"Mom, it's my room. Why do you care if it's messy?" Carrie flopped onto the living room sofa, kicking her bare feet onto the coffee table. Her straight black hair fanned out against the cushion.
Zara stopped wiping the kitchen counter. "It’s not just your room. It’s a pigsty. Clothes everywhere. Dishes and garbage under the bed." Her voice stayed low, controlled. "You live here. You follow the rules." Carrie rolled her eyes, a faint smirk playing on her lips. She wiggled her toes, examining her polish. "Rules, rules, rules. It's not like anyone sees it but me. Chill out." She stretched, arching her back, completely uncaring to the tension tightening her mother’s shoulders.
Zara turned slowly. Her dark eyes scanned her daughter – the careless sprawl, the dismissive tone, the blessed physical beauty and ivory skin that seemed untouched by any real concern. "Chill out?" she repeated, the words clipped. "You leave your trash everywhere. You ignore me. You talk back. This isn't about a messy room, Carrie. This is about respect." She dropped the cloth. It landed with a soft thud on the counter. "Get up. Clean it. Now."
Carrie sighed dramatically, swinging her legs down. "Fine. Whatever." She pushed herself off the sofa with exaggerated slowness. "But don’t touch my stuff while I’m gone. Seriously. Stay clear of my life and my stuff." She padded towards the hallway, her slender feet silent on the hardwood floor.
Zara watched her go, a deep weariness settling in her chest. It wasn't just the room. It was the constant defiance, the eye rolls, the muttered insults under her breath. The beautiful, careless girl disappearing down the hall felt like a stranger. Zara leaned against the counter, pressing her palms flat against the cool surface. Professional help. The thought surfaced again, sharp and urgent. She needed someone who could reach her daughter, someone who could crack through that wall of indifference before it was too late.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled her phone from her pocket. Scrolling through her contacts, she stopped at 'Janice - Work'. Janice had mentioned her nephew, hadn't she? A wild kid, completely turned around after a few months at some place out in the sticks. Zara hit dial, the phone pressed tightly to her ear. "Janice? Hi, it's Zara. Sorry to bother you... I need to ask you something. About your nephew, Kyle." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "That place he went to... Glenhaven? What exactly was it like?"
Janice’s voice crackled, warm but cautious. "Oh, Zara. Glenhaven? It was... intense. But honestly? A miracle. Kyle was impossible – drugs, stealing, screaming matches. After Glenhaven? Polite, got a job, even helps his mom now." There was a beat of silence. "It's expensive, though. Very. And... private. You don't just sign up. You get referred."
Zara paced the kitchen floor, the worn linoleum cool beneath her bare feet. "How does it work? What do they do?" She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice.
"Honestly?" Janice lowered her voice. "No one really knows the specifics. It's not like verbal therapy, they say. More like... immersion. Reprogramming, maybe? They focus on stripping away the entitlement, the false sense of being better and smarter than others. Kyle never talks about the details, just says it was tough but he needed it. They get results, Zara. Fast. But..." Janice hesitated. "It’s not for the faint of heart. You have to be sure. You have to be ready to let go and not be able to check in with her."
Zara’s knuckles were white where she gripped the phone. She stared out the kitchen window at the manicured lawn, a stark contrast to the chaos in Carrie’s room. "I’m sure, Janice. I’m out of options. She’s... slipping away. Can you refer me? Or, I mean, refer me so they can help Carrie? I need someone to vouch for us." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. The thought of sending her beautiful, defiant daughter away wasn't ideal but, the images of Carrie’s dismissive smirks, eye rolling, and non-stop disrespect, was stronger.
Janice sighed softly on the other end. "Alright, Zara. I understand. My friend, Margot – her son went through Glenhaven last year. She’s still... connected. I’ll call her right now. She’ll have the number. And yes, she’ll provide herself as a reference. She knows how desperate it can feel." There was a pause, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. "Just... be prepared. They move fast once they accept a case. And they’ll want full authority."
Zara ended the call, her heart pounding against her ribs. The silence of the house pressed in, broken only by the distant thump of music from Carrie’s room. Full authority. The words echoed, chilling and absolute. She pictured Carrie’s lite green eyes, wide with disbelief, but most probably disdain or fury. But what about the relentless slammed doors, wasting money, sneering insults, and the utter lack of remorse. Zara closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and dialed the number Janice texted moments later. It rang only once.
A woman’s voice answered, crisp and devoid of warmth. "Glenhaven Happiness Manor. Identify referral." No greeting, no pleasantries. Just cold efficiency.
"Zara Evans," she managed, her voice tight. "Referred by Margot through Janice. About my daughter, Carrie. She’s eighteen." She braced herself, unconsciously curling her toes against the cool linoleum, a reflexive gesture against the phantom tickle of her own secret vulnerability.
"Ms. Evans." The woman’s tone didn’t soften. "We received preliminary notification. State the core behavioral deficiency requiring intervention." It wasn’t a question; it was a demand for the indictment. "Defiance," Zara stated, the word sharp in the quiet kitchen. "Disrespect. Entitlement. A complete disregard for rules, authority, or consequences. She treats her home like a hotel, me like staff." The list flowed out, rehearsed in countless sleepless nights. "She’s… untouchable. Nothing gets through."
"Understood." There was a faint rustle of papers. "Glenhaven specializes in disrupting such ingrained patterns. Our methodology is immersive and intensive. It involves controlled environments and consistent, immediate feedback systems designed to dismantle counterproductive ego structures." The clinical language was jarring. "You understand that upon acceptance, you relinquish all parental authority and visitation rights for the duration of the program? Communication is strictly managed by Glenhaven for therapeutic integrity."
Zara swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Yes. Janice explained. I… I consent." The words felt like stones dropping into a deep well. "How long?"
"Duration is determined by progress, not time. Typically, two to three weeks." The woman paused, the silence heavy. "Acceptance is contingent on full disclosure. Any medical conditions? Allergies? Psychological history? Physical sensitivities?" The last phrase hung in the air, pointed.
Zara’s breath hitched. Physical sensitivities. Her own ticklish feet tingled traitorously beneath her.
Carrie’s recurring nightmare flooded her mind. It always started the same: thick fog, muffling sound, slowing her movements. She’d be running, barefoot on damp grass, her breath ragged gasps. Two figures emerged, handsome but blurred at the edges, their smiles sharp. They moved with impossible speed while she slogged through invisible syrup. "We know," one would whisper, his voice like silk over gravel. "We know everywhere." Her legs felt like lead weights, arms heavy as stone. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t kick. Then, the touch. Feather-light fingertips tracing her ribs. She’d jerk; a silent laugh trapped in her chest. Then her hips, the dip of her waist. Giggles burst out, high and frantic, as the touches multiplied – spider-walks up her inner arms, scribbling circles on her neck. The other man found her ankles. His thumbs pressed into the soft arches of her feet. Pure, electric agony. Her back arched off the dream-ground, tears streaming, laughter turning ragged and desperate. "Stop! Please!" But they never stopped. Fingers dug between her toes, skittered up her soles. The sensation was everywhere, unbearable, unending. Sometimes, the humiliation peaked – a warm, spreading wetness as her bladder gave way under the relentless torture, waking her in a cold sweat, heart hammering against her ribs, the phantom tingles still dancing on her skin. She’d lie frozen, clutching the damp sheets, praying the darkness wouldn’t bring them back.
Back in the waking world, the distant thump of Carrie’s music pulsed through the kitchen door. Zara stared at the phone still clutched in her hand. Physical sensitivities. The Glenhaven woman’s clinical tone echoed. Zara’s own feet, resting on the cool floor, seemed to prickle in awareness. She pushed the thought away. Carrie was strong, defiant. Whatever Glenhaven did, it wouldn’t involve... that. It was about behavior. Structure. "She has no significant medical conditions," Zara stated firmly, her voice regaining its no-nonsense edge. "No allergies. No history of psychological treatment." She paused, the image of Carrie’s careless sprawl on the sofa flashing before her. "She’s physically healthy. Just... resistant."
"Understood, Ms. Evans," the woman replied. The sound of rapid typing came through the line. "We require almost immediate custody for assessment. Our transport team will arrive this during the night, tonight, around 1am. We will only retrieve Carrie. No electronics, no personal items, no outside communication. Have her ready. Do not inform her of the destination or purpose. Resistance is expected and managed. Leave your front door fully unlocked. We'll be stealth." The line went dead before Zara could breathe a reply.
Zara leaned heavily against the counter. The music from Carrie’s room suddenly sounded like a taunt. She walked down the hall, stopping outside her daughter’s door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open. Carrie was sprawled on her bed, scrolling through her phone, surrounded by discarded snack wrappers and tangled clothes. "Why don't you take a nice shower," Zara said, her voice unnervingly calm.
Carrie didn’t look up. "Why? Got a hot date for me or something?" She snorted. "Seriously, Mom. Some privacy please? Just get lost."
Zara closed the door softly. The casual cruelty landed like a physical blow. Tonight, she thought, pressing her forehead against the cool wood. It ends tonight. She moved through the house like a ghost, turning off lamps, plunging rooms into deepening shadow. Only the faint blue glow from beneath Carrie’s door remained. She sat stiffly in the armchair facing the hallway, shrouded in darkness. The grandfather clock ticked, each second echoing like a hammer blow.
The distant thump of music faded around midnight. Silence settled thick and suffocating. Zara didn't move. Her eyes stayed fixed on the strip of light beneath Carrie’s door until, finally, it blinked out. She waited longer, counting breaths, listening to the house settle.
She awoke suddenly. Looked at the clock. It was 5am in the morning! Did she doze off? How? The armchair felt stiff and unforgiving. Here memory was hazy. The hallway was pitch black, silent. Too silent. No muffled movements from Carrie’s room. Nothing. Had they come? Had they taken her while she slept?
Zara pushed herself up, her joints protesting. She moved down the hall on silent feet, the cool wood chilling her soles. Carrie’s door stood ajar. She pushed it open fully. The faint moonlight filtering through the window illuminated the bed. Empty. The sheets were rumpled, tossed aside, but undisturbed otherwise. No sign of struggle. No knocked-over lamp, no scattered belongings. Just the usual mess – clothes strewn, wrappers littering the floor – exactly as Carrie had left it. As if she’d simply vanished from the bed.
Carrie blinked awake, disoriented. The air smelled sterile, sharp with antiseptic, not like her lavender-scented sheets. Cool leather pressed against her wrists and ankles. Panic flared, sharp and sudden, as she tried to jerk upright. Straps bit into her skin, holding her firmly against the hard back of a wheelchair. Her breath hitched. Where was she? Where was her phone? The room swam into focus – pale gray walls, a single recessed light overhead casting harsh shadows.
Miss Robinson sat in a sleek, high-backed chair opposite her, legs crossed elegantly. Rita Robinson, Head Director and Doctor of Glenhaven Happiness Manor, radiated calm authority. Her shoulder-length red hair was impeccably smooth, framing high cheekbones and cool brown eyes that assessed Carrie with unnerving detachment. She wore a tailored charcoal suit that accentuated a feminine, exquisite figure, her posture perfectly poised. A very faint, unreadable smile touched her lips as she observed Carrie's struggle against the restraints.
"Carrie Evans." Her voice was velvet-smooth, cultured, yet devoid of warmth. It wasn't a question. "Welcome to Glenhaven Happiness Manor." She leaned forward slightly, her gaze intensifying. "I am Doctor Rita Robinson. You may address me as Doctor Robinson, or Ma'am." Her eyes flickered down to Carrie's bare, slender feet, strapped firmly to the wheelchair's footrests, then back up to her face. "Your mother was quite... thorough in describing your behavioral deficiencies. Disrespect. Entitlement. A profound lack of accountability." She paused, letting the clinical words sink in. "Here, Carrie, we specialize in recalibration. We strip away the ego that blinds you to consequence." Her smile widened, just a fraction, revealing perfectly white teeth. It didn't reach her eyes. "Consider this your fresh start. What a wonderful opportunity for you."
Carrie twisted a little bit against the straps, panic sharpening her voice. "Let me go! Where's my mom? You can't do this! This is kidnapping! How did I even get here?" Her eyes darted wildly around the sparse room – no windows, only one heavy solid door. The cool air prickled against her skin beneath the thin robe. She suddenly registered the fabric brushing her thighs, the complete absence of her usual clothes. The realization hit like cold water: she was wearing only this flimsy, lite-green medical robe and her panties. The short-sleeved robe felt insubstantial, barely covering her, the fabric whispering against her skin with every movement. Her bare arms tested against the leather cuffs, the vulnerability amplifying her terror. "Get these off! Now! What kind of place is this?"
Miss Robinson remained utterly composed, her gaze steady. "Calm yourself, Carrie. Your mother signed the necessary consent forms. She relinquished authority." A trace of amusement flickered in her brown eyes when she said that. "As for how you arrived? Efficiency and discretion are paramount at Glenhaven. Your home was infused with a gentle, odorless sleeping vapor. Our retrieval team encountered no resistance." She leaned back slightly, steepling her fingers. "You were transported while deeply asleep, ensuring a smooth transition. Your mother remained undisturbed in her armchair. She awoke to find your room empty. A necessary severance." The clinical detachment in her voice was chilling.
Carrie’s fear momentarily crystallized into defiant anger. This woman, this place? It was just another authority figure trying to push her around. Just like her mom. She knew how to handle that. She summoned her most practiced sneer, the one that made her mom flinch. "Yeah? Well, screw your 'fresh start', lady," Carrie spat, forcing her voice into a lazy drawl despite the straps biting her wrists. She deliberately let her head rest back against the headrest, projecting utter boredom. "You think strapping me to a chair is scary? Please. This is pathetic. And you?" She let her eyes travel insolently over Miss Robinson’s tailored suit. "Playing doctor in your fancy suit? Bet you couldn't handle a real job. Looks like you spend more time at the salon than any hospital." She snorted, a harsh, dismissive sound. "My mom’s desperate and stupid. Signing papers? Big deal. You can't make me do anything. So, untie me, Rita, before I get really pissed off. This whole 'Happiness Manor' thing? Sounds like a scam for washed-up losers."
Miss Robinson didn’t flinch. Her cool brown eyes remained fixed on Carrie’s face, absorbing the venomous words without a ripple. The faint, unreadable smile didn’t waver; it seemed almost carved into her elegant features. Carrie’s insults bounced off her polished exterior like pebbles off armor. She watched Carrie’s forced display of bravado, the tremor beneath the sneer, the way her knuckles whitened against the leather restraints. There was no anger in her gaze, only a detached, almost clinical assessment. When Carrie finished her tirade, breathing slightly harder, Miss Robinson simply tilted her head a fraction, her expression unchanged.
"Do you have any physical fears, Carrie?" The question sliced through the lingering tension, delivered in that same velvet-smooth tone. It wasn’t mocking, nor was it gentle. It was a simple, direct inquiry, devoid of judgment or reaction to Carrie’s outburst. Her gaze remained steady, unwavering, as if Carrie’s defiance was nothing more than background static.
Carrie blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. Physical fears? The question felt like a trapdoor opening beneath her. Her mind instantly flashed to the damp sheets, the phantom laughter still echoing in her ears from last night’s nightmare – the heavy limbs, the cruel hands knowing exactly where to touch. Panic surged, a cold wave washing over her defiance. "What? No!" she snapped, too quickly, her voice cracking slightly. She tried to inject scorn. "That's stupid. I'm not afraid of anything ... physical. Whatever that even means anyway." She shifted against the straps, acutely aware of her bare feet strapped to the cool metal footrests. The vulnerability felt suffocating. Carrie's face turned flushed red.
Miss Robinson’s gaze didn’t waver. It traveled slowly, deliberately, from Carrie’s flushed face down her slender neck, lingering for a fraction of a second on the pulse hammering visibly at her throat, then further down to where the thin robe gaped slightly, revealing the soft skin above her collarbone. Her eyes finally settled on Carrie’s bare feet. "Interesting," she murmured, almost to herself. The word hung in the sterile air. She was about to test if Carrie might be ticklish. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her movements precise and unhurried. Her polished fingernail, a deep crimson, hovered near Carrie’s exposed left foot. Carrie instinctively jerked her foot back as much as she could, straining against the unforgiving leather strap. A tiny, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. Her toes curled tightly.
Rita's polished nail didn't touch her. But she did purposely position it just a couple inches above the delicate top side of Carrie’s left foot. Carrie’s breath hitched for a moment. Every nerve ending braced themselves. Her foot and leg muscles locked rigid. She squeezed her eyes shut, them opened them purposely to try and show no fear. Don’t move. Don’t react. But the phantom sensation of that nearby fingernail was already sparking frantic giggles deep in her chest, desperate to burst free. That is just how ticklish Carrie was. A girl who laughs even before she's touched. The straps felt like iron bands, forcing her stillness, amplifying her terrifying vulnerability. Her secret of being insanely ticklish screamed silently within her.
Miss Robinson withdrew her hand slowly, a flicker of dark satisfaction warming her cool gaze. Carrie’s raw instinctive automatic terror was delicious. It echoed the many times Miss Robinson has tickled people during her life. She saw herself reflected in Carrie’s panic – not as the polished Director, but as a hidden predator. Her fingers twitched faintly against her thigh. The desire was always the same: a subject, bound and utterly helpless, stripped of defiance. Herself, shedding the tailored suit like a discarded skin, revealing the gleeful tormentor beneath. The first touch never violent, always feather-light, landing on an exquisitely vulnerable spot. The sharp intake of breath a ticklish person exhibits. The widening of the eyes. Then the tremors starting, subtle at first. The desperate clenching of muscles fighting the inevitable. And then… the glorious eruption. That first, high-pitched gasp of laughter, forced out against the victim’s will. The beautiful, agonizing loss of control. Watching proud resistance dissolve into squirming, tearful hysteria under her relentless, experienced fingers. The power wasn't just in the tickling; it was in the knowing. Finding then knowing every secret spot, every hidden sensitivity amplified by fear. Knowing she could reduce a defiant spirit, or even an innocent one, to a gasping, pleading wreck with nothing but her touch. Carrie’s frantic foot tremor that just occurred, and the choked-back gasp… it was perfect. Rita’s heart beat faster, a dark thrill coursing through her veins. This one… this beautiful, insolent girl… would sing so beautifully.
Carrie’s slender feet, strapped immobile to the cold metal footrests, were a masterpiece of youthful vulnerability. Her high arches curved gracefully, like delicate bridges of ivory silk, smooth and unblemished. The skin was impossibly soft, a flawless canvas stretching from the elegant slope of her ankles down to the delicate pads beneath her toes. Fine, almost invisible wrinkles gathered faintly at the base of her toes, adding a touch of innocent texture. Her soles were pristine, a soft pink blush warming the otherwise creamy white expanse, utterly untouched by roughness. Each toe was slender and perfectly formed, tipped with naturally pale, pearly nails. The pinky toe curled inward slightly, a tiny gesture of unconscious defense. The arch was deep and sculpted, a testament to youthful vitality, yet seemed impossibly fragile against the unyielding leather restraints. The tendons beneath the soft skin of her instep stood out faintly, taut with suppressed tension. Her feet were utterly feminine, a stark contrast to the cold, clinical setting – soft ivory perfection bound by harsh, dark straps.
Dr. Robinson leaned forward, "Why do you think you are here, Carrie?" Rita asked, her velvet voice deceptively calm. Her gaze remained locked on Carrie’s face, watching the micro-expressions flicker – the widening of her green eyes, the slight flare of nostrils, the frantic pulse leaping in her throat.
Carrie forced a harsh laugh, straining against the straps. "Because my mom's a controlling bitch who can't handle that I'm not her little puppet anymore?" Her voice dripped with practiced scorn, but a tremor betrayed her. "Seriously, Rita, this whole setup? It's pathetic. Looks like you spent Daddy's money playing doctor 'cause you couldn't cut it anywhere else." She deliberately rolled her eyes, projecting insolent boredom, but her knuckles were bone-white against the leather cuffs.
Dr. Robinson didn't react. She simply watched Carrie’s performance, a faint, chilling amusement warming the depths of her brown eyes. The insults washed over her polished exterior like rain off glass. Slowly, deliberately, she uncrossed her legs and rose. Her movements were fluid, unhurried, the click of her heels on the polished concrete floor echoing sharply in the sterile silence. She circled the wheelchair, her gaze lingering on Carrie’s restrained wrists, the thin robe gaping at her throat, and finally, her bound feet resting helplessly on the metal rests. Carrie instinctively held her breath, every muscle locking rigid against the anticipated touch. None came.
Rita reached her sleek, minimalist desk. Without looking back, she pressed a single button on an intercom panel. "Take Carrie to her first session," she instructed, her voice cool and clipped. The command hung in the air, final and absolute. Carrie’s defiant facade cracked. "First session? What session? What are you talking about?" Panic sharpened her voice, cutting through the forced bravado.
Inside Carrie’s mind, terror screamed. This wasn't detention or some lame therapy camp. The straps, the sterile smell, the utter lack of windows – it felt like a prison. Like some nightmare, except without the tickling. Miss Robinson hadn't flinched at her insults, hadn't even seemed annoyed. She'd just… watched. Like Carrie was an insect pinned under glass. The calmness was terrifying. This woman wasn't worried about Carrie’s protests at all. Not one bit. That meant she didn't have to be, that she was completely unconcerned about repercussions. That meant Carrie was utterly powerless here. The realization was twisting in her gut. She was trapped, stripped down to this flimsy robe, strapped to a chair, and this polished predator with red hair was completely in control. Carrie’s breath came in shallow, rapid bursts. Get out of this place. Now. But the leather straps were too strong.
Daniel entered the room, and appeared to be about 38, 39 years old. A man? A guy? And she was nearly naked and bound? That made Carrie’s breath catch. Tall and well built, he wore simple black tactical gear that emphasized broad shoulders and lean muscle. His brown hair was cropped short, framing sharp cheekbones and eyes that scanned the room – and scanned Carrie – with quick focus. He didn't look like medical staff should. His gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on Carrie’s bound feet before snapping back to Miss Robinson. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Ma'am."
Miss Robinson smiled, a genuine curl of her lips that softened her features unnervingly. "Daniel, excellent timing. Carrie here requires immediate skin preparation. Full protocol." Her gaze swept back to Carrie, lingering on her flushed face. "We've decided on a happy skin treatment. A recalibration starter."
Daniel stepped forward without hesitation. Carrie recoiled as best she could against the straps. "Skin prep? What? No! Get away!" Her voice cracked, panic stripping away her last shreds of defiance. Daniel ignored her protests. He produced a pair of bulky, industrial-looking headphones – thick black plastic cups with a padded headband and a heavy strap. Before Carrie could twist her head away, he clamped them firmly over her ears. The world plunged into muffled silence, her own frantic breathing suddenly loud and hollow inside her skull. She felt the strap tighten sharply beneath her chin, locking the headphones in place. She tried to shake her head violently, but the padding gripped her skull. Impossible to dislodge.
In the eerie vacuum of sound, Carrie watched Daniel move behind her wheelchair. The floor vibrated faintly beneath her as he pushed her forward. The hallway they entered was different – colder, tiled in sterile white, lit by harsh fluorescent strips that flickered slightly. Closed steel doors lined the corridor, each marked with cryptic symbols. The silence pressed in, amplifying the frantic thudding of her heart against her ribs. She couldn't hear the wheels turning, couldn't hear Daniel's footsteps – only the trapped thunder of her own pulse and ragged breaths inside the headphones. The vibration stopped. Daniel had halted her before one of the steel doors. He tapped a code onto a keypad; Carrie saw his fingers move but heard nothing. The door slid open silently.
He pushed her inside. The room was smaller, dominated by a deep, rectangular basin sunk into the floor—not ceramic, but smooth, seamless polymer that glowed faintly under recessed lighting.
Inside the tub were more restraints on each side and also on the back side. Carrie quickly realized that the restraints were firmly and permanently fastened to the sides of the tub. What Carrie also realized is that they were in a pattern that would hold a person's body captive inside the tank, unable to move. Thick padded cuffs, dark leather against the pale polymer, waited at precise intervals: two for wrists, two for elbows, two for ankles, and additional sets for knees and thighs. Another cuff, wider, protruded from the tub's sloping headrest. For her neck? The arrangement wasn't random; it mapped the joints—shoulders, elbows, knees—forcing limbs into an open position, and most horribly it seems bare feet would be nearly completely exposed. Escape would be geometrically impossible.
Daniel removed the bulky headphones. Sound rushed back—the hum of hidden machinery, the drip of water somewhere unseen, the frantic drumming of her own heart. Carrie’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Whatever this is, please don’t. Please." She twisted her head, trying to catch his eye. "I’ll be good. I swear. Just untie me!"
He didn't answer that. Daniel produced a thin band of skin-colored polymer, flexible as silicone but also rigid. Carrie flinched as he snapped it snugly around her throat. It lay flush against her skin, almost invisible. "Don't be frightened," he said, his voice flat, professional. "This collar administers gentle sedation. Non-invasive. All staff carry the remote." One finger tapped the small, metallic disc embedded near her pulse point. "We activate it when necessary."
The explanation landed like a stone in water—cold, heavy, sinking fast. Carrie's mind raced. Sedation? Remote control? The band felt like a leash. Her throat tightened. "Necessary for what?" she demanded, voice cracking. Daniel ignored her.
His thumb brushed the activation button. Carrie braced—for pain, for dizziness—but felt nothing. Only a sudden, overwhelming softness draping her consciousness. The harsh fluorescent lights blurred into warm honey. The sterile smell dissolved into something sweet and distant. Her frantic thoughts slowed, unwound, drifted away like dandelion fluff. Panic evaporated. The restraints? Oh, those were... cushions? Soft clouds holding her gently. Daniel's stern face softened into a friendly blur. "Deep breaths," he murmured, though his lips didn't move. Or did they? Her eyelids fluttered shut. The world dissolved into velvet blackness. Utterly peaceful.
Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but like silt settling in still water. Awareness seeped in slowly, thick and syrupy. First sensation: warmth. Enveloping, liquid warmth hugging every inch of her skin, all the way up to her neck. Then, her limbs and neck were in bondage, compliments of the black restraint cuffs built into the tub. Carrie blinked, vision swimming. Above her, recessed lights glowed softly through a haze—a milky, opaque whiteness surrounded her, clinging to her skin like warm silk. It smelled faintly of almonds and clean cotton. Where...? Memory surfaced sluggishly. The tub. The restraints. Daniel’s thumb on the button.
A distant impulse nudged her. Move? Carrie sluggishly tested her bonds. She flexed her wrists against the padded leather cuffs anchoring her arms. Nothing. Not even a millimeter of give. She tried to bend her elbows, pull her forearms inward. The restraints held firm, locked precisely at the joint. Her legs were worse—ankles secured apart, pressed against each side of the tub, knees held straight by straps above the kneecaps, thighs also pinned. At least she could wiggle her toes and slightly bend at the ankles. The thick leather bit gently into her skin, a constant, unyielding pressure. Escape wasn't just impossible; the geometry of her bondage made the very idea feel abstract, irrelevant. Like trying to flap her arms to fly. Utterly pointless.
The milky liquid lapped warmly against her throat. Only her head was above and out of the liquid. It felt much thicker than water, silkier. She tilted her head back against the padded headrest, her neck collar was very snug but not choking her. "What... what is this stuff?" she mumbled, her voice thick, sluggish. The words sounded muffled in the small, tiled room.
Daniel stood at the tub's edge, adjusting a panel on the wall. "Skin-prep emulsion," he answered, tone flat. "Opens pores. Softens." His gaze swept over her submerged form, clinical. "Standard procedure."
Carrie blinked almond-scented liquid from her eyes. The milky fluid clung to her skin, warm and heavy. She shifted slightly—or tried to—and felt the drag against her thighs, her ribs. No resistance. No friction from fabric. Only slick emulsion meeting skin. Her breath caught. She wasn't sure, but she was fairly confident she was no longer wearing her light green thin robe. Or anything else. The realization bloomed slow and thick through the sedation's haze. She was naked. Utterly exposed beneath this opaque veil. Strapped open in this tub while a stranger watched. Humiliation burned hotter than the liquid warmth.
"You—you pervert!" Carrie's voice slurred, thick with lingering sedation but sharpening with outrage. She strained against the wrist cuffs. Nothing budged. "Untie me! Right now! My dad's a lawyer! A really expensive one! He'll sue you into oblivion! He'll have this whole sick place bulldozed!" She glared up at Daniel, who remained impassive at the tub's edge, adjusting a panel. "Kidnapping! I'll press criminal charges! You'll rot in prison! All of you! Especially that Robinson bitch!" Carrie didn't exactly have a lawyer dad. Her parents divorced a year ago. Her estranged dad was not a lawyer. He was a dentist.
Daniel didn't flinch. He paused, studying her flushed face. "If you're worried about modesty... don't be. The robes we use? They're Westlake polymer. Single-use. Designed for immersion. When saturated, they dissolve. Completely. Disappear. They're gone."
Carrie blinked almond-scented emulsion from her eyes. She stared down into the milky liquid. Where pale green fabric should cling to her chest... nothing. Only smooth, slick skin. Her thighs... bare. The robe had vanished. Dissolved. Like sugar in hot tea. Utterly gone. She strained against the wrist cuffs. "You—you dissolved my clothes?" Her voice trembled, outrage warring with disbelief. "That's... that's insane!"
Daniel adjusted a dial on the panel. "Designed to biodegrade upon saturation. Efficient." His tone remained flat, detached. "No laundry."
Daniel's expression remained impassive as he monitored the emulsion's viscosity on a wall-mounted display. "The robe dissolved evenly," he stated clinically. "Your modesty was maintained throughout this particular procedure. No visual assessment occurred." His thumb hovered near his sedation remote. "Would you prefer sedation?"
Carrie's cheeks flushed crimson beneath the milky film. The humiliation burned hotter than any sedative could soothe. "Don't you dare touch that button!" she spat, straining uselessly against the thigh restraints. The thick emulsion slid between her legs with horrifying intimacy. "Just... just tell me what this 'happy skin treatment' is."
Daniel didn't look at her. His fingers tapped a sequence onto the wall panel. "That's not something you need to know." A soft hydraulic hum vibrated through the tub's polymer frame. "It won't hurt you, though." He glanced down, his gaze impersonal as a lab technician assessing a specimen. "Physically."
Carrie flinched as the milky liquid began to gently swirl around her restrained limbs, the thick emulsion pulling at her skin with warm, viscous fingers. "Physically?" she echoed, panic cutting through the lingering sedation haze. "What does that—"
Daniel interrupted her by calmly unzipping his black jacket. He shrugged it off, revealing a plain grey undershirt stretched taut over defined shoulders and arms. Without ceremony, he pulled the undershirt over his head, exposing a torso corded with lean muscle. Carrie's breath hitched—not from attraction, but from the raw vulnerability of her nakedness confronting his sudden unexpected exposure. He folded the shirt and placed it on a stainless-steel trolley beside the wall.
From beneath the trolley, he retrieved a thick roll of material—dark grey, dense, and pliable, like dense memory foam. He unrolled it smoothly onto the polished floor directly beside Carrie's right side, parallel to the tub's edge. The mat unfurled to the length of a person, its surface yielding slightly under his palm as he pressed it flat. It looked less like a yoga mat and more like specialized padding, designed for kneeling or prolonged contact with hard surfaces. Its placement was on the side of the tub that Carrie's right arm and leg were held against, the milky liquid still lapping just below the middle of her neck.
Daniel knelt on the mat, his knees sinking into the foam. The position brought his face level with Carrie's face, his bare torso uncomfortably close to her bound self. He dipped his hand into the emulsion. "Don't," Carrie pleaded, the word choked. Her eyes darted from his hands to his impassive face. "Please. Whatever you're going to do... don't."
Daniel met her terrified gaze. His expression remained neutral, professional, devoid of malice, not argumentative. "Procedure requires full epidermal saturation and tactile desensitization initiation," he stated flatly. His fingers stretching and flexing underneath the surface of the liquid. "The emulsion enhances nerve conductivity." His eyes held hers, and for the first time his expression showed contentment and calm enjoyable dominance. "This... will likely... tickle."
Before Carrie could protest his wet palm slid slowly down the side of her neck. The thick emulsion amplified his hand's touch, transforming it into an electric glide that ignited every nerve ending beneath her skin. Carrie gasped a sharp involuntary intake of breath—as the sensation bloomed further. Not pain. Worse. Far worse. It was a feather-light molten ripple cascading over her collarbone, sparking involuntary tremors in her shoulders. Her head jerked back against the sturdy built in headrest. "N-nooo! Stop!" The plea dissolved into breathless unstoppable giggles that horrified her. Carrie was in fact naturally, so very, ticklish.
Daniel’s hand continued its slow deliberate descent. Across her shoulder down the outer curve of her bicep. His fingers traced the path with firm, broad strokes, working the emulsion deep into her skin. Every inch he slid his fingers over sent waves of unbearable sensitivity radiating outward. Carrie’s elbow restraint held her tightly as she instinctively tried to curl her arm away, the padded restraint cuff held her terribly immobile. The sensation intensified as his palm and fingers smoothed over the delicate skin of her inner arm, her inner bicep—a hypersensitive zone she hadn’t even known existed. Her laughter erupted another level, high-pitched and frantic, bubbling up uncontrollably. "Ohgod ohgodPLEA—EESE!" she exclaimed as her laughter continued. Her body bucked against the restraints, a futile attempt as the relentless, gliding fingers torture continued.
He moved methodically. Each invasion sent fresh volcanic eruptions of ticklish torment through Carrie. Her laughter dissolved into breathless shrieks; frantic tears started in her eyes. He wasn't rough; he wasn't angry. His touch was clinical, deliberate, and devastatingly precise. Carrie knew, with heart-breakingly terrifying certainty that Daniel wasn't just doing this. He was an artist. A practiced, professional tickler of sorts. This wasn't improvisation; it was a refined technique, honed over countless sessions. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply – not enough to bruise or cause pain, but enough to ignite unbearable sensitivity. He knew the exact angles to trap tendons, the precise spots between bones where nerve endings clustered like exposed wires. He knew how long to linger in each crevice, letting the emulsion amplify the sensation.
His hand moved lower, skimming her ribcage. Carrie sucked in a desperate breath, trying to steel herself, but it was useless. The touch was agony disguised as pleasure—light, insistent, utterly inescapable. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, and she shrieked, arching her back wildly, the leather straps straining. Her hips twisted, churning the milky liquid. "DON'T! DON'T NOT THERE! (extreme laughter) STOP IT THERE!" The laughter was already ragged, bordering on sobs. Daniel remained silent, methodical, but she could see it on his face, he very much enjoyed this part of his task. He was clearly someone who didn't feel bad for a very ticklish person. His hand slid over the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, the taut plane of her abdomen. Each new territory conquered sent fresh paroxysms of helpless laughter tearing through her. Her stomach muscles clenched and fluttered uncontrollably, burning with effort. The nightmare’s familiar dread flooded her—the slow-motion terror, the heavy limbs, the utter vulnerability. It was happening. Right here. Right now. And Daniel with his calm clinical hand, knew exactly where to touch to make her scream and sing. He stopped tickling for a moment.
Then, very surprisingly with a soft splash, Daniel removed his shoes socks and pants, leaving only the swim trunks that were beneath, and stepped down into the tub, the warm emulsion liquid swirling around his thighs. He positioned himself squarely between Carrie’s widely spread legs, facing her. His bare chest glistened under the recessed lights. Carrie froze, breath catching in her throat. His proximity was terrifying—she could see the droplets clinging to his collarbone. His gaze locked onto hers for a fleeting second, utterly impassive, before drifting lower. He placed both hands beneath the surface of the water, both hands flat on her ribs, just below her breasts. Carrie braced, muscles tensing. His fingers didn’t dig, didn’t pinch. They spider-walked, spider-tapped. Light, impossibly quick flutters over the sensitive arches of her ribs, tracing the bony ridges with feather-light precision. It was like being electrocuted with feathers. Carrie’s head slammed back against the headrest again, a strangled scream of laughter bursting from her lips. Her torso bucked violently, trying to twist away from the unbearable sensation, but the restraints held her firmly in place, and his hands could easily follow the small amounts she could adjust her ticklish torso. Tears begin to stream freely down her cheeks. "NO! GOD! PLEASE! (extreme laughter) STOP! STOP! IT'S TOO MUCH! (extreme laughter).
Daniel’s hands slid slowly downward, thumbs tracing the delicate dip of her waist. The emulsion amplified every microscopic movement into an electric ripple. Carrie gasped, sucking in air between peals of laughter. His fingertips danced over the soft curve of her hip bone, then dipped lower, skimming the sensitive crease where thigh met pelvis. Carrie shrieked, her legs jerking uselessly against the ankle and thigh restraints. "NONONO! (extreme laughter) NOT THERE! OHGOD IT'S AWFUL! (extreme laughter) PLEASE DON'T!" Her laughter dissolved into breathless hiccupping sobs. He lingered there, fingers spidering lightly over the hypersensitive inner thigh skin just below her hip joint, an area Carrie had never been tickled on, and for good reason. The sensation was volcanic molten lava flowing directly to her nerves. Her body convulsed, churning the thick skin softening liquid.
His hands moved lower still, palms gliding down the length of her inner thighs. Carrie screamed again, a high-pitched, ragged sound. His thumbs pressed lightly into the soft flesh midway down her spread legs, all by touch, as he could not clearly see below the murky water. But he was sending fresh volcanic eruptions of ticklish torment on that delicate ticklish leg muscle. He moved methodically, inch by agonizing inch down toward her ankles. Each descent sent fresh paroxysms of helpless laughter tearing through her. Her stomach muscles fluttered uncontrollably.
Daniel’s expression never changed. It remained placid, focused, utterly detached—a mask of professional calm that made the violation more terrifying. His eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of predatory satisfaction. They weren’t cruel, nor gleeful; instead, they held the serene concentration of a master craftsman appreciating his medium. As Carrie bucked and shrieked, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, his gaze remained steady, clinically observing the precise tremors his fingers elicited, the way her breath hitched between spasms of laughter. There was no malice in his face, only the quiet absorption of someone performing a practiced, necessary task with perfect precision. This detachment was its own kind of sadism—a cold, efficient cruelty that acknowledged her agony without pity or passion.
Carrie’s breath came in desperate, hiccupping gasps. “P-Please… Daniel… stop… I c-can’t… breathe…” she begged between convulsive giggles, her voice raw. Her body felt aflame with sensitivity, every nerve ending screaming. His thumbs reached the hollows behind her knees—a spot she hadn’t known could be so excruciatingly ticklish—and pressed lightly, firmly. Her legs jerked violently against the restraints, a fresh wave of hysterical laughter bursting forth. “NOOO! OHGOD NOT THERE! IT’S LIKE FIRE! PLEASE!” The plea dissolved into breathless, choking giggles. She tried to curl her toes, to twist her ankles away, but the thick leather cuffs held her feet utterly immobile, soles angled slightly upward toward the surface of the emulsion.
Daniel’s hands slid lower still, palms gliding down her calves toward her ankles. Carrie screamed again, a high-pitched, ragged sound. His thumbs pressed lightly into the soft flesh midway down her calves, sending fresh volcanic eruptions of ticklish torment through her legs. He moved methodically, inch by agonizing inch down toward her ankles. Each descent sent fresh paroxysms of helpless laughter tearing through her. Her stomach muscles fluttered uncontrollably.
Daniel’s expression remained placid. As Carrie bucked and shrieked, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, his gaze remained steady, clinically observing the precise tremors his fingers elicited, the way her breath hitched between spasms of laughter. There was no malice in his face, only the quiet absorption of someone performing a practiced, necessary task with perfect precision. This detachment was its own kind of sadism—an efficient cruelty that acknowledged her agony without pity or passion.
Carrie’s breath came in desperate hiccupping gasps. “P-Please… Daniel… stop… I c-can’t… breathe…” she begged between convulsive giggles, her voice raw. Her body felt aflame with sensitivity, every nerve ending screaming.
He watched her thrash, clinically noting the tear tracks cutting through the milky film on her cheeks. Eighteen, he thought, fingers spidering lower down her calves. Barely legal. Soft ivory skin stretched taut over trembling muscles. Her laughter echoed off the tile—a frantic, luscious girlish sound. He’d been doing this for twenty years. Since before she was born. When he’d started at Glenhaven, tickling had been… functional. A tool. He was thirty-eight. Old enough to be her father. Old enough to know precisely how to unravel her. His fingers firmly slid up and down both of her calf muscles simultaneously. She shrieked with craziness!
After another 30 seconds of pure calf muscle tickling, he stopped touching her and just observed. Daniel watched with fascination as Carrie’s laughter continued to bubble out of her in constant ragged, hiccupping bursts long after his hands had lifted from her calves. Her body still convulsed against the restraints. muscles twitching in her thighs, abdomen and ribs as if electrified. Tears streamed freely down her flushed cheeks, cutting clean tracks and dripping down off her face into the milky bath. Her breath came in desperate shallow gasps between her involuntary giggles, her chest heaving. The ticklish sensitivity lingered like phantom flames dancing across her nerve endings. She wasn't laughing from joy; it was pure neurological aftershock; her body still trapped in the violent reflex he'd triggered. She looked pretty darn broken, yet her vocal cords kept spasming, producing those high-pitched helpless sounds. Eighteen. Barely legal. Soft ivory skin flushed crimson with exertion and humiliation. Twenty years of doing this and the post-tickle tremors never ceased to intrigue him. It was the body remembering what the mind desperately wanted to forget. Her giggles dissolved into wet, shuddering sobs a raw sound scraped from the depths of her humiliation.
He observed silently in the warm emulsion. Forty-seven seconds of continued convulsive laughter and sobbing after cessation of stimulus. Longer than the average. Carrie had notable hypersensitivity. The 'happy skin treatment'—Dr. Robinson's euphemism for systematic overwhelming stimulation, was progressing very efficiently. Carrie's breath started to even slightly. Her eyes glazed and red-rimmed, flickered towards him, registering his presence with dread. The momentary stillness was deceptive; her entire body was primed, a live wire waiting for the slightest spark. Unseen by her, he flexed his fingers beneath the milky surface.
Daniel leaned forward slightly, his gaze met her terrified eyes. His voice was calm. "Soles and toes next," he stated flatly. The words hung in the humid air, heavy with implication.
Carrie's breath halted. A fresh wave of panic flooded her eyes. "N-no," she whispered with little strength, the word barely audible, thick with terror. "Not... not my feet. Please. Anything but my feet I'll die." Her voice cracked. She instinctively tried to curl her toes, to hide the vulnerable arches, but the thick leather cuffs held her feet utterly immobile, soles angled slightly upward toward the surface of the emulsion, utterly exposed. The nightmare was unfolding exactly as it always did—the slow-motion terror, the heavy limbs, the impossible escape. And Daniel, kneeling between her spread legs, his hands submerged and ready, could clearly decipher, even before he touched her feet that she was horribly insanely ticklish on them. Her own face and her own words were clear proof. "Please don't... please don't... please. I'll be good to everyone, I'm begging." Her breath came in shallow frantic bursts, bracing for the unbearable touch she knew was coming. Daniel's fingers stretched beneath the opaque surface, feeling around for her exposed soles.
Daniel's left hand located her right foot first, fingers wrapping around the top part of her slender angelic feet. Only a second later, his right hand found her left foot, mirroring the grip. His thumbs then slid smoothly onto the soft emulsion-slicked balls of her feet. Carrie sucked in a sharp breath—too late. His thumbnails, blunt but precisely honed scraped slowly, firmly up and down the center of each sole simultaneously. It wasn't just a tickle. It was an electric cattle prod dragged through wet nerves. Carrie's spine arched violently off the tub's backrest, a strangled scream tearing from her throat that instantly dissolved into completely uncontrollable breathless shrieking spastic laughter. Her head slammed against the nicely padded headrest again and again, but her neck restraint held her in place.
Daniel's expression shifted. The clinical detachment melted away like wax under a flame. His lips parted slightly, eyes widening with a sudden startling intensity. A grin spread across his face—not cruel, but radiant with genuine almost boyish delight. It transformed him instantly from impassive technician to a child discovering fireworks. Carrie, through streaming tears and gasping laughter, saw it. The sheer unadulterated glee lighting up his face as her body convulsed wildly against the restraints. He wasn't just doing his job. He was loving every second of her frantic helpless reaction. He was probably getting off on this, she thought wildly, the humiliation burning as hot as the ticklish agony. His thumbs kept scraping, tracing maddening circles on her hypersensitive arches. "STOP STOP STOP! OHGOD PLEASE-PEASE!" she shrieked, her voice cracking into hiccuping sobs. "I'LL GROVEL! I'LL BEHAVE! ANYTHING!" Her promises dissolved into wordless hysterical screeches as his thumbs calmly spidered around her soft soles.
After about sixty relentless seconds Daniel abruptly stopped. Carrie gasped, sucking in ragged breaths, her body trembling violently in the aftermath. Relief washed over her for a single heartbeat. Then Daniel re-positioned himself. He shifted his grip, releasing the tops of her feet. Instead, his hands slid lower and he deliberately spread the fingers of each hand. His fingertips—all four on each hand—searched beneath the milky emulsion, and finding the delicate gaps between Carrie's slender toes.
Carrie’s breath absolutely froze. "N-Nuh no—don’t!" she choked out, voice shredded. His fingers penetrated the spaces between her toes simultaneously, wiggling deep into the soft hypersensitive webs of skin. It wasn’t scraping or scratching. It was a maddening invasive flutter—random, relentless, and the act totally utterly devastatingly tickled. Like feathers dipped in tickling acid, probing nerves she truly never knew existed. Her laughter exploded instantly, a raw animalistic shriek that echoed many times off the tiles. Her body jackknifed against the restraints, spine arching impossibly high, head slamming back repeatedly against the padded rest. Tears blurred her vision; spit flew from her lips as she gasped between convulsions. "SCREECH! STOPSTOPSTOP! OHGOD IT’S TOO—TOO MUCH!" The sensation was electric, molten, drilling straight into her brain stem. Her mind dissolved into white noise—no thoughts, no pleas, just pure, unadulterated sensory overload that pulled laughter from her lungs like never known. Bodily control evaporated. Her face burned crimson, contorted in a rictus of hysterical agony, laughter tearing from her throat in desperate, ragged bursts.
Daniel leaned in closer, his earlier glee replaced by intense fascination. His fingers worked meticulously into the tender flesh between each digit. Carrie’s laughter hit a frenzied pitch, bordering on silent screams, her chest heaving violently. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—could only feel the unbearable invasive tickling. Her bladder clenched agonizingly tight; a hot, humiliating pressure built low in her belly, threatening to burst. "PLEEEASE! I’M—I’M GONNA—!" she shrieked with laughter; the warning lost in another gale of frantic giggles. Her thighs trembled, muscles burning as she strained uselessly against the straps. The nightmare prediction was echoed: She has even peed the bed a couple times from being tickled so much. Reality mirrored the dream’s helpless terror—heavy limbs pinned, slow-motion panic, and the horrifying certainty of losing all bodily dignity. Daniel’s fingers all dropped just 3/4 of an inch, and starting tickling all of the pads just below where her toes connected to her soles, all were deliberate trigger points. Carrie’s eyes flew wide with dawning horror. "NO! DON’T YOU DARE! I’LL—!" Her threat dissolved into a high-pitched wail as the slippery scratches ignited a fresh volcanic eruption of ticklish torment. Her body spasmed uncontrollably, a final desperate convulsion against the inevitable.
The dam broke. A warm, spreading rush of pee flooded the emulsion beneath her hips. Carrie froze mid-shriek, her laughter choking off into a strangled gasp. Humiliation burned hot—a scalding flush creeping from her chest to her hairline. Tears blurred her vision as she continued to laugh. Daniel didn’t recoil from her pee. His expression flickered—not in disgust, but clinical observation mixed with a flicker of dark satisfaction, very dark. He leaned back slightly, his fingers no longer moving, but still resting lightly on her soles. "Re-calibration milestone achieved," he stated flatly, his voice devoid of mockery but thick with implications. Carrie squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the tub would swallow her whole. The silence stretched, thick with her ragged breaths and sobbing giggles. Her mind screamed: He saw. He knows. It happened. The nightmare wasn’t just real—it was worse. Far worse. And he’d witnessed her complete loss of control of ... her pee hole.
Daniel turned his head around to look behind him and upwards onto the wall. There, pointed right at both of them, was a camera. Its small red light blinked steadily above the doorframe—a tiny, unblinking eye. Carrie hadn’t noticed it before, obscured by steam and her own panic. Daniel gave it a slight, almost imperceptible nod. A confirmation. Carrie’s humiliation deepened into icy dread. Someone else had seen. Someone else knew. Dr. Robinson? Her mother? The thought made her stomach lurch. Daniel’s gaze returned to hers, holding her terrified stare. "Dr. Robinson monitors all initial sessions," he explained calmly. "She requires… visual confirmation of responsiveness." His ridiculous clinical phrasing couldn’t mask the violation. Carrie’s frantic giggles subsided into shuddering gasps, replaced by a hollow shame. She felt utterly exposed, dissected under that lens—her laughter, her tears, her desperate pleas, her pee… all recorded. Proof of her degradation. Proof she was exactly what they wanted: helplessly, uncontrollably ticklish. Utterly broken. Exactly like in her nightmares.
In her office with the door locked, sat Rita Robinson. Her pants were unzipped, her face flushed crimson, radiating a profound physical satisfaction as she withdrew her hand from inside her underwear, her fingers wet. The scent of her own arousal faintly in the air. She leaned back in her ergonomic chair, breathing slowly, deeply. Perfect. Rita’s fingers still slick, tapped the keyboard, rewinding the feed. She watched again: Carrie’s spine arching violently, the desperate shriek dissolving into breathless hysteria, Daniel’s sudden, radiant grin as he scraped her soles… and then the glorious climax—Carrie’s bladder releasing in a visible cloud within the emulsion, her choked gasp of utter humiliation. Rita played that segment twice. A slow smile spread across her lips, genuine and predatory. "Oh, Carrie," she murmured aloud, her voice husky. "Such perfect reactivity. Such… yield. Welcome to re-calibration, sweetheart." Rita zipped up her pants, smoothed her blouse, the flush fading but the deep humming satisfaction remaining. Her mask was firmly back in place.
Dr. Robinson stood, stretching languidly, the image of composed professionalism. She splashed cold water on her face at the small sink, patted it dry, checked her impeccable makeup in the mirror. Not a hair out of place. Not a hint of the raw lust that had just gripped her. She couldn’t afford it. Not even Daniel, her most trusted technician, could suspect the sheer visceral thrill she derived from watching these sessions—the helpless laughter, the tears, the loss of control. It was the core secret of Glenhaven’s efficacy, and also her deepest darkest pleasure. To her staff, it was always about protocol, re-calibration, achieving milestones. Never about the exquisite torment itself. She opened her office door, stepping into the clinically bright hallway with its faint scent of disinfectant and ozone.
Daniel watched Carrie’s shuddering breaths slow into ragged gasps, her tear-streaked face slackening slightly. The humiliation radiating from her still somewhat smiling face was palpable. He felt nothing. Not disgust, not pity. Only the satisfaction of a task executed efficiently but was also very fulfilling to perform. Her hypersensitivity was remarkable—a perfect candidate for Robinson’s program. He reached over to the floor on the side of the tub, retrieving his small matte-black remote. He pressed the button. Instant sleep claimed her completely.
Carrie awoke to silence. Her eyes fluttered open. Gray. Everything was gray—soft padded walls, a low ceiling. No windows. Just smooth unbroken surfaces swallowing sound, and one very solid door with no doorknob, no lever, just a keypad on the wall beside it. She lay atop a firm mattress covered in thin cotton, her body still humming with the phantom memories of ticklish agony. She noticed that she once again was wearing a lite-green thin robe. Her straight black hair was disheveled, tangled strands clinging to her damp forehead and neck. Her short bangs, usually neatly framing her forehead, were plastered messily to her skin.
She propped herself up a little onto her elbows, stared down the bed at the tops of her bare feet. They lay perfectly still against the gray sheet—slender, pale ivory, with high arches and delicate tendons visible beneath the skin. They looked innocent. Vulnerable. Untouched. But Carrie knew better. Her stomach clenched. Those feet had betrayed her utterly. She remembered the scraping thumbs, the invasive fingers wiggling between her toes.
She looked closer. Her toes. They were... beautiful. That was the awful, humiliating truth. Long and elegantly tapered, each nail perfectly oval and naturally pale pink, like polished seashells. The skin of the pads beneath them was impossibly soft, unblemished ivory, smoother than the finest silk. The spaces between them—those treacherous webs—were shallow, delicate folds of skin, almost translucent. Even the slight curve of her littlest toe had a sculpted grace. They were feet fit for display, admired in sandals on a sunny day. Not... not for that. Not for Daniel’s brutal, gleeful exploration. Not for the camera’s unblinking red eye. Not for the hot flood of piss that had followed. The sheer aesthetic perfection of them felt like a cruel joke. Such beauty housing such unbearable, devastating sensitivity.
Her gaze traveled upwards, over the high arch. It was a masterpiece of anatomy. Slender, yes, but with a defined, graceful curve like a suspension bridge designed by a poet. The tendon running from ankle to ball was taut beneath the skin, a clean line hinting at strength utterly betrayed by its vulnerability. The skin itself was flawless ivory, stretched smooth and tight over the delicate bones. Not a callus, not a crease marred its surface. It dipped dramatically inward, a vulnerable hollow that seemed to invite touch—a touch Carrie knew ignites pure shattering agony. But yes, it was a sad fact, the arches of Carrie's feet did indeed somehow invite people to touch them. The arch flowed seamlessly into the ball of her foot, a plump, soft mound that Daniel’s thumb had scraped with such devastating precision. Even now, resting innocently on the gray sheet, it looked impossibly soft, impossibly exposed. Their physical beauty was undeniable, a sculptor’s dream. Yet seeing it filled Carrie not with pride, but with dread. It was the beauty of a trapdoor spider’s lair—alluring, perfect, and designed for utter entrapment.
Her fingers went to her neck, attempting to remove the collar. Her fingertips found the cool seamless band encircling her throat. The sleep inducer. It felt like polished obsidian, smooth and unyielding. No clasp, no seam, no discernible edge where it met her skin. Panic bubbled in her chest. Get it off. Get it off NOW. It was a shackle disguised as jewelry, a reminder of Daniel’s and the entire staff's remote controls that could put her to sleep instantly. Trapped. Utterly trapped. Her beautiful treacherous feet were currently free, but she was collared like an animal. Their freedom was meaningless.
The gray door slid open quite silently. Carrie flinched, scrambling back against the headboard, instinctively pulling her knees up to shield her feet. A woman stood silhouetted against the brighter hallway light. Not Daniel. Not Robinson. This one was new. Well styled chin-length blonde hair, sleek as spun platinum, framed an impossibly beautiful face—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes a lovely lite-brown. She stood about 5'8", wearing the same sterile uniform as Daniel, only in white, but it hugged her figure that was frankly exquisite: sculpted curves, a narrow waist, long legs ending in practical flats. Her expression and demeanor appeared somewhat kinder than the others. But then again Carrie had only observed her for about 10 seconds.
The blonde woman pushed a stainless-steel cart into the room. It rattled softly, laden with familiar doctor's-office paraphernalia: a blood pressure cuff coiled like a snake, a digital thermometer, tongue depressors, a stethoscope, tiny vials for blood draws. The cart also held a sleek tablet. She stopped near the bed, her smile warm, practiced. "Good morning, Carrie. I'm Lena. Dr. Robinson asked me to check on your physical recovery after your re-calibration starter session." Her voice was smooth, melodic, lacking Daniel’s chilling detachment. "Just some routine vitals and a quick assessment. Nothing invasive." Lena’s eyes flickered briefly towards Carrie’s shielded feet resting on the bed. Her expression remained professionally neutral, but Carrie caught the faintest flicker of... something. Recognition? Appraisal? Interest? Carrie couldn't quite pin it down. Lena's gaze lingered for a fraction longer than necessary on Carrie's feet, then snapped back to her face. "May I see your arm for the blood pressure cuff?"
Carrie hesitated, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Lena waited patiently, her smile unwavering. Slowly, reluctantly, Carrie uncurled one arm extending it stiffly. Lena efficiently wrapped the cuff around Carrie’s slender bicep. The pneumatic hiss filled the padded silence as it inflated, squeezing tight. Carrie flinched at the pressure. Lena watched the digital display intently. "Just relax," Lena murmured, her tone soothing. "Deep breaths." Carrie tried, her eyes fixed on Lena’s face, searching for any hint of the predatory glee she’d seen in Daniel’s eyes. Also, she searched for any sign that Lena might be able to help her, might want to help her. Lena’s expression stayed calm, attentive, almost kind. The cuff hissed again as it deflated. Lena made a note on her tablet. "Blood pressure looks great," she announced brightly. She leaned slightly closer, her lite-brown eyes meeting Carrie’s green ones directly. Her voice softened further, dropping into a confidential register. "Do you have any complaints or concerns? Any lingering discomfort? Residual hypersensitivity?" Lena’s gaze drifted down Carrie’s body again, lingering momentarily on the area of the bed containing her bare feet.
Carrie’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was her chance. Maybe Lena wasn’t like them. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she could help. Carrie swallowed hard, forcing her voice to remain level, though a tremor ran through it. "Discomfort?" she echoed, clutching her knees tighter. "Yes. Immense discomfort." She took a shaky breath. "He restrained me. In that... tub. My arms, my legs... completely pinned. Couldn’t move." Her words came faster now, tumbling out. "And then... he tickled me. Everywhere." Her voice cracked on the word. "My neck, my sides... my ribs... my stomach..." She shuddered violently, unable to continue listing the places Daniel’s relentless fingers had explored. "It wasn’t just... uncomfortable. It was torture. Unbearable. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop laughing... screaming...I truly could not stop laughing!" Carrie’s cheeks burned crimson as the memory surged back—the helpless convulsions, the desperate pleas ignored, the utter loss of control. "It was... degrading. Humiliating." She couldn’t bring herself to mention the final, ultimate humiliation. Not yet. Her gaze flickered desperately to Lena’s face, hoping for horror, for sympathy, for outrage.
Lena listened intently, her head tilted slightly, her expression softening into something that looked remarkably like understanding. Not pity, exactly, but a quiet acknowledgment. She reached out slowly, gently placing a hand on Carrie’s forearm where it rested tensely on her knees. The touch was light, professional, yet unexpectedly grounding. "Deep breaths, Carrie," Lena murmured softly. Her eyes held Carrie’s frightened gaze steadily. "I know it feels... intense. Especially the first session." Her voice was low, confidential, almost soothing. "Daniel follows Dr. Robinson’s protocols very precisely. What you experienced... it is designed to feel overwhelming. It’s meant to recalibrate deep-seated responses." She paused. "Sometimes," Lena continued, her tone gentle yet firm, "a little bit of tickling is hard to take." She gave Carrie’s arm a small, reassuring squeeze. "But you’ll be better off in the end. Trust the process." Lena leaned in fractionally closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper, her gaze locking onto Carrie’s with startling intensity. "Between you and me?" Lena’s eyes darted briefly towards the door, then back. "You’ll really want to try and quickly understand that this is, mostly about authority." Her voice became softer still, yet carried an undeniable weight. "And not to always challenging authority." Lena’s gaze held Carrie’s, unblinking. "Especially not here at the Manor." She added the final words with quiet emphasis.
