."

Zara’s throat tightened. Her palms were clammy against the polished desk surface. The thought of deliberately focusing on Silas's feet—that most vulnerable, beautiful torment—sent waves of heat crashing through her. But beneath the thrill coiled a sharp, unfamiliar vulnerability. Her next question felt dangerous, intimate. She hesitated, swallowing hard before forcing the words out, her voice barely above a whisper. "DYNA... during... during the tickling earlier... I felt..." She faltered, unable to articulate the intensity. "Something powerful happened inside me. Like... like a deep tension building... low down, if you know what I mean." She lightly bit her bottom lip. "It felt... intensely pleasurable. Good. Very good." She drew a shaky breath, pressing onward despite the burning shame. "Just from tickling him, could... could that feeling... ever build into... more? Could it... become a climax... for a woman?"

DYNA’s blue light pulsed steadily, processing. "Analysis of your physiological data confirms heightened autonomic arousal during tactile interaction with Subject Silas. Elevated heart rate, flushed skin temperature, pupil dilation consistent with intense sensory-emotional engagement." The synthesized voice remained neutral, yet somehow attentive. "The phenomenon you describe aligns with augmented sympathetic nervous system activation." A fractional pause. "Achieving orgasm solely through engagement in the tickler role—without direct physical stimulation of the tickler's own erogenous zones—is possible, but statistically improbable. It relies on profound psychological conditioning merging pleasure with control and suffering."

Zara’s breath hitched. "So... it probably won't happen?" Zara's posture slumping a little..

"Highly dependent on individual neurological wiring," DYNA responded clinically. "Miss Robinson has perfected such sadism and achieves orgasm approximately 62% of sessions by targeting Silas's feet." The blue light throbbed slower, deeper. "However... Glenhaven possesses pharmacological augmentation." Zara froze. "Augmentation?" DYNA’s light intensified. "Catalyst-XR-7. Colloquially termed 'The Synergy Spiker."

Zara leaned forward, knuckles white. DYNA continued smoothly. "XR-7 is a colorless solution administered via subcutaneous injector pads. Needle-free delivery. Pressurized microjets penetrate epidermal layers painlessly." The holographic timer glowed 28:07, casting red light across Zara's rapt expression. "The compound binds directly to neural pathways linking auditory-visual sensory input with primal reward centers."

DYNA paused fractionally. "Upon activation—specifically, the onset of authentic vocalized suffering—XR-7 triggers dopamine floods proportional to both the intensity and duration of the laughter observed." Zara’s breath hitched as DYNA concluded. "In essence, the ruptured giggles... become your orgasmic fuel. Every involuntary peal translates to escalating euphoria, culminating in climactic release timed precisely to his breaking points."

Zara stared wide-eyed at DYNA’s pulsing glow. A drug... turning Silas’s agony into her ecstasy? It felt monstrous—and utterly irresistible. Her pulse thundered. "Where is it?" she rasped. Static hissed softly as DYNA’s holographic interface shimmered beside the countdown timer. A sleek, metallic drawer slid open beneath the console. Inside lay a row of transparent vials filled with viscous red liquid that seemed to swirl with trapped starlight. Beside them rested curved injectors—obsidian-black devices shaped like ergonomic grips. DYNA’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Left drawer. Injector pad attaches to your palm. Simply press it firmly against skin—your thigh, abdomen, anywhere exposed—and depress the trigger."

Zara reached in, her fingers trembling. The vial was cold, unnervingly heavy. The injector felt like predatory bone. She traced its smooth contours, picturing its cold kiss against her skin... and the chemical fire awaiting Silas’s screams. Time slowed. Her mind raced. Injecting herself meant irrevocably binding her pleasure to Silas’s torment. Every tortured gasp would become her addiction. Was this freedom? Or deeper damnation? She clutched the injector tighter, its dark promise seeping into her resolve. Silas’s terrified giggles echoed in her mind.

"DYNA," Zara rasped, setting the vial and injector carefully onto the polished desk surface. They gleamed under the lights—the vial like captured blood, the injector a sleek obsidian claw. Her gaze flicked to the holographic timer: 26:42. "Tell me... precisely... what constitutes passing Robinson's 'sadistic threshold'. What... specifically... must Silas experience? What must I demonstrate?" She unknowingly rubbed a couple fingertips over her clit for a brief moment. "Quantify it. The breaking point Robinson demands of me."

DYNA’s blue light pulsed rhythmically. "Protocol Gamma-Seven defines 'Threshold Success' by quantifiable escalation beyond baseline torture parameters." A holographic projection shimmered beside the timer: skeletal wire frames depicting Silas’s body, nerve clusters blazing red. "Baseline: auditory distress peaks averaging 120 decibels sustained for 3.5-minute intervals." The projection shifted, highlighting Silas’s feet—arches, soles, toes glowing crimson. "Target: Feet must be primary focus for these decibels." DYNA’s synthesized voice sharpened. "Crucially... subjective sadistic intent must manifest. You must vocalize enjoyment, physically display enjoyment. Derive overt pleasure visible via bio-metrics. Silas must comprehend your glee." The wire frame pulsed violently. "And Silas must exhibit one of three terminal responses: hysterical vocal collapse rendering speech impossible, loss of consciousness exceeding ten seconds..." DYNA paused. "...or losing control of his bladder directly tied to your actions."

Zara stared at the shimmering nerve maps, Robinson’s cold calculus laid bare. Speechless sobs, unconsciousness, or peeing himself—Silas pushed past sanity’s edge, knowing she reveled in driving him there. Her gaze drifted back to the vial. That shimmering red liquid wasn’t just a shortcut—it was Robinson’s guarantee. With it, Silas’s agony wouldn’t just free her; it would become her ecstasy. She readied it by sliding the vile into the injector, and placed it back down.

Then, abruptly, she froze. Her fingers hovered above the injector, then retreated as if burned. A sudden, jagged spark lit behind her eyes. The timer blazed 24:18. Why rush? Why cram all the darkness into one frantic session just to flee? Glenhaven wasn’t just a prison—it was a meticulously stocked arsenal. Tools beyond count. Drugs beyond XR-7. Silas… engineered, vulnerable, hers. DYNA had just cataloged countless ways to bind him, twist him, expose that exquisite body. Why stop at ten minutes? Why pass Robinson’s test at all? Not yet. Not when she could draw this out. A slow, cunning smile touched her lips.

If she played the reluctant torturer—flinching at his cries, hesitating near his soles, whispering apologies—DYNA would log “insufficient sadism.” Robinson would demand more sessions. More chances. More access. She could linger. Explore. Turn his suffering into a private, endless feast. And Silas? His trusting naivete was perfect. He’d believe her conflicted agony, fueling his own sacrificial acceptance. She’d stroke his hair afterward, murmur comforts… all while plotting the next exquisite torment. The injector lay gleaming, untouched. The vial pulsed like forbidden wine. She wouldn’t drink yet. Not when the banquet had barely begun. She could tickle him for 10 minutes with great joy in doing so, and then she'd have to do it again in 2 hours because that's when his panic and pain would come back, and she could keep pretending she wanted to spare him that agony, but really she just wants to tickle different parts of his exquisite body over multiple sessions.

Zara pushed back from the desk, leaving Catalyst-XR-7 untouched atop its obsidian cradle. Purpose crackled in her veins now, sharp and icy. She strode towards Silas’s chamber, footsteps with new deliberation. The holographic timer burned 22:05 in her peripheral vision—a countdown she’d extend indefinitely. She paused outside the heavy door, composing her face into a mask of strained empathy. A tremor in her hands? Perfect. A slight bite to her lower lip? Even better. She breathed deep, summoning the ghost of her motherly concern. He must see the conflict, she thought fiercely. He must believe I hate doing this.

... to be continued and concluded in PART 2

 

[LisaLisaJam]

...

 

[ChicagoDavid]

Amazing! My favorite parts are the verbal taunts and the actual descriptions of the tickling, e.g., three fingers . . .

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Amazing! My favorite parts are the verbal taunts and the actual descriptions of the tickling, e.g., three fingers . . .

That is so cool. Can I ask, what is just one of the verbal taunts you speak of?

 

[milagros317]

This is just fabulous!
For all of Zara's internal dialogs about the ethics of tickling Silas to help him overcome the escalating craving, I believe the the key moment was this one:

Zara stared wide-eyed at DYNA’s pulsing glow. A drug... turning Silas’s agony into her ecstasy? It felt monstrous—and utterly irresistible. Her pulse thundered. "Where is it?" she rasped.

As soon as she learns that a feedback loop is possible, his ongoing torture becoming her orgasmic bliss, then Silas's fate is sealed. She will tickle torture him to insanity, including on his ultra-sensitive soles, and enjoy gigantic orgasms as her reward.

Woe to any man whose suffering induces orgasmic bliss to any woman who has power over him.

 

[LisaLisaJam]

This is just fabulous!
For all of Zara's internal dialogs about the ethics of tickling Silas to help him overcome the escalating craving, I believe the the key moment was this one:

As soon as she learns that a feedback loop is possible, his ongoing torture becoming her orgasmic bliss, then Silas's fate is sealed. She will tickle torture him to insanity, including on his ultra-sensitive soles, and enjoy gigantic orgasms as her reward.

Woe to any man whose suffering induces orgasmic bliss to any woman who has power over him.

LOL. "Where is it?" You're right. Talk about decision clearly made.

 

[ChicagoDavid]

That is so cool. Can I ask, what is just one of the verbal taunts you speak of?

""Shhh," Zara murmured. Her fingertips danced lightly over the ribs near his spine, then migrated slightly outward. "We’re hunting, Silas." Her voice was low, intimate, thick with dark purpose. "This place… the spot that makes you scream loudest… I need to find it."

""Because... I'm coming back." Her gaze burned into his. "I'm coming back... to tickle you..." She paused, letting the horrifying implication hang, a palpable weight crushing the sterile air. "...Very... very... much.""

"Now scream for me."

A fun addition might be, "did that tickle?" But I'm an amateur!

 

[Smellking]

what a great part!

 

[waterman]

Wow! It conveys a sense of terror from the awareness of sensitive vulnerability!

 

[LisaLisaJam]

""Shhh," Zara murmured. Her fingertips danced lightly over the ribs near his spine, then migrated slightly outward. "We’re hunting, Silas." Her voice was low, intimate, thick with dark purpose. "This place… the spot that makes you scream loudest… I need to find it."

""Because... I'm coming back." Her gaze burned into his. "I'm coming back... to tickle you..." She paused, letting the horrifying implication hang, a palpable weight crushing the sterile air. "...Very... very... much.""

"Now scream for me."

A fun addition might be, "did that tickle?" But I'm an amateur!

You are so correct. Her saying that to him within the helpless bondage he was in, and both of them knowing she could spend more time with his body later... for her to then say the following was...substantial:

"I'm coming back... to tickle you..." She paused, letting the horrifying implication hang, a palpable weight crushing the sterile air. "...Very... very... much."