LisaLisaJam
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Oct 14, 2023
- Messages
- 430
- Points
- 63
Written by LisaLisaJam
Illustrations by LisaLisaJam
PART 2
Lena straightened up, her professional smile returning as she reached for a small tray on the cart. "Now," she announced kindly, "I need to take your temperature. Standard procedure after sedation and immersion." She produced a long, slender thermometer encased in sterile plastic. Carrie watched. Compared to everything else a thermometer seemed harmless. She figured it couldn’t hurt to cooperate, that she’d show the staff she was reasonable. Maybe it would earn her some goodwill. Slowly Carrie opened her mouth and lifted her tongue slightly, bracing for the cool intrusion.
"Oh, I’m sorry, no," Lena said, her voice still gentle but firm. She didn’t move the thermometer towards Carrie’s mouth. Instead, she picked up a long narrow beaker filled with a thick clear lubrication. "The absolute best way to get a good accurate core temperature reading," Lena explained calmly, dipping more than the tip of the thermometer into the lubrication, "is... you know..." She met Carrie’s widening eyes directly, her expression utterly serene, "...from behind." Lena smiled kindly as she moved towards Carrie. "It’s much more reliable. Especially after the skin sensitivity treatments. Now, get on your elbows and knees for me, Carrie." Carrie's mind was screaming inside, her body rigid with renewed embarrassment. The innocuous lubricated thermometer suddenly felt like a weapon, a violation waiting to happen. "Lift your little butt up higher please," Lena gently asked. Lena waited patiently, her smile unwavering.
Carrie’s breath hitched in her throat. Cooperation felt like a trap. Refusal felt like inviting Daniel back. Trembling, she slowly, agonizingly repositioned herself onto her elbows and knees, facing a padded gray wall, her back side exposed to Lena. The cool air hit Carrie’s exposed skin beneath the robe, and that same air made its presence known all over her ass crack, which kind of opened up a little because of the position she needed to be in. Lena efficiently pulled the thin fabric up just enough, exposing Carrie’s lower back and ass. Carrie squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the cold intrusion, humiliation burning hotter than any fever. Lena’s fingers, cool and clinical, parted her gently. "Deep breath now," Lena murmured, her voice sounding close and detached. The slick, cold tip of the thermometer pressed firmly against Carrie’s intimate opening. Carrie gasped, a strangled sound escaping her lips as Lena slowly, steadily, pushed a large amount of the instrument deep inside. It wasn’t painful, just profoundly invasive, cold, utterly violating. Carrie remained still, tears welling up, her fists clenched in the thin sheet, every nerve screaming about the unwanted penetration. Lena held it in place, her other hand resting lightly on Carrie’s hipbone as if measuring her stillness.
Carrie focused on the texture of the padding inches from her face – a dull, synthetic gray weave. She counted the tiny imperfections in the foam beneath the fabric: three small indentations near the corner, a faint scuff mark. Anything to escape the cold, slick presence lodged inside her, the clinical efficiency of Lena’s touch. She could hear Lena breathing softly behind her, feel the faint warmth radiating from her body. The scent of the disinfectant on Lena’s uniform mixed sickeningly with the faint, cloying sweetness of the lubrication. Time stretched, each second an eternity measured by the pounding of Carrie’s own heart against the mattress. She felt utterly exposed, dissected under Lena’s neutral gaze. The thermometer felt impossibly long, a cold, rigid intrusion that mapped a path deep into her core she never wanted explored. She bit her lip hard, tasting blood, desperate not to make another sound, not to give Lena or the unseen camera another ounce of her degradation.
Finally, after an agonizing minute for Carrie, Lena withdrew the long thermometer smoothly. A small, involuntary shudder wracked Carrie’s body during its exit. Lena glanced at the digital readout. "Niney-eight point seven," she announced brightly, as if discussing the weather. She discarded the thermometer. "Perfectly normal." Lena pulled Carrie’s robe back down, her touch efficient, impersonal. She made a note on her tablet. "See? Nothing invasive." Lena patted Carrie’s shoulder once, a gesture of warmth. "Just protocol." She turned back to her cart. Carrie slowly rolled onto her back and sat up, once again hugging her knees with both arms. That thermometer situation was a stark reminder that cooperation at Glenhaven offered no safety, only different flavors of helplessness.
"Alright Carrie," Lena said, her smile warm and reassuring, "just one more thing please." She moved closer to the bed, her blonde hair catching the harsh overhead light. "Dr. Robinson wants me to ensure there are no lingering physical effects from the recalibration session." Lena gestured towards Carrie’s knees. "I need to closely examine your body for any bruises or injuries. Especially your extremities." Her gaze drifted pointedly downwards towards Carrie’s bare feet resting on the bed. "Daniel can be quite... thorough. We need to make sure your skin integrity wasn’t compromised anywhere." Lena’s tone remained professional, concerned even. "Could you please lie back and extend your legs for me? First slip off the robe, I’ll need access."
Carrie froze. Every instinct screamed to curl tighter, to shield herself. Lena’s request sounded reasonable, medical. Yet the memory of Daniel’s clinical detachment as he documented her degradation flooded back. Examine. Extremities. It was code, wasn't it? A thin veneer over the Manor’s true purpose. Lena’s eyes though seemingly kind, held a watchfulness that Carrie could not decipher. And refusal meant defiance – defiance summoned Daniel, or Robinson. Compliance felt like baring her throat willingly to the wolf. Those beautiful, treacherous feet felt like targets painted on her skin. The phantom sensation of scraping wiggling fingers between her toes sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Could she endure Lena’s touches, even if it was just an examination?
With trembling hands that felt disconnected from her body, Carrie slowly, agonizingly loosened the thin sash of the lite-green thin robe. The fabric cool and whisper-soft, slid off her shoulders with a faint rustle. It pooled around her waist then fell away completely as she pushed it down her hips. She lay back against the sterile pillow, utterly exposed on the gray sheet, her skin prickling under the cool air. Her slender form, pale ivory against the drab gray, felt impossibly vulnerable. She hugged her arms across her chest, a futile shield. Lena, unexpectedly, turned her head away, gazing fixedly at the wall for a long moment. Was it respect? Discretion? When Lena finally looked back, her expression was carefully composed, professionally neutral, devoid of any overt leer. "Thank you, Carrie," Lena murmured, her voice smooth and empathetic. "Now, please extend your legs fully. Keep them relaxed."
Carrie obeyed, forcing her rigid muscles to un-clench. Slowly, she slid her legs out straight on the bed. Her feet, those beautiful betrayers, lay exposed at the end of her slender limbs. She braced herself for Lena’s hands, for the inevitable cold touch tracing her ticklish skin, for the probing fingers seeking weaknesses. But Lena didn't touch her. Instead, Lena leaned forward slightly, her chin-length blonde hair falling neatly around her face. She began a meticulous visual inspection. Her lite-brown eyes, sharp and observant, traveled slowly, systematically down Carrie’s right leg, starting from the smooth curve of her hip. Lena scanned the skin inch by inch, her gaze lingering momentarily on the soft skin of Carrie’s inner thigh – then moving deliberately past her knee, down her calf, over her ankle, and finally settling on her bare foot. Lena’s eyes traced the high arch, the slender toes, the delicate webs between them, the soft pad beneath her big toe. She didn't blink, didn't rush. It was a clinical assessment, devoid of physical contact, yet intensely focused. Carrie held her breath, surprised and cautiously relieved by the lack of touch. Lena’s gaze felt intrusive, yes, but infinitely preferable to fingers seeking out her hypersensitive spots.
"Oh," Lena murmured softly, her voice low and thoughtful. She leaned in closer, her focus narrowing on Carrie’s right foot. Her finger hovered just above the skin, near the outer edge of Carrie’s sole, close to the arch. "I'll need to gently press on the side of your sole for just a moment, sorry." She explained calmly, her tone purely professional. "I may have found a small area of discoloration – perhaps a minor bruise from the restraints or the... exertion." Lena’s eyes flicked up briefly to meet Carrie’s frightened green ones. "I’d like to know if it’s tender when I touch it." Before Carrie could even formulate a response – a plea, a denial, a frantic jerk away – Lena’s fingertip descended. It wasn't a jab, but a deliberate soft glide of her fingernail, directly onto the sensitive curve of Carrie’s sole, right where the arch met the outer edge.
The sensation was instantaneous and electric. A jolt of pure unadulterated ticklishness shot up Carrie’s leg like lightning. Her foot snapped back, jerking away from Lena’s touch as if burned. A sharp, involuntary giggle burst from Carrie’s lips – a high-pitched, startled sound that echoed embarrassingly loud in the padded room. Her cheeks flushed crimson instantly. Lena’s fingertip remained poised in the air where Carrie’s foot had been, her expression one of mild professional surprise. "Oh!" Lena said with a hint of gentle concern. "Did that hurt?" Her gaze remained steady, inquisitive, devoid of mockery, yet Carrie felt utterly exposed. That recent giggle hung in the air between them, a damning confirmation of her deepest, secret vulnerability laid bare.
Carrie’s mind raced, scrambling for plausible deniability. No, it hadn’t hurt at all. She was quite sure that Lena did not try to perform a probing press to check for bruising. It had been more like a deliberate feather-light scrape along hypersensitive skin. Lena’s fingernail hadn't tried to assess tenderness; it had glided smoothly, purposefully, across the exact kind of nerve-rich zone that would do nothing other than tickle. The touch hadn't been diagnostic; it had been exploratory, testing the waters. It felt less like checking for injury and more like... confirming a hypothesis. Carrie swallowed hard, her throat tight. "N-No," she stammered, forcing her voice lower, trying to inject a tremor of pain. "It... it stung. Just a little. It's fine thought." The lie felt flimsy, pathetic. She couldn't even meet Lena’s eyes.
Lena tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting from professional concern to something softer, warmer. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "Oh, Carrie," she murmured, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. She pointed towards Carrie’s foot. "You don't have to pretend with me." Lena leaned in a fraction closer. "I understand completely. Honestly? I am extremely ticklish myself. Everywhere." She gave a small, self-deprecating shrug, her gaze holding Carrie’s wide-eyed stare. "I can't even get a pedicure." Lena’s smile widened slightly, inviting camaraderie. "So, I apologize," she continued, her voice sincere, "if what I just did... tickled." Her gaze remained steady, open. "But just so I can write up the report correctly, did it sting?" she asked gently, her head cocked slightly. "Or," Lena paused, her eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, "...did it tickle?"
Carrie’s mind whirled. Lena’s confession felt like a lifeline thrown across a chasm – unexpected, bewildering, and terrifyingly tempting. Sympathy? Shared vulnerability? Or a trap? Lena’s expression seemed genuine, her admission echoing Carrie’s own deepest secret. The Manor’s protocols felt like suffocating fog, but Lena’s words offered a sliver of relatable humanity. Could she risk honesty? Could she trust this flicker of warmth? Carrie’s lips trembled. "It... tickled," she whispered, the confession escaping like a trapped bird suddenly freed. Her voice was barely audible, thick with shame and a desperate, fragile hope. She braced herself for Lena’s reaction – derision, clinical notation, or worse, predatory delight.
Lena’s smile remained, radiating warmth that seemed incongruous with the sterile gray room. "See?" she murmured softly, leaning back slightly, her posture relaxing. "Honesty isn’t so scary." She tapped her tablet thoughtfully. Carrie watched Lena’s fingers move over the screen. Her gaze flickered down towards Carrie’s exposed feet again, but this time, Lena’s expression held no clinical appraisal. Instead, there was a flicker of something softer, almost conspiratorial. "I’ll make a note here," Lena said, her voice low and reassuring. "Extreme cutaneous hypersensitivity. Especially distal extremities." She glanced up, locking eyes with Carrie. "That’s doctor-speak for very ticklish feet." A small genuine chuckle escaped her. "Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can do about letting the others know."
The ambiguity hung thick in the air. Letting them know? Did Lena mean warning them off? Or… marking Carrie ticklish feet as prime territory? Carrie’s throat tightened as she thought things over. Lena’s earlier confession—of her own ticklishness—felt like a shared secret, yet the Manor’s walls seemed to absorb honesty and twist it. Lena straightened up, her movements efficient as she snapped her tablet shut. She gathered her things and started to leave. The wheels squeaked faintly as she pushed it toward the door. "Rest now," Lena advised, pausing at the threshold. Her smile was warm, almost maternal. "Your next session isn’t scheduled yet. Try to relax."
The door hissed open, then shut, leaving Carrie alone. The silence pressed in. Lena’s kindness felt real but so had Robinson’s professional facade before the horror began. Carrie scrambled off the bed, the robe hastily retied. Relaxation was impossible. She stood on the padded floor her bare feet soundless on the foam. Lena’s fingernail scrape echoed on her sole—a phantom itch. Is Lena friend or foe?
About two hours later, a soft chime sounded. The door slid open silently. A female staff member, of Indian descent, perhaps 40 years old, entered holding a tray. She was very pretty with natural lite brown skin. Her expression was neutral. She didn’t speak. She simply placed the tray on the small table bolted to the wall, politely smiled, and left. No words.
Carrie approached cautiously. The tray held a simple large white plate. On it lay a piece of grilled salmon, its skin crisp and golden, glistening with a light herb-infused oil. Beside it nestled a vibrant mound of quinoa flecked with finely chopped parsley and toasted pine nuts. Steamed asparagus spears, impossibly green and tender, were arranged neatly beside a small dish of bright yellow lemon wedges. It looked… stunning. Like something from a high-end restaurant, not a confinement facility. The aroma was clean and fresh – sea salt, lemon, toasted grain – a stark contrast to the sterile air and lingering scent of disinfectant. It smelled wholesome, expensive.
Her stomach clenched. Hunger warred with suspicion. Was it drugged? Poisoned? A reward? A trap? She picked up the fork. She ate hesitantly at first, a tiny bite of salmon. The flavors exploded – clean, briny sea salt, infused with fragrant herbs and a hint of smoky char from the grill. It was exquisite. She devoured it quickly, the rich protein settling warmly in her empty stomach. The quinoa was nutty and complex, the asparagus perfectly tender, crisp with a bright snap. She squeezed lemon over everything, the sharp citrus cutting through the richness. It might be the best meal she'd ever tasted, consumed in the worst place imaginable. Every bite felt stolen, defiant. She scraped the plate clean, licking the last grains of quinoa. The simple act of eating, of satisfying a basic need, felt like a small private rebellion against the Manor's control. It grounded her, momentarily pushing back the phantom tickles and the fear.
Carrie's last thoughts were that she laid on her bed and was looking up at the ceiling. Then, nothing. Consciousness returned to her slowly, and with disorientation. Her eyes started to open, and instead of the familiar gray ceiling, she saw a dense dark nebula, impossibly close, with one large hypnotic spinning spiral. Panic seized her. She tried to move her head but it was held immobile, encased in something smooth, cool, and unyielding. A high-tech sphere? A virtual reality sphere, a kind of full 360 degree head gear? Her entire visual field was consumed by this 360-degree cosmic panorama. Sounds flooded her ears. Sounds of different voices, all of them stating commands, but some asked questions.
She strained, testing her limbs, but cold reality slammed home. Her wrists were secured tightly to padded restraints of some kind, that she couldn't see. Her ankles were similarly locked into restraints attached to the base of whatever she was lying on. The surface beneath her bare back and legs felt cool, slightly yielding, like medical-grade vinyl. Naked. Utterly exposed but yet her head was inside some kind of high-tech display unit. Where was she? What was this? Another session of some kind?
Calm, soothing, synthesized female and male voices cut through the low cosmic hum, startlingly clear.
"You are safe... You are learning... Resistance causes discomfort..."
"Trust the Manor... Obedience brings you peace..."
"You will obey won't you?..."
"Your mind is receptive... Your body is for others..."
"You want to keep your eyes open..."
The voices overlapped, a chorus of calm commands, questions and assurances. A soft female voice swelled, "...complete surrender..." dominating the auditory space before fading. Randomly, unpredictably, different voices leapt forward in volume, demanding attention then receded into the background until their turn came back around. This constant flux of random amplification instantly became quite hypnotic. Carrie’s frantic panic started to dissipate. Her mind became desperate for anchors, and so instinctively tried to latch onto each voice as it surged, straining to parse the overlapping messages: "...discomfort is temporary..." (fading) "...there is pleasure in yielding..." (booming) "...Dr. Robinson knows best..." (softening). It was an impossible task that forced her focus to dart around chaotically.
The mesmerizing spiral directly in front of her eyes pulsed gently, its rotation subtly syncing with the rhythm of the voices. As a male voice stated, "...your fears are dissolving..." its volume surged, and the spiral seemed to brighten momentarily. When a female voice murmured, "...let go..." softly, the spiral dimmed slightly. This visual-audio coupling was impossible to ignore. Carrie’s frantic panic dissolved into a strange passive attention. Her breathing slowed. Her rigid muscles held taut against the restraints, began to loosen. She relaxed and simply listened, her gaze locked onto the hypnotic spiraling vortex. The chaotic voices weren't confusing anymore; they felt like a conversation happening just for her, guiding her.
It wasn't long before Carrie truly started to agree. The voices spoke simple truths: "...you are safe here..." Yes, she was physically restrained, but unharmed. "...learning obedience..." Wasn't that why Mother had sent her? "...trust brings peace..." Her defiance had only brought Daniel’s fingers and Lena’s fingernail. A profound sense of weary acceptance washed over her. The spiral seemed to absorb her anxieties, leaving only a hollow readiness. When the soft male voice asked, "...you want to cooperate, don't you?" Carrie felt a faint nod forming inside her skull, a silent affirmation.
Then the female voice, clear and gentle yet utterly commanding, filled her auditory world: "You will obey, won't you?" It wasn't a question expecting refusal. It felt like the inevitable conclusion, the key to ending the internal struggle. The spiral pulsed warmly. Carrie’s lips parted slightly. "Yes," she whispered, the sound barely audible even to herself, lost amidst the other voices. Yet the moment she uttered it, a wave of relief, warm and thick, washed through her. It felt less like surrender and more like finally understanding the rules. Obedience wasn't defeat; it was the path to avoiding Daniel’s wiggling fingers, Lena’s probing touches. Obedience would be a good thing for her.
The voices seized upon her capitulation instantly. "You crave guidance..." "You trust Dr. Robinson..." "You enjoy pleasing others..." Each statement, delivered with calm certainty, felt like a revelation. "Yes," she breathed again, softer this time. The spiral seemed to brighten with each affirmation. Another voice asked, "You are grateful for correction...aren't you?" "Yes." "You want to be good..." "Yes." The affirmations became a rhythm to the overlapping suggestions. Her lips moved silently now, mouthing the word over and over as the voices layered commands and questions in rapid fire fashion. Time dissolved. The cosmic nebula was her entire universe, the voices her only companions. The spiral pulsed, the voices swelled and faded, and Carrie’s softly spoken "Yes" became the only constant, a mantra of submission.
Sixty minutes elapsed, then the nebula vanished, replaced by pitch black silence. Carrie didn't even notice for long while as she was in a sleep state, unknowingly listening for her next instructions. Then her own thoughts started to return to her. More and more she began to realize there was only silence and only pitch-black darkness within her all-encompassing VR head unit.
She blinked slowly, the sudden sensory deprivation jarring after the cosmic immersion. Her mind felt fuzzy, compliant, still echoing with phantom affirmations. She licked her dry lips and the sound of that resonated clearly inside the head gear. Then, a deeper awareness seeped in. Something felt... different. Wrong. The cool surface beneath her back was the same, but the position of her limbs... she tried to flex her fingers. Nothing. Her wrists felt anchored wide apart, straps pressing into her soft skin. She attempted to bend her elbows – locked solid, pulled taut away from her body. Panic flickered, dulled by the lingering haze of compliance. She shifted her legs, or tried to. Some kind of thick bands cinched just above her knees, forcing her legs wide open, splayed at an unnatural, vulnerable angle. Also her feet were immobilized by some kind of strange apparatus. Another strap dug into her waist, pinning her pelvis flat against the cool vinyl. She was stretched taut, limbs straining against unyielding leather – a perfect, rigid X. Immobilized completely. Exposed utterly.
Carrie strained against the restraints, her mind clearing rapidly as adrenaline surged. The headgear remained pitch black, silent. She couldn't see anything of her own body. Only the pressure points registered: the straps at her wrists, elbows, ankles, knees, waist. She strained her neck, trying to lift her head against the unyielding cradle holding it immobile. Nothing. Panic sharpened. What held her? Leather straps? Some high-tech polymer? She couldn't tell. The pressure was firm, unrelenting, designed for utter stillness. She could feel the cool air brushing her skin – her belly, her inner thighs, the soles of her feet suddenly felt intensely vulnerable in the open air.
Her focus snapped downwards, drawn by a strange sensation on her feet. They weren't just restrained; they felt somewhat encased. Yet, bizarrely, the soles felt completely exposed. She could feel the coolness of the air directly on her arches, her heels, the sensitive pads beneath her toes. It was as if her feet were locked inside some kind of rigid boots... but one with the entire bottom sliced cleanly away. The sensation was disorienting and terrifying. The tops of her feet, her ankles, felt gripped securely by smooth, cool padded material – maybe hardened plastic – holding them immobile in extremely exposed positioning. But the bottoms? Nothing but open air against her hypersensitive skin.
She tried desperately to curl her toes, to scrunch her soles away from imagined future touches. Impossible. Each toe was held perfectly straight, rigidly immobilized. She sensed thin, unyielding bands – perhaps leather, perhaps something synthetic – circling the base of each toe, pressing them flat against the unseen surface that pressed against the tops of her feet. Not painful, just... absolute. Her toes couldn't wiggle, couldn't flex even a millimeter. Her soles remained utterly bare and terrifyingly accessible, as she lay flat on her back in a taut spread-eagle position, not able to see anything but black emptiness.
Then, another realization hit her: the headgear wasn't just visual deprivation. It was sonic isolation. Total. Utter. Complete. She strained, listening with every fiber of her being. Nothing. Not the faint hum of climate control, not footsteps, not voices. Only the sound of her own ragged breathing amplified inside the helmet. She was deaf to the outside world. Blindfolded by darkness. Utterly cut off. Trapped inside her own skull. She couldn't know if someone had entered the room, was in the room. Couldn't prepare for the inevitable touch. The vulnerability was absolute, suffocating. Her mind screamed warnings, but her body was frozen prey.
Then it began. The tickling began. Not Daniel’s relentless assault, not Lena’s probing nail. This was different. Infinitely worse. A touch so impossibly light, it was barely a suggestion on the skin. Like the ghost of a feather drifting across her exposed belly. Carrie gasped, the sound loud and sharp inside her helmet. Her entire abdomen clenched reflexively against the straps pinning her down. The touch vanished. Silence. Darkness. Only her frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears.
A pause. Then it reappeared, higher this time. The whisper-light scrape of something impossibly fine—a stiff feather of some kind, it had to be— and someone was gliding it along the delicate underside of her arm, beginning at her wrist restraint. It tickled that's for sure. It was a maddening promise of sensations to come, a deliberate, unhurried exploration. Carrie sucked in a breath, trying to stifle the giggles bubbling in her chest. The touch lingered, tracing a slow, meandering carefree path down the soft flesh of her inner arm towards her armpit. Her muscles trembled, straining against the immovable straps. She jerked her arm uselessly. The tickling implement withdrew again. Waiting.
Silence pressed in, thick and absolute inside the helmet. Carrie strained, listening for any clue—a breath, a shuffle. Nothing. Only the frantic drumming of her own heart. Then, the feather returned. Not to her arm. This time, it danced lightly, teasingly, across the sensitive skin just above her collarbone. A giggle gasp escaped her, sharp and involuntary. Whoever was doing this must have heard that giggle, and probably was now even more encouraged to proceed. The feather traced a slow circle there, a lazy spiral that sent shivers cascading down her spine. It paused, then drifted lower, skimming the swell of her breast, circling her nipple. Carrie arched her back, a desperate futile attempt to escape the sensations.
The feather vanished. Carrie froze, breath held. Where next? The answer came swiftly, brutally. A sudden, sharp scritch-scratch! Not a feather anymore. Something stiff, pointed—perhaps a thin semi-sharp wooden dowel?—raked firmly down the arch of her immobilized right foot. Carrie screamed with instant laughter. She was extremely concerned about how she could not adjust her feet, at all! Her laugh ripped through her otherwise silent helmet, raw and ragged. Her whole body convulsed against the restraints, muscles straining but unable to move a millimeter. The dowel lifted, leaving a trail of fire across her hypersensitive sole. Before she could recover, it returned, tracing rapid, staccato zig-zags across her heel, then the ball of her foot in light poking attacks. Laughter exploded from her, harsh and breathless, as she continued blind and deaf to the rest of the room. "Stop! Please!" she shrieked, knowing it was useless. The dowel tapped experimentally against the base of her big toe, then scratched firmly along the tender skin beneath it. Carrie shrieked again, her laughter dissolving into desperate, panicked continuous giggles.
Helplessness flooded her, thick and hot. She couldn't see the attacker, couldn't hear their breathing, couldn't anticipate the next target. Would it be her other foot? Her ribs? The unbearable softness of her belly? Her exposed armpits? The uncertainty was torture itself, amplifying every nerve ending. Each pause felt like eternity, her mind racing through possibilities, her skin prickling with dread. She continued to strain uselessly against the straps, her arms and legs splayed wide, utterly defenseless. The dowel withdrew.
She breathed heavy inside the helmet. Carrie panted, tears starting to mix with sweat on her face. Where? Where next? The suspense coiled tighter than the straps. Then, sharp pressure dug into the soft flesh just above her hip bone. Carrie gasped, then shrieked as the pressure shifted into rapid, digging light pinches – fingers this time, wiggling deep into the ticklish hollow. Her laughter burst forth at an insane high level, uncontrollable, humiliating. She bucked wildly, futilely. The fingers vanished. She gulped air, trembling. Left foot? Right armpit? She braced for anything, her entire body tensed and screamingly alert.
Then came the feather again. Not a tease. A relentless, swirling assault on her exposed left sole. It traced maddening zig zags on her arch, flicked at her heel, danced over the hypersensitive pads beneath her toes. But at the same time, fingernails were dancing all over her right sole. Carrie dissolved into pure breathless hysteria. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but laugh.
Her bladder clenched dangerously. Through the haze of ticklish agony, a chilling realization pierced her: she was more ticklish than ever before. Far more. Daniel's torture had been brutal, Lena's single touch was probing, but this... this current tickling felt like fire. Why? Was it just the utter helplessness? The sensory deprivation? Or... yes... it had to be... the milky soft bath from yesterday. They had said it was intended to soften and make her skin more sensitive. Oh my god, she was screwed! The emulsion had enhanced sensitivity. Every brush, every scrape, every poke registered with agonizing, electrifying clarity. Her skin wasn't just skin anymore; it was raw nerve endings screaming for mercy, that she wouldn't get.
The feather vanished suddenly. The fingernails lifted. Silence slammed back down inside the helmet, thick and suffocating. Carrie gasped, gulping stale air, trembling violently against the restraints. Sweat slicked her skin. Tears streamed down her temples, pooling in her ears. She strained, listening desperately. Nothing. Only the ragged symphony of her own breathing and pounding heart. Where? Where next? Her mind raced, skin prickling with dread. Ribs? Belly? Neck? She braced for anything. Anything but... that.
Then it happened. Not a feather. Not a fingernail. Not a dowel. Hands. Warm, dry, impossibly soft hands. They landed lightly, almost gently, one settling deep into each of her wide-open, utterly immobilized armpits. The touch was deliberate, sadistic, final. The softness was a lie. Carrie froze, a choked gasp catching in her throat. This wasn't exploration. This wasn't teasing. This was business. The hands traveled deep into the hollows, fingers spread wide. Then, all ten fingers began to move. Not probing. Not tracing. Tapping. Sliding randomly. Scrabbling lightly. Dragging. Over every millimeter of her sickeningly ticklish underarm hollows. It wasn't tickling; it was annihilation.
The reaction was instantaneous and volcanic as Carrie exploded with ridiculous unstoppable laughter. A shriek ripped from her throat, raw and deafening inside the helmet, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. Her body jackknifed against the straps with terrifying force, muscles straining impossibly against the unyielding buckled leather. Her head snapped back against the padding under it. Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She could only feel the insane unbearable tickling firestorm blazing in both of her pits. The fingers danced fast, deep, wiggling, scraping the tender skin lightly, scratching erratically. It was so relentless, everywhere at once. Panic screamed as loud as her laughter. She was going to die! Right here, blind, deaf, pinned like a butterfly. She'd laugh herself to death! Her lungs burned, desperate for air she couldn't quite catch.
The tapping focused now on the deepest, most sensitive recesses where her arms met her torso. Spots danced in the blackness of the helmet. Her bladder gave a sharp, agonizing spasm. Oh god, not again! Not here! Not now! But the fingers didn't stop. They dug deeper, faster, a sadistic symphony played on her screaming nerves.
Amidst the cyclone of laughter and tears and desperate gasps, fragments of thought pierced the haze. Who was doing this? Was it Daniel? His touch had been brutal, demanding. This felt… different. Controlled, precise, almost clinical in its cruelty. Lena? She’d been kinder, but her fingernail had been sharp. This seemed like shorter duller fingernails, but providing methodical devastation. Could they hear her? The helmet muffled everything outside, but her screams must be echoing back at her tormentor. Were they grinning? Frowning? Utterly impassive? Was this even part of Dr. Robinson’s plan?
The hypnotic spiral had whispered obedience, peace through yielding. Was this torture the “correction” Lena mentioned? Or had someone – this silent, unseen technician – simply seized the opportunity to indulge? The thought was terrifying: random cruelty, sanctioned or not. Did Robinson watch? Carrie pictured her behind glass, observing with that cool, detachment. The fingers paused very briefly, shifting position slightly to all of the areas just barely out of her armpits. Carrie gulped more air, ragged sobs escaping. The scrabbling resumed, faster, lighter, impossibly worse. She shrieked with fast paced laughter, laughter that wasn't even human, the sounds raw and broken.
Then, abruptly, the hands vanished from her armpits. Carrie gasped, a ragged, desperate intake of stale air inside the helmet. Sweat poured down her temples, mixing with tears. She trembled against the restraints. Silence pressed in, thick and absolute. Where? Where next? Her mind raced, skin prickling with dread. Ribs? Belly? Neck? She braced for anything. Anything but... that.
The next touch wasn't a frantic assault. It was a single point of contact. Cool, dry, deliberate. The pad of a single index finger pressed firmly against the soft, vulnerable dip of her navel. Carrie flinched, a gasp escaping her. The finger didn't move. It simply rested there, a silent claim. Then, slowly, it began to trace the rim. Not a circle, but a slow, deliberate exploration of the shallow depression's edge. The fingertip dragged lightly, almost thoughtfully, along the sensitive ridge. Carrie sucked in her breath, her stomach muscles instinctively trying to clench against the strap pinning her hips flat. The finger retreated slightly, then returned, pressing directly into the center of her belly button. It wasn't rough, just firm and unrelenting. Carrie whimpered a sound of pure ticklish dread. Her toes strained uselessly against their rigid bonds.
The torture intensified. Now, two fingers – index fingers, she sensed – replaced the one. They moved with unhurried, terrifying precision. One finger circled the rim clockwise, applying varying pressure, sometimes a feather-light scrape, sometimes a firmer press that made Carrie jerk and gasp. Simultaneously, the other finger probed gently inside the navel cavity itself. Not deep, just enough to stimulate the hypersensitive nerve endings clustered there. It wiggled minutely, a slow, maddening oscillation. Carrie’s giggles bubbled uncontrollably. The fingers shifted tactics. One prodded with tapping motions firmly against the soft skin above her navel, while the other traced rapid tiny circles below it, focusing on the ultra-sensitive strip of skin connecting her belly button to her pubic mound, using the fingernail to do this. The dual fingers assault – was unbearable. Carrie shrieked with laughter her torso twisting futilely against the straps, tears streaming down her temples and cheeks. Her verbal pleas for this to stop, were of course, ignored.
Those fingers never strayed far. For five agonizing minutes, they remained fixated solely on this small patch of hypersensitive skin in and around her button. They alternated between deep slow presses inside the navel that made Carrie gasp and shudder, then rapid, skittering motions around its periphery, tracing the exact boundary where the taut skin met the depression. Sometimes, both fingers would press firmly against the rim itself, pinching the skin lightly from opposite sides. Carrie was exhibiting breathless hysterical laughter, her stomach muscles spasming violently, which, for the tickler, must have appeared glorious. The tickler's relentless focus amplified every sensation; and the emulsion bath had turned her belly button into raw exposed nerve clusters. She felt her belly button cavity exploited with clinical expertise.
Then, the fingers withdrew. Carrie gulped for air, trembling violently, sweat soaking her hairline. She braced for the next assault. Ribs? Feet? Armpits again? The suspense was thick and suffocating. To her, this was surely the worst kind of torture on earth. Silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten. Then—sudden, impossible sensation on both soles simultaneously. Not fingers. Not feathers. Something mechanical and high-tech.
Carrie couldn't see it, but the restraint boots had been activated. Embedded within the smooth plastic encasing her ankles and the tops of her feet, tiny panels slid open. From these apertures emerged multiple slender, articulated metal arms. Each arm ended in a semi-sharp, polished silver probe tip, no thicker than a pencil's lead. They moved with unnerving silence and precision, unfolding like the segmented legs of a spider. Carrie felt the cruel touch of metal tips lightly kissing the hypersensitive skin of her soles—one near her heel, another on her arch, a third beneath her toes, and three more randomly exploring elsewhere. In all, each foot had six evil probes discovering them. She jerked instinctively, giggle gasps escaping her, but the boots held her feet utterly perfectly immobile. Each toe remained pinned straight, unable to flex even a millimeter. The probes didn't full-on tickle yet; they seemed to be just mapping out her feet. But to Carrie, even the mapping tickled badly. She was laughing steadily.
The probes performed a meticulous systematic scan. They glided slow, overlapping paths across every contour of her soles—the bony prominence of her heel, the deep hollow of her arch, the padded ball beneath her toes, the delicate ridges and valleys between tendons. Simultaneously, smaller probes, extended from bands, encircling each toe base. They traced the sensitive pads on the underside of each toe, the vulnerable creases where toes met the foot, and the hyper-reactive skin along the sides and tips of all toes. When those tiny probes surveyed the sides of Carrie's toes, her laughter hopped up a notch. Even this "not tickling" mode was tickling her. How frightened Carrie was to understand that her soles weren't just exposed; they were being digitally dissected.
Every nerve cluster, every guaranteed reaction point, seemed to now be cataloged. The probes retracted silently back into their housings within the boots. The mapping was complete. Carrie lay trembling, blind and deaf, her hypersensitive soles utterly mapped and awaiting the inevitable, precision-engineered torment. The air felt colder than ever against her bare feet. Likely all that was necessary now is for the tickler to push some sort of "commence tickling" button and the probes would end Carrie's existence with impossible to endure tickling. But they didn't.
Silence stretched. No tickling occurred. Carrie periodically tested the restraints. Every muscle remained locked in anticipation. Minutes crawled by. Five. Ten. Only the frantic drumming of her own heart filled the helmet's void. The suspense coiled tighter than the straps holding her pelvis down flat. The pelvis strap coupled with the straps just above each knee, left her upper legs unable to move, literally unable to move at all. The utter helplessness, the sensory deprivation, the lingering agony of the emulsion-enhanced sensitivity – it was a cocktail designed for madness. She felt raw, flayed open, her body no longer her own but a landscape of terror mapped for torment.
Then it started again with no warning. Simultaneous fingertip touches, the tickler using both hands, one for each of Carrie's legs. The fingertips began their tapping dance just above each of her ankles, and together in unison, extremely slowly began to tickle and tap their way up her legs towards her thighs. She was already laughing very hard, but even she noticed how the higher up her legs the fingernails traveled, the higher pitched and more desperate her laughter became. The fingernails dragged and scraped with devastating precision over the ultrasensitive skin of her inner calves. Each tap, each scrape, each slow drag upwards sent fresh waves of hysterical laughter tearing from her throat. Her legs strained uselessly against the straps above her knees, muscles bulging in a futile attempt to clamp together, or lift up, to shield the vulnerable path the fingers were tracing.
This tickler had full knowledge that Carrie was the most ticklish at the top of her legs, on her very upper inner thighs. And is why they started at the ankles, a superb way to mentally torture Carrie, knowing she would realize her upper inner thighs were the destination. The ascent was agonizingly slow. The fingers paused frequently, sometimes tickling one area without moving, only to resume their maddening scrape-tap-drag motion higher up the legs. They skirted her kneecaps, focusing relentlessly on the inner flesh. Carrie's laughter escalated into shrieks as they reached her mid-thighs. The skin here was impossibly soft, untouched by sun, hypersensitive beyond all belief after the emulsion bath. The fingers wiggled minutely as they climbed. The tickling sensations were excruciating! Her hips bucked wildly against the pelvic strap, her spine arching off the table, head thrashing inside the padded helmet. Every single nerve ending screamed. She gasped for air between peals of laughter that felt like they were shredding her lungs.
The fingers reached the crease where thigh met torso. Carrie screamed, a raw, ragged sound filled with pure panic. The fingernails didn't pause; they intensified. They traced the exact fold, advancing down into the impossibly ticklish hollows right at the junction, scraping lightly towards her vulnerable groin, then dragging back down along the ultra-sensitive inner thigh tendons. Carrie quickly returned to the sobbing helpless breathless laughing that her armpits had brought to her a bit earlier. Tears streamed freely. Her bladder spasmed violently. She didn't think she could hold it! Not again please! Her hips bucked wildly against the strap, a futile, desperate attempt to dislodge the tormenting fingers. The fingers danced faster now, wiggling deep into the soft flesh of her upper inner thighs, alternating sharp taps with maddeningly slow drags. Her laughter became choked gasps punctuated by desperate shrieks. Every nerve screamed white hot ticklish!
Amidst the cyclone of sensation, a fragmented thought pierced the haze: How are they doing this? To inflict such coordinated torture simultaneously on both legs... the tickler must be positioned directly between her spread legs. Standing right there. Inches from her exposed, vulnerable core. Carrie's mind recoiled in humiliation. The restraints – wrists pulled wide, ankles locked apart in those rigid boots – they weren't just immobilizing her; they were displaying her. Spreading her wide open for maximum access. For this. For the fingers now digging deeper, faster, into the hypersensitive flesh high on her inner thighs, scraping perilously close to places that made her scream anew. The table... it must be like an X, the thought flashed, stark and horrifying. I'm pinned wide open... like a specimen... for them.
Her entire pelvic area felt obscenely exposed. The thin robe Lena had given her was gone. She was utterly naked beneath the straps. The pelvic restraint was broad leather, pressing her hips flat against the cold table, but it only covered the bony points. Below it, everything was bare. The tickler's gaze must be fixed directly on the intimate triangle of dark, shaved smooth curls between her thighs, the soft swell of her lower belly glistening with sweat and perhaps the residue of her earlier humiliation. Carrie imagined how it must look: flushed pink from the frantic thrashing, the muscles trembling uncontrollably beneath the skin, utterly defenseless. The tickler could see every flinch, every desperate clench of her abdomen against the strap, every involuntary tremor radiating outwards from the epicenter of the torment. They could see everything. The thought was a fresh wave of excruciating shame layered over this unbearable tickling.
Worse, the tickler standing directly between her legs had an unobstructed view, a clinical vantage point to observe the involuntary reactions of her body to their torture – the way her inner thighs quivered violently with each scrape of their nails, how the muscles above her pubic bone jumped and spasmed, how the skin flushed deeper crimson with every choked gasp and shriek. They could probably even see the faint, telltale dampness on the table beneath her, evidence of her utter loss of control earlier. It was degradation rendered visible, anatomical.
Carrie didn't think she could hold back her pee much longer. The pressure was immense, a burning ache low in her belly that warred violently with the tickling-induced convulsions. Each frantic buck of her hips against the pelvic strap squeezed her bladder. The fingers digging deep into the soft flesh high on her inner thighs, scraping perilously close to her groin, triggered involuntary pelvic floor spasms that threatened to unravel her completely. "No, no, please!" she gasped, the plea a ragged sob seemingly lost inside her helmet, drowned by her own desperate laughter. Tears blurred her vision, mixing with sweat on her temples. She clenched everything she could, toes straining uselessly in their rigid boots, thighs trembling with the effort to clamp shut – impossible against the straps and the relentless fingers. The tickling wasn't just torture; it was a physical assault forcing her body towards another humiliating betrayal.
"Stop! Please! I'm going to pee!" Carrie yelled, the words bursting out between shrieks of laughter. She repeated it, louder, a desperate warning screamed into the sonic void. "I can't hold it! Stop! (hysterical laughter) PLEASE! I'M GOING TO (hysterical laughter) PEE!" The frantic declaration echoed inside her helmet.
The fingers froze instantly. Not lifting away but becoming utterly still. Carrie gasped, gulping air, her laughter hiccupping wildly even as the sensations faded. Her body trembled violently, muscles twitching in confused aftershocks. The pressure in her bladder screamed, a burning, urgent ache that threatened immediate release. She clenched everything with desperate, trembling force, praying she hadn't already started leaking.
Five agonizing seconds crawled by. Silence, thick and suffocating, broken only by Carrie's ragged wet breaths echoing inside the helmet. Sweat stung her eyes. The phantom tickling sensations danced across her hypersensitive skin, making her flinch involuntarily. Hold on, hold on, she pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Please, not again.
Then the hands shifted. Not retreating, but repositioning. The fingers slid upwards slightly, their touch changing from torment to providing hand control. Carrie felt the warm firm pressure of four fingers on each hand splaying wide across the front tops of her upper thighs, gripping the trembling quad muscle there like anchors. The thumbs—oh god, the thumbs—detached themselves. They moved deliberately, searching inward and down across the sweat-slicked skin of her inner thighs, pressing into the impossibly soft vulnerable flesh high up near the crease. They weren't tickling yet; they were probing, finding purchase, checking to see what spot made Carrie jump and squeal. Carrie felt the pads of both thumbs press down with significant focused pressure onto the dense cluster of tendons, ligaments, and hyper-reactive muscle fibers buried beneath the soft skin of her upper inner thighs—the precise epicenter of her worst ticklish hell.
Horror washed over Carrie like ice water. This wasn't random. This was calculated. This person switched away from light fingernail scratch tickling to what Carrie would describe as "heavy tickling." The kind where a person wiggles and digs over and around muscles and ligaments. The kind of tickling that is accomplished with a person sneaks up from behind and grabs someone's sides and squeezes. The thumbs pressing deep into that hypersensitive junction weren't just resting; they were priming. They were positioned exactly where even the slightest movement, the tiniest vibration, would ignite an uncontrollable tickling firestorm deep inside her core. And Carrie knew with terrifying certainty, what that firestorm would trigger. "No!" she choked out, a raw whisper. "Don't! Please!" Her bladder pulsed violently in response to her panic.
The thumbs began to wiggle. Just a very minute oscillation at first, deep within the soft flesh where inner thigh met outer pussy. Carrie’s breath froze as she was summoning up her next laughter. The wiggling intensified—slow, deliberate, deep-kneading vibrations that bypassed her skin entirely and burrowed straight into the hyper-reactive muscle fibers beneath. It wasn’t surface tickling; it was internal torture, resonating through her core like a tuning fork struck against her nerves. Carrie’s laughter exploded—sharp, guttural, involuntary shrieks tearing from her throat in ways that it cannot be done. Her hips jackknifed wildly against the pelvic strap, spine arching off the table. Every fiber clenched in a desperate, futile battle: fighting the tickling, fighting the laughter, fighting the floodgate pressure building low in her belly. The thumbs dug deeper, vibrating faster now, triggering violent spasms in her sweaty slick pelvic floor muscles. "STOP!" she screamed, the word dissolving into hysterical gasps. "I CAN'T—I'M—" (hysterical laughter)
Tears streamed down her face. (hysterical laughter) She felt the warm wetness before she consciously registered the release—a hot rush spreading beneath her, no doubt soaking the thin padding on the restraint table. Humiliation crashed over her, hotter than the urine. Her laughter dissolved into ragged wet sobs, shoulders shaking violently against the wrist restraints. The thumbs didn’t stop though. They maintained their deep vibrating zig zag pressure, prolonging the agonizing spasms as her bladder emptied completely. The tickler was very thorough, ensuring every last drop of pee was forced out under the relentless assault. Carrie could only sob and laugh, utterly broken.
Finally, the thumbs ceased and lifted. Carrie lay gasping, shuddering, soaked and utterly exposed. Her continued laughter was hollow, edged with despair, and lasted for an amazingly long time for no longer being touched or tickled.
Carrie blinked, her eyelids heavy as lead shutters. A ceiling swam into focus: smooth, pale gray, unremarkable. Not the padded black void. Panic fluttered weakly in her chest, but exhaustion pinned it down. Her neck felt stiff. She touched it instinctively. Smooth metal. The sleep collar. They must have used it. How else could she be here? The transition was seamless, terrifyingly blank. One moment: convulsing, soaked, screaming. The next: stillness, silence, in this bed.
She lay perfectly still, taking inventory. Clean sheets, crisp against her skin. Her body felt… washed? No lingering stickiness, no scent of urine or terror. Just the faint medicinal tang in the air and the soft cotton of the thin green robe she was wearing. Relief warred with humiliation. They’d cleaned her. Handled her unconscious body. The thought made her skin crawl. Slowly, she pushed herself up on her elbows. Empty. She was alone in her assigned room.
Illustrations by LisaLisaJam
PART 2
Lena straightened up, her professional smile returning as she reached for a small tray on the cart. "Now," she announced kindly, "I need to take your temperature. Standard procedure after sedation and immersion." She produced a long, slender thermometer encased in sterile plastic. Carrie watched. Compared to everything else a thermometer seemed harmless. She figured it couldn’t hurt to cooperate, that she’d show the staff she was reasonable. Maybe it would earn her some goodwill. Slowly Carrie opened her mouth and lifted her tongue slightly, bracing for the cool intrusion.
"Oh, I’m sorry, no," Lena said, her voice still gentle but firm. She didn’t move the thermometer towards Carrie’s mouth. Instead, she picked up a long narrow beaker filled with a thick clear lubrication. "The absolute best way to get a good accurate core temperature reading," Lena explained calmly, dipping more than the tip of the thermometer into the lubrication, "is... you know..." She met Carrie’s widening eyes directly, her expression utterly serene, "...from behind." Lena smiled kindly as she moved towards Carrie. "It’s much more reliable. Especially after the skin sensitivity treatments. Now, get on your elbows and knees for me, Carrie." Carrie's mind was screaming inside, her body rigid with renewed embarrassment. The innocuous lubricated thermometer suddenly felt like a weapon, a violation waiting to happen. "Lift your little butt up higher please," Lena gently asked. Lena waited patiently, her smile unwavering.
Carrie’s breath hitched in her throat. Cooperation felt like a trap. Refusal felt like inviting Daniel back. Trembling, she slowly, agonizingly repositioned herself onto her elbows and knees, facing a padded gray wall, her back side exposed to Lena. The cool air hit Carrie’s exposed skin beneath the robe, and that same air made its presence known all over her ass crack, which kind of opened up a little because of the position she needed to be in. Lena efficiently pulled the thin fabric up just enough, exposing Carrie’s lower back and ass. Carrie squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the cold intrusion, humiliation burning hotter than any fever. Lena’s fingers, cool and clinical, parted her gently. "Deep breath now," Lena murmured, her voice sounding close and detached. The slick, cold tip of the thermometer pressed firmly against Carrie’s intimate opening. Carrie gasped, a strangled sound escaping her lips as Lena slowly, steadily, pushed a large amount of the instrument deep inside. It wasn’t painful, just profoundly invasive, cold, utterly violating. Carrie remained still, tears welling up, her fists clenched in the thin sheet, every nerve screaming about the unwanted penetration. Lena held it in place, her other hand resting lightly on Carrie’s hipbone as if measuring her stillness.
Carrie focused on the texture of the padding inches from her face – a dull, synthetic gray weave. She counted the tiny imperfections in the foam beneath the fabric: three small indentations near the corner, a faint scuff mark. Anything to escape the cold, slick presence lodged inside her, the clinical efficiency of Lena’s touch. She could hear Lena breathing softly behind her, feel the faint warmth radiating from her body. The scent of the disinfectant on Lena’s uniform mixed sickeningly with the faint, cloying sweetness of the lubrication. Time stretched, each second an eternity measured by the pounding of Carrie’s own heart against the mattress. She felt utterly exposed, dissected under Lena’s neutral gaze. The thermometer felt impossibly long, a cold, rigid intrusion that mapped a path deep into her core she never wanted explored. She bit her lip hard, tasting blood, desperate not to make another sound, not to give Lena or the unseen camera another ounce of her degradation.
Finally, after an agonizing minute for Carrie, Lena withdrew the long thermometer smoothly. A small, involuntary shudder wracked Carrie’s body during its exit. Lena glanced at the digital readout. "Niney-eight point seven," she announced brightly, as if discussing the weather. She discarded the thermometer. "Perfectly normal." Lena pulled Carrie’s robe back down, her touch efficient, impersonal. She made a note on her tablet. "See? Nothing invasive." Lena patted Carrie’s shoulder once, a gesture of warmth. "Just protocol." She turned back to her cart. Carrie slowly rolled onto her back and sat up, once again hugging her knees with both arms. That thermometer situation was a stark reminder that cooperation at Glenhaven offered no safety, only different flavors of helplessness.
"Alright Carrie," Lena said, her smile warm and reassuring, "just one more thing please." She moved closer to the bed, her blonde hair catching the harsh overhead light. "Dr. Robinson wants me to ensure there are no lingering physical effects from the recalibration session." Lena gestured towards Carrie’s knees. "I need to closely examine your body for any bruises or injuries. Especially your extremities." Her gaze drifted pointedly downwards towards Carrie’s bare feet resting on the bed. "Daniel can be quite... thorough. We need to make sure your skin integrity wasn’t compromised anywhere." Lena’s tone remained professional, concerned even. "Could you please lie back and extend your legs for me? First slip off the robe, I’ll need access."
Carrie froze. Every instinct screamed to curl tighter, to shield herself. Lena’s request sounded reasonable, medical. Yet the memory of Daniel’s clinical detachment as he documented her degradation flooded back. Examine. Extremities. It was code, wasn't it? A thin veneer over the Manor’s true purpose. Lena’s eyes though seemingly kind, held a watchfulness that Carrie could not decipher. And refusal meant defiance – defiance summoned Daniel, or Robinson. Compliance felt like baring her throat willingly to the wolf. Those beautiful, treacherous feet felt like targets painted on her skin. The phantom sensation of scraping wiggling fingers between her toes sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Could she endure Lena’s touches, even if it was just an examination?
With trembling hands that felt disconnected from her body, Carrie slowly, agonizingly loosened the thin sash of the lite-green thin robe. The fabric cool and whisper-soft, slid off her shoulders with a faint rustle. It pooled around her waist then fell away completely as she pushed it down her hips. She lay back against the sterile pillow, utterly exposed on the gray sheet, her skin prickling under the cool air. Her slender form, pale ivory against the drab gray, felt impossibly vulnerable. She hugged her arms across her chest, a futile shield. Lena, unexpectedly, turned her head away, gazing fixedly at the wall for a long moment. Was it respect? Discretion? When Lena finally looked back, her expression was carefully composed, professionally neutral, devoid of any overt leer. "Thank you, Carrie," Lena murmured, her voice smooth and empathetic. "Now, please extend your legs fully. Keep them relaxed."
Carrie obeyed, forcing her rigid muscles to un-clench. Slowly, she slid her legs out straight on the bed. Her feet, those beautiful betrayers, lay exposed at the end of her slender limbs. She braced herself for Lena’s hands, for the inevitable cold touch tracing her ticklish skin, for the probing fingers seeking weaknesses. But Lena didn't touch her. Instead, Lena leaned forward slightly, her chin-length blonde hair falling neatly around her face. She began a meticulous visual inspection. Her lite-brown eyes, sharp and observant, traveled slowly, systematically down Carrie’s right leg, starting from the smooth curve of her hip. Lena scanned the skin inch by inch, her gaze lingering momentarily on the soft skin of Carrie’s inner thigh – then moving deliberately past her knee, down her calf, over her ankle, and finally settling on her bare foot. Lena’s eyes traced the high arch, the slender toes, the delicate webs between them, the soft pad beneath her big toe. She didn't blink, didn't rush. It was a clinical assessment, devoid of physical contact, yet intensely focused. Carrie held her breath, surprised and cautiously relieved by the lack of touch. Lena’s gaze felt intrusive, yes, but infinitely preferable to fingers seeking out her hypersensitive spots.
"Oh," Lena murmured softly, her voice low and thoughtful. She leaned in closer, her focus narrowing on Carrie’s right foot. Her finger hovered just above the skin, near the outer edge of Carrie’s sole, close to the arch. "I'll need to gently press on the side of your sole for just a moment, sorry." She explained calmly, her tone purely professional. "I may have found a small area of discoloration – perhaps a minor bruise from the restraints or the... exertion." Lena’s eyes flicked up briefly to meet Carrie’s frightened green ones. "I’d like to know if it’s tender when I touch it." Before Carrie could even formulate a response – a plea, a denial, a frantic jerk away – Lena’s fingertip descended. It wasn't a jab, but a deliberate soft glide of her fingernail, directly onto the sensitive curve of Carrie’s sole, right where the arch met the outer edge.
The sensation was instantaneous and electric. A jolt of pure unadulterated ticklishness shot up Carrie’s leg like lightning. Her foot snapped back, jerking away from Lena’s touch as if burned. A sharp, involuntary giggle burst from Carrie’s lips – a high-pitched, startled sound that echoed embarrassingly loud in the padded room. Her cheeks flushed crimson instantly. Lena’s fingertip remained poised in the air where Carrie’s foot had been, her expression one of mild professional surprise. "Oh!" Lena said with a hint of gentle concern. "Did that hurt?" Her gaze remained steady, inquisitive, devoid of mockery, yet Carrie felt utterly exposed. That recent giggle hung in the air between them, a damning confirmation of her deepest, secret vulnerability laid bare.
Carrie’s mind raced, scrambling for plausible deniability. No, it hadn’t hurt at all. She was quite sure that Lena did not try to perform a probing press to check for bruising. It had been more like a deliberate feather-light scrape along hypersensitive skin. Lena’s fingernail hadn't tried to assess tenderness; it had glided smoothly, purposefully, across the exact kind of nerve-rich zone that would do nothing other than tickle. The touch hadn't been diagnostic; it had been exploratory, testing the waters. It felt less like checking for injury and more like... confirming a hypothesis. Carrie swallowed hard, her throat tight. "N-No," she stammered, forcing her voice lower, trying to inject a tremor of pain. "It... it stung. Just a little. It's fine thought." The lie felt flimsy, pathetic. She couldn't even meet Lena’s eyes.
Lena tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting from professional concern to something softer, warmer. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "Oh, Carrie," she murmured, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. She pointed towards Carrie’s foot. "You don't have to pretend with me." Lena leaned in a fraction closer. "I understand completely. Honestly? I am extremely ticklish myself. Everywhere." She gave a small, self-deprecating shrug, her gaze holding Carrie’s wide-eyed stare. "I can't even get a pedicure." Lena’s smile widened slightly, inviting camaraderie. "So, I apologize," she continued, her voice sincere, "if what I just did... tickled." Her gaze remained steady, open. "But just so I can write up the report correctly, did it sting?" she asked gently, her head cocked slightly. "Or," Lena paused, her eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, "...did it tickle?"
Carrie’s mind whirled. Lena’s confession felt like a lifeline thrown across a chasm – unexpected, bewildering, and terrifyingly tempting. Sympathy? Shared vulnerability? Or a trap? Lena’s expression seemed genuine, her admission echoing Carrie’s own deepest secret. The Manor’s protocols felt like suffocating fog, but Lena’s words offered a sliver of relatable humanity. Could she risk honesty? Could she trust this flicker of warmth? Carrie’s lips trembled. "It... tickled," she whispered, the confession escaping like a trapped bird suddenly freed. Her voice was barely audible, thick with shame and a desperate, fragile hope. She braced herself for Lena’s reaction – derision, clinical notation, or worse, predatory delight.
Lena’s smile remained, radiating warmth that seemed incongruous with the sterile gray room. "See?" she murmured softly, leaning back slightly, her posture relaxing. "Honesty isn’t so scary." She tapped her tablet thoughtfully. Carrie watched Lena’s fingers move over the screen. Her gaze flickered down towards Carrie’s exposed feet again, but this time, Lena’s expression held no clinical appraisal. Instead, there was a flicker of something softer, almost conspiratorial. "I’ll make a note here," Lena said, her voice low and reassuring. "Extreme cutaneous hypersensitivity. Especially distal extremities." She glanced up, locking eyes with Carrie. "That’s doctor-speak for very ticklish feet." A small genuine chuckle escaped her. "Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can do about letting the others know."
The ambiguity hung thick in the air. Letting them know? Did Lena mean warning them off? Or… marking Carrie ticklish feet as prime territory? Carrie’s throat tightened as she thought things over. Lena’s earlier confession—of her own ticklishness—felt like a shared secret, yet the Manor’s walls seemed to absorb honesty and twist it. Lena straightened up, her movements efficient as she snapped her tablet shut. She gathered her things and started to leave. The wheels squeaked faintly as she pushed it toward the door. "Rest now," Lena advised, pausing at the threshold. Her smile was warm, almost maternal. "Your next session isn’t scheduled yet. Try to relax."
The door hissed open, then shut, leaving Carrie alone. The silence pressed in. Lena’s kindness felt real but so had Robinson’s professional facade before the horror began. Carrie scrambled off the bed, the robe hastily retied. Relaxation was impossible. She stood on the padded floor her bare feet soundless on the foam. Lena’s fingernail scrape echoed on her sole—a phantom itch. Is Lena friend or foe?
About two hours later, a soft chime sounded. The door slid open silently. A female staff member, of Indian descent, perhaps 40 years old, entered holding a tray. She was very pretty with natural lite brown skin. Her expression was neutral. She didn’t speak. She simply placed the tray on the small table bolted to the wall, politely smiled, and left. No words.
Carrie approached cautiously. The tray held a simple large white plate. On it lay a piece of grilled salmon, its skin crisp and golden, glistening with a light herb-infused oil. Beside it nestled a vibrant mound of quinoa flecked with finely chopped parsley and toasted pine nuts. Steamed asparagus spears, impossibly green and tender, were arranged neatly beside a small dish of bright yellow lemon wedges. It looked… stunning. Like something from a high-end restaurant, not a confinement facility. The aroma was clean and fresh – sea salt, lemon, toasted grain – a stark contrast to the sterile air and lingering scent of disinfectant. It smelled wholesome, expensive.
Her stomach clenched. Hunger warred with suspicion. Was it drugged? Poisoned? A reward? A trap? She picked up the fork. She ate hesitantly at first, a tiny bite of salmon. The flavors exploded – clean, briny sea salt, infused with fragrant herbs and a hint of smoky char from the grill. It was exquisite. She devoured it quickly, the rich protein settling warmly in her empty stomach. The quinoa was nutty and complex, the asparagus perfectly tender, crisp with a bright snap. She squeezed lemon over everything, the sharp citrus cutting through the richness. It might be the best meal she'd ever tasted, consumed in the worst place imaginable. Every bite felt stolen, defiant. She scraped the plate clean, licking the last grains of quinoa. The simple act of eating, of satisfying a basic need, felt like a small private rebellion against the Manor's control. It grounded her, momentarily pushing back the phantom tickles and the fear.
Carrie's last thoughts were that she laid on her bed and was looking up at the ceiling. Then, nothing. Consciousness returned to her slowly, and with disorientation. Her eyes started to open, and instead of the familiar gray ceiling, she saw a dense dark nebula, impossibly close, with one large hypnotic spinning spiral. Panic seized her. She tried to move her head but it was held immobile, encased in something smooth, cool, and unyielding. A high-tech sphere? A virtual reality sphere, a kind of full 360 degree head gear? Her entire visual field was consumed by this 360-degree cosmic panorama. Sounds flooded her ears. Sounds of different voices, all of them stating commands, but some asked questions.
She strained, testing her limbs, but cold reality slammed home. Her wrists were secured tightly to padded restraints of some kind, that she couldn't see. Her ankles were similarly locked into restraints attached to the base of whatever she was lying on. The surface beneath her bare back and legs felt cool, slightly yielding, like medical-grade vinyl. Naked. Utterly exposed but yet her head was inside some kind of high-tech display unit. Where was she? What was this? Another session of some kind?
Calm, soothing, synthesized female and male voices cut through the low cosmic hum, startlingly clear.
"You are safe... You are learning... Resistance causes discomfort..."
"Trust the Manor... Obedience brings you peace..."
"You will obey won't you?..."
"Your mind is receptive... Your body is for others..."
"You want to keep your eyes open..."
The voices overlapped, a chorus of calm commands, questions and assurances. A soft female voice swelled, "...complete surrender..." dominating the auditory space before fading. Randomly, unpredictably, different voices leapt forward in volume, demanding attention then receded into the background until their turn came back around. This constant flux of random amplification instantly became quite hypnotic. Carrie’s frantic panic started to dissipate. Her mind became desperate for anchors, and so instinctively tried to latch onto each voice as it surged, straining to parse the overlapping messages: "...discomfort is temporary..." (fading) "...there is pleasure in yielding..." (booming) "...Dr. Robinson knows best..." (softening). It was an impossible task that forced her focus to dart around chaotically.
The mesmerizing spiral directly in front of her eyes pulsed gently, its rotation subtly syncing with the rhythm of the voices. As a male voice stated, "...your fears are dissolving..." its volume surged, and the spiral seemed to brighten momentarily. When a female voice murmured, "...let go..." softly, the spiral dimmed slightly. This visual-audio coupling was impossible to ignore. Carrie’s frantic panic dissolved into a strange passive attention. Her breathing slowed. Her rigid muscles held taut against the restraints, began to loosen. She relaxed and simply listened, her gaze locked onto the hypnotic spiraling vortex. The chaotic voices weren't confusing anymore; they felt like a conversation happening just for her, guiding her.
It wasn't long before Carrie truly started to agree. The voices spoke simple truths: "...you are safe here..." Yes, she was physically restrained, but unharmed. "...learning obedience..." Wasn't that why Mother had sent her? "...trust brings peace..." Her defiance had only brought Daniel’s fingers and Lena’s fingernail. A profound sense of weary acceptance washed over her. The spiral seemed to absorb her anxieties, leaving only a hollow readiness. When the soft male voice asked, "...you want to cooperate, don't you?" Carrie felt a faint nod forming inside her skull, a silent affirmation.
Then the female voice, clear and gentle yet utterly commanding, filled her auditory world: "You will obey, won't you?" It wasn't a question expecting refusal. It felt like the inevitable conclusion, the key to ending the internal struggle. The spiral pulsed warmly. Carrie’s lips parted slightly. "Yes," she whispered, the sound barely audible even to herself, lost amidst the other voices. Yet the moment she uttered it, a wave of relief, warm and thick, washed through her. It felt less like surrender and more like finally understanding the rules. Obedience wasn't defeat; it was the path to avoiding Daniel’s wiggling fingers, Lena’s probing touches. Obedience would be a good thing for her.
The voices seized upon her capitulation instantly. "You crave guidance..." "You trust Dr. Robinson..." "You enjoy pleasing others..." Each statement, delivered with calm certainty, felt like a revelation. "Yes," she breathed again, softer this time. The spiral seemed to brighten with each affirmation. Another voice asked, "You are grateful for correction...aren't you?" "Yes." "You want to be good..." "Yes." The affirmations became a rhythm to the overlapping suggestions. Her lips moved silently now, mouthing the word over and over as the voices layered commands and questions in rapid fire fashion. Time dissolved. The cosmic nebula was her entire universe, the voices her only companions. The spiral pulsed, the voices swelled and faded, and Carrie’s softly spoken "Yes" became the only constant, a mantra of submission.
Sixty minutes elapsed, then the nebula vanished, replaced by pitch black silence. Carrie didn't even notice for long while as she was in a sleep state, unknowingly listening for her next instructions. Then her own thoughts started to return to her. More and more she began to realize there was only silence and only pitch-black darkness within her all-encompassing VR head unit.
She blinked slowly, the sudden sensory deprivation jarring after the cosmic immersion. Her mind felt fuzzy, compliant, still echoing with phantom affirmations. She licked her dry lips and the sound of that resonated clearly inside the head gear. Then, a deeper awareness seeped in. Something felt... different. Wrong. The cool surface beneath her back was the same, but the position of her limbs... she tried to flex her fingers. Nothing. Her wrists felt anchored wide apart, straps pressing into her soft skin. She attempted to bend her elbows – locked solid, pulled taut away from her body. Panic flickered, dulled by the lingering haze of compliance. She shifted her legs, or tried to. Some kind of thick bands cinched just above her knees, forcing her legs wide open, splayed at an unnatural, vulnerable angle. Also her feet were immobilized by some kind of strange apparatus. Another strap dug into her waist, pinning her pelvis flat against the cool vinyl. She was stretched taut, limbs straining against unyielding leather – a perfect, rigid X. Immobilized completely. Exposed utterly.
Carrie strained against the restraints, her mind clearing rapidly as adrenaline surged. The headgear remained pitch black, silent. She couldn't see anything of her own body. Only the pressure points registered: the straps at her wrists, elbows, ankles, knees, waist. She strained her neck, trying to lift her head against the unyielding cradle holding it immobile. Nothing. Panic sharpened. What held her? Leather straps? Some high-tech polymer? She couldn't tell. The pressure was firm, unrelenting, designed for utter stillness. She could feel the cool air brushing her skin – her belly, her inner thighs, the soles of her feet suddenly felt intensely vulnerable in the open air.
Her focus snapped downwards, drawn by a strange sensation on her feet. They weren't just restrained; they felt somewhat encased. Yet, bizarrely, the soles felt completely exposed. She could feel the coolness of the air directly on her arches, her heels, the sensitive pads beneath her toes. It was as if her feet were locked inside some kind of rigid boots... but one with the entire bottom sliced cleanly away. The sensation was disorienting and terrifying. The tops of her feet, her ankles, felt gripped securely by smooth, cool padded material – maybe hardened plastic – holding them immobile in extremely exposed positioning. But the bottoms? Nothing but open air against her hypersensitive skin.
She tried desperately to curl her toes, to scrunch her soles away from imagined future touches. Impossible. Each toe was held perfectly straight, rigidly immobilized. She sensed thin, unyielding bands – perhaps leather, perhaps something synthetic – circling the base of each toe, pressing them flat against the unseen surface that pressed against the tops of her feet. Not painful, just... absolute. Her toes couldn't wiggle, couldn't flex even a millimeter. Her soles remained utterly bare and terrifyingly accessible, as she lay flat on her back in a taut spread-eagle position, not able to see anything but black emptiness.
Then, another realization hit her: the headgear wasn't just visual deprivation. It was sonic isolation. Total. Utter. Complete. She strained, listening with every fiber of her being. Nothing. Not the faint hum of climate control, not footsteps, not voices. Only the sound of her own ragged breathing amplified inside the helmet. She was deaf to the outside world. Blindfolded by darkness. Utterly cut off. Trapped inside her own skull. She couldn't know if someone had entered the room, was in the room. Couldn't prepare for the inevitable touch. The vulnerability was absolute, suffocating. Her mind screamed warnings, but her body was frozen prey.
Then it began. The tickling began. Not Daniel’s relentless assault, not Lena’s probing nail. This was different. Infinitely worse. A touch so impossibly light, it was barely a suggestion on the skin. Like the ghost of a feather drifting across her exposed belly. Carrie gasped, the sound loud and sharp inside her helmet. Her entire abdomen clenched reflexively against the straps pinning her down. The touch vanished. Silence. Darkness. Only her frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears.
A pause. Then it reappeared, higher this time. The whisper-light scrape of something impossibly fine—a stiff feather of some kind, it had to be— and someone was gliding it along the delicate underside of her arm, beginning at her wrist restraint. It tickled that's for sure. It was a maddening promise of sensations to come, a deliberate, unhurried exploration. Carrie sucked in a breath, trying to stifle the giggles bubbling in her chest. The touch lingered, tracing a slow, meandering carefree path down the soft flesh of her inner arm towards her armpit. Her muscles trembled, straining against the immovable straps. She jerked her arm uselessly. The tickling implement withdrew again. Waiting.
Silence pressed in, thick and absolute inside the helmet. Carrie strained, listening for any clue—a breath, a shuffle. Nothing. Only the frantic drumming of her own heart. Then, the feather returned. Not to her arm. This time, it danced lightly, teasingly, across the sensitive skin just above her collarbone. A giggle gasp escaped her, sharp and involuntary. Whoever was doing this must have heard that giggle, and probably was now even more encouraged to proceed. The feather traced a slow circle there, a lazy spiral that sent shivers cascading down her spine. It paused, then drifted lower, skimming the swell of her breast, circling her nipple. Carrie arched her back, a desperate futile attempt to escape the sensations.
The feather vanished. Carrie froze, breath held. Where next? The answer came swiftly, brutally. A sudden, sharp scritch-scratch! Not a feather anymore. Something stiff, pointed—perhaps a thin semi-sharp wooden dowel?—raked firmly down the arch of her immobilized right foot. Carrie screamed with instant laughter. She was extremely concerned about how she could not adjust her feet, at all! Her laugh ripped through her otherwise silent helmet, raw and ragged. Her whole body convulsed against the restraints, muscles straining but unable to move a millimeter. The dowel lifted, leaving a trail of fire across her hypersensitive sole. Before she could recover, it returned, tracing rapid, staccato zig-zags across her heel, then the ball of her foot in light poking attacks. Laughter exploded from her, harsh and breathless, as she continued blind and deaf to the rest of the room. "Stop! Please!" she shrieked, knowing it was useless. The dowel tapped experimentally against the base of her big toe, then scratched firmly along the tender skin beneath it. Carrie shrieked again, her laughter dissolving into desperate, panicked continuous giggles.
Helplessness flooded her, thick and hot. She couldn't see the attacker, couldn't hear their breathing, couldn't anticipate the next target. Would it be her other foot? Her ribs? The unbearable softness of her belly? Her exposed armpits? The uncertainty was torture itself, amplifying every nerve ending. Each pause felt like eternity, her mind racing through possibilities, her skin prickling with dread. She continued to strain uselessly against the straps, her arms and legs splayed wide, utterly defenseless. The dowel withdrew.
She breathed heavy inside the helmet. Carrie panted, tears starting to mix with sweat on her face. Where? Where next? The suspense coiled tighter than the straps. Then, sharp pressure dug into the soft flesh just above her hip bone. Carrie gasped, then shrieked as the pressure shifted into rapid, digging light pinches – fingers this time, wiggling deep into the ticklish hollow. Her laughter burst forth at an insane high level, uncontrollable, humiliating. She bucked wildly, futilely. The fingers vanished. She gulped air, trembling. Left foot? Right armpit? She braced for anything, her entire body tensed and screamingly alert.
Then came the feather again. Not a tease. A relentless, swirling assault on her exposed left sole. It traced maddening zig zags on her arch, flicked at her heel, danced over the hypersensitive pads beneath her toes. But at the same time, fingernails were dancing all over her right sole. Carrie dissolved into pure breathless hysteria. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but laugh.
Her bladder clenched dangerously. Through the haze of ticklish agony, a chilling realization pierced her: she was more ticklish than ever before. Far more. Daniel's torture had been brutal, Lena's single touch was probing, but this... this current tickling felt like fire. Why? Was it just the utter helplessness? The sensory deprivation? Or... yes... it had to be... the milky soft bath from yesterday. They had said it was intended to soften and make her skin more sensitive. Oh my god, she was screwed! The emulsion had enhanced sensitivity. Every brush, every scrape, every poke registered with agonizing, electrifying clarity. Her skin wasn't just skin anymore; it was raw nerve endings screaming for mercy, that she wouldn't get.
The feather vanished suddenly. The fingernails lifted. Silence slammed back down inside the helmet, thick and suffocating. Carrie gasped, gulping stale air, trembling violently against the restraints. Sweat slicked her skin. Tears streamed down her temples, pooling in her ears. She strained, listening desperately. Nothing. Only the ragged symphony of her own breathing and pounding heart. Where? Where next? Her mind raced, skin prickling with dread. Ribs? Belly? Neck? She braced for anything. Anything but... that.
Then it happened. Not a feather. Not a fingernail. Not a dowel. Hands. Warm, dry, impossibly soft hands. They landed lightly, almost gently, one settling deep into each of her wide-open, utterly immobilized armpits. The touch was deliberate, sadistic, final. The softness was a lie. Carrie froze, a choked gasp catching in her throat. This wasn't exploration. This wasn't teasing. This was business. The hands traveled deep into the hollows, fingers spread wide. Then, all ten fingers began to move. Not probing. Not tracing. Tapping. Sliding randomly. Scrabbling lightly. Dragging. Over every millimeter of her sickeningly ticklish underarm hollows. It wasn't tickling; it was annihilation.
The reaction was instantaneous and volcanic as Carrie exploded with ridiculous unstoppable laughter. A shriek ripped from her throat, raw and deafening inside the helmet, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. Her body jackknifed against the straps with terrifying force, muscles straining impossibly against the unyielding buckled leather. Her head snapped back against the padding under it. Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She could only feel the insane unbearable tickling firestorm blazing in both of her pits. The fingers danced fast, deep, wiggling, scraping the tender skin lightly, scratching erratically. It was so relentless, everywhere at once. Panic screamed as loud as her laughter. She was going to die! Right here, blind, deaf, pinned like a butterfly. She'd laugh herself to death! Her lungs burned, desperate for air she couldn't quite catch.
The tapping focused now on the deepest, most sensitive recesses where her arms met her torso. Spots danced in the blackness of the helmet. Her bladder gave a sharp, agonizing spasm. Oh god, not again! Not here! Not now! But the fingers didn't stop. They dug deeper, faster, a sadistic symphony played on her screaming nerves.
Amidst the cyclone of laughter and tears and desperate gasps, fragments of thought pierced the haze. Who was doing this? Was it Daniel? His touch had been brutal, demanding. This felt… different. Controlled, precise, almost clinical in its cruelty. Lena? She’d been kinder, but her fingernail had been sharp. This seemed like shorter duller fingernails, but providing methodical devastation. Could they hear her? The helmet muffled everything outside, but her screams must be echoing back at her tormentor. Were they grinning? Frowning? Utterly impassive? Was this even part of Dr. Robinson’s plan?
The hypnotic spiral had whispered obedience, peace through yielding. Was this torture the “correction” Lena mentioned? Or had someone – this silent, unseen technician – simply seized the opportunity to indulge? The thought was terrifying: random cruelty, sanctioned or not. Did Robinson watch? Carrie pictured her behind glass, observing with that cool, detachment. The fingers paused very briefly, shifting position slightly to all of the areas just barely out of her armpits. Carrie gulped more air, ragged sobs escaping. The scrabbling resumed, faster, lighter, impossibly worse. She shrieked with fast paced laughter, laughter that wasn't even human, the sounds raw and broken.
Then, abruptly, the hands vanished from her armpits. Carrie gasped, a ragged, desperate intake of stale air inside the helmet. Sweat poured down her temples, mixing with tears. She trembled against the restraints. Silence pressed in, thick and absolute. Where? Where next? Her mind raced, skin prickling with dread. Ribs? Belly? Neck? She braced for anything. Anything but... that.
The next touch wasn't a frantic assault. It was a single point of contact. Cool, dry, deliberate. The pad of a single index finger pressed firmly against the soft, vulnerable dip of her navel. Carrie flinched, a gasp escaping her. The finger didn't move. It simply rested there, a silent claim. Then, slowly, it began to trace the rim. Not a circle, but a slow, deliberate exploration of the shallow depression's edge. The fingertip dragged lightly, almost thoughtfully, along the sensitive ridge. Carrie sucked in her breath, her stomach muscles instinctively trying to clench against the strap pinning her hips flat. The finger retreated slightly, then returned, pressing directly into the center of her belly button. It wasn't rough, just firm and unrelenting. Carrie whimpered a sound of pure ticklish dread. Her toes strained uselessly against their rigid bonds.
The torture intensified. Now, two fingers – index fingers, she sensed – replaced the one. They moved with unhurried, terrifying precision. One finger circled the rim clockwise, applying varying pressure, sometimes a feather-light scrape, sometimes a firmer press that made Carrie jerk and gasp. Simultaneously, the other finger probed gently inside the navel cavity itself. Not deep, just enough to stimulate the hypersensitive nerve endings clustered there. It wiggled minutely, a slow, maddening oscillation. Carrie’s giggles bubbled uncontrollably. The fingers shifted tactics. One prodded with tapping motions firmly against the soft skin above her navel, while the other traced rapid tiny circles below it, focusing on the ultra-sensitive strip of skin connecting her belly button to her pubic mound, using the fingernail to do this. The dual fingers assault – was unbearable. Carrie shrieked with laughter her torso twisting futilely against the straps, tears streaming down her temples and cheeks. Her verbal pleas for this to stop, were of course, ignored.
Those fingers never strayed far. For five agonizing minutes, they remained fixated solely on this small patch of hypersensitive skin in and around her button. They alternated between deep slow presses inside the navel that made Carrie gasp and shudder, then rapid, skittering motions around its periphery, tracing the exact boundary where the taut skin met the depression. Sometimes, both fingers would press firmly against the rim itself, pinching the skin lightly from opposite sides. Carrie was exhibiting breathless hysterical laughter, her stomach muscles spasming violently, which, for the tickler, must have appeared glorious. The tickler's relentless focus amplified every sensation; and the emulsion bath had turned her belly button into raw exposed nerve clusters. She felt her belly button cavity exploited with clinical expertise.
Then, the fingers withdrew. Carrie gulped for air, trembling violently, sweat soaking her hairline. She braced for the next assault. Ribs? Feet? Armpits again? The suspense was thick and suffocating. To her, this was surely the worst kind of torture on earth. Silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten. Then—sudden, impossible sensation on both soles simultaneously. Not fingers. Not feathers. Something mechanical and high-tech.
Carrie couldn't see it, but the restraint boots had been activated. Embedded within the smooth plastic encasing her ankles and the tops of her feet, tiny panels slid open. From these apertures emerged multiple slender, articulated metal arms. Each arm ended in a semi-sharp, polished silver probe tip, no thicker than a pencil's lead. They moved with unnerving silence and precision, unfolding like the segmented legs of a spider. Carrie felt the cruel touch of metal tips lightly kissing the hypersensitive skin of her soles—one near her heel, another on her arch, a third beneath her toes, and three more randomly exploring elsewhere. In all, each foot had six evil probes discovering them. She jerked instinctively, giggle gasps escaping her, but the boots held her feet utterly perfectly immobile. Each toe remained pinned straight, unable to flex even a millimeter. The probes didn't full-on tickle yet; they seemed to be just mapping out her feet. But to Carrie, even the mapping tickled badly. She was laughing steadily.
The probes performed a meticulous systematic scan. They glided slow, overlapping paths across every contour of her soles—the bony prominence of her heel, the deep hollow of her arch, the padded ball beneath her toes, the delicate ridges and valleys between tendons. Simultaneously, smaller probes, extended from bands, encircling each toe base. They traced the sensitive pads on the underside of each toe, the vulnerable creases where toes met the foot, and the hyper-reactive skin along the sides and tips of all toes. When those tiny probes surveyed the sides of Carrie's toes, her laughter hopped up a notch. Even this "not tickling" mode was tickling her. How frightened Carrie was to understand that her soles weren't just exposed; they were being digitally dissected.
Every nerve cluster, every guaranteed reaction point, seemed to now be cataloged. The probes retracted silently back into their housings within the boots. The mapping was complete. Carrie lay trembling, blind and deaf, her hypersensitive soles utterly mapped and awaiting the inevitable, precision-engineered torment. The air felt colder than ever against her bare feet. Likely all that was necessary now is for the tickler to push some sort of "commence tickling" button and the probes would end Carrie's existence with impossible to endure tickling. But they didn't.
Silence stretched. No tickling occurred. Carrie periodically tested the restraints. Every muscle remained locked in anticipation. Minutes crawled by. Five. Ten. Only the frantic drumming of her own heart filled the helmet's void. The suspense coiled tighter than the straps holding her pelvis down flat. The pelvis strap coupled with the straps just above each knee, left her upper legs unable to move, literally unable to move at all. The utter helplessness, the sensory deprivation, the lingering agony of the emulsion-enhanced sensitivity – it was a cocktail designed for madness. She felt raw, flayed open, her body no longer her own but a landscape of terror mapped for torment.
Then it started again with no warning. Simultaneous fingertip touches, the tickler using both hands, one for each of Carrie's legs. The fingertips began their tapping dance just above each of her ankles, and together in unison, extremely slowly began to tickle and tap their way up her legs towards her thighs. She was already laughing very hard, but even she noticed how the higher up her legs the fingernails traveled, the higher pitched and more desperate her laughter became. The fingernails dragged and scraped with devastating precision over the ultrasensitive skin of her inner calves. Each tap, each scrape, each slow drag upwards sent fresh waves of hysterical laughter tearing from her throat. Her legs strained uselessly against the straps above her knees, muscles bulging in a futile attempt to clamp together, or lift up, to shield the vulnerable path the fingers were tracing.
This tickler had full knowledge that Carrie was the most ticklish at the top of her legs, on her very upper inner thighs. And is why they started at the ankles, a superb way to mentally torture Carrie, knowing she would realize her upper inner thighs were the destination. The ascent was agonizingly slow. The fingers paused frequently, sometimes tickling one area without moving, only to resume their maddening scrape-tap-drag motion higher up the legs. They skirted her kneecaps, focusing relentlessly on the inner flesh. Carrie's laughter escalated into shrieks as they reached her mid-thighs. The skin here was impossibly soft, untouched by sun, hypersensitive beyond all belief after the emulsion bath. The fingers wiggled minutely as they climbed. The tickling sensations were excruciating! Her hips bucked wildly against the pelvic strap, her spine arching off the table, head thrashing inside the padded helmet. Every single nerve ending screamed. She gasped for air between peals of laughter that felt like they were shredding her lungs.
The fingers reached the crease where thigh met torso. Carrie screamed, a raw, ragged sound filled with pure panic. The fingernails didn't pause; they intensified. They traced the exact fold, advancing down into the impossibly ticklish hollows right at the junction, scraping lightly towards her vulnerable groin, then dragging back down along the ultra-sensitive inner thigh tendons. Carrie quickly returned to the sobbing helpless breathless laughing that her armpits had brought to her a bit earlier. Tears streamed freely. Her bladder spasmed violently. She didn't think she could hold it! Not again please! Her hips bucked wildly against the strap, a futile, desperate attempt to dislodge the tormenting fingers. The fingers danced faster now, wiggling deep into the soft flesh of her upper inner thighs, alternating sharp taps with maddeningly slow drags. Her laughter became choked gasps punctuated by desperate shrieks. Every nerve screamed white hot ticklish!
Amidst the cyclone of sensation, a fragmented thought pierced the haze: How are they doing this? To inflict such coordinated torture simultaneously on both legs... the tickler must be positioned directly between her spread legs. Standing right there. Inches from her exposed, vulnerable core. Carrie's mind recoiled in humiliation. The restraints – wrists pulled wide, ankles locked apart in those rigid boots – they weren't just immobilizing her; they were displaying her. Spreading her wide open for maximum access. For this. For the fingers now digging deeper, faster, into the hypersensitive flesh high on her inner thighs, scraping perilously close to places that made her scream anew. The table... it must be like an X, the thought flashed, stark and horrifying. I'm pinned wide open... like a specimen... for them.
Her entire pelvic area felt obscenely exposed. The thin robe Lena had given her was gone. She was utterly naked beneath the straps. The pelvic restraint was broad leather, pressing her hips flat against the cold table, but it only covered the bony points. Below it, everything was bare. The tickler's gaze must be fixed directly on the intimate triangle of dark, shaved smooth curls between her thighs, the soft swell of her lower belly glistening with sweat and perhaps the residue of her earlier humiliation. Carrie imagined how it must look: flushed pink from the frantic thrashing, the muscles trembling uncontrollably beneath the skin, utterly defenseless. The tickler could see every flinch, every desperate clench of her abdomen against the strap, every involuntary tremor radiating outwards from the epicenter of the torment. They could see everything. The thought was a fresh wave of excruciating shame layered over this unbearable tickling.
Worse, the tickler standing directly between her legs had an unobstructed view, a clinical vantage point to observe the involuntary reactions of her body to their torture – the way her inner thighs quivered violently with each scrape of their nails, how the muscles above her pubic bone jumped and spasmed, how the skin flushed deeper crimson with every choked gasp and shriek. They could probably even see the faint, telltale dampness on the table beneath her, evidence of her utter loss of control earlier. It was degradation rendered visible, anatomical.
Carrie didn't think she could hold back her pee much longer. The pressure was immense, a burning ache low in her belly that warred violently with the tickling-induced convulsions. Each frantic buck of her hips against the pelvic strap squeezed her bladder. The fingers digging deep into the soft flesh high on her inner thighs, scraping perilously close to her groin, triggered involuntary pelvic floor spasms that threatened to unravel her completely. "No, no, please!" she gasped, the plea a ragged sob seemingly lost inside her helmet, drowned by her own desperate laughter. Tears blurred her vision, mixing with sweat on her temples. She clenched everything she could, toes straining uselessly in their rigid boots, thighs trembling with the effort to clamp shut – impossible against the straps and the relentless fingers. The tickling wasn't just torture; it was a physical assault forcing her body towards another humiliating betrayal.
"Stop! Please! I'm going to pee!" Carrie yelled, the words bursting out between shrieks of laughter. She repeated it, louder, a desperate warning screamed into the sonic void. "I can't hold it! Stop! (hysterical laughter) PLEASE! I'M GOING TO (hysterical laughter) PEE!" The frantic declaration echoed inside her helmet.
The fingers froze instantly. Not lifting away but becoming utterly still. Carrie gasped, gulping air, her laughter hiccupping wildly even as the sensations faded. Her body trembled violently, muscles twitching in confused aftershocks. The pressure in her bladder screamed, a burning, urgent ache that threatened immediate release. She clenched everything with desperate, trembling force, praying she hadn't already started leaking.
Five agonizing seconds crawled by. Silence, thick and suffocating, broken only by Carrie's ragged wet breaths echoing inside the helmet. Sweat stung her eyes. The phantom tickling sensations danced across her hypersensitive skin, making her flinch involuntarily. Hold on, hold on, she pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Please, not again.
Then the hands shifted. Not retreating, but repositioning. The fingers slid upwards slightly, their touch changing from torment to providing hand control. Carrie felt the warm firm pressure of four fingers on each hand splaying wide across the front tops of her upper thighs, gripping the trembling quad muscle there like anchors. The thumbs—oh god, the thumbs—detached themselves. They moved deliberately, searching inward and down across the sweat-slicked skin of her inner thighs, pressing into the impossibly soft vulnerable flesh high up near the crease. They weren't tickling yet; they were probing, finding purchase, checking to see what spot made Carrie jump and squeal. Carrie felt the pads of both thumbs press down with significant focused pressure onto the dense cluster of tendons, ligaments, and hyper-reactive muscle fibers buried beneath the soft skin of her upper inner thighs—the precise epicenter of her worst ticklish hell.
Horror washed over Carrie like ice water. This wasn't random. This was calculated. This person switched away from light fingernail scratch tickling to what Carrie would describe as "heavy tickling." The kind where a person wiggles and digs over and around muscles and ligaments. The kind of tickling that is accomplished with a person sneaks up from behind and grabs someone's sides and squeezes. The thumbs pressing deep into that hypersensitive junction weren't just resting; they were priming. They were positioned exactly where even the slightest movement, the tiniest vibration, would ignite an uncontrollable tickling firestorm deep inside her core. And Carrie knew with terrifying certainty, what that firestorm would trigger. "No!" she choked out, a raw whisper. "Don't! Please!" Her bladder pulsed violently in response to her panic.
The thumbs began to wiggle. Just a very minute oscillation at first, deep within the soft flesh where inner thigh met outer pussy. Carrie’s breath froze as she was summoning up her next laughter. The wiggling intensified—slow, deliberate, deep-kneading vibrations that bypassed her skin entirely and burrowed straight into the hyper-reactive muscle fibers beneath. It wasn’t surface tickling; it was internal torture, resonating through her core like a tuning fork struck against her nerves. Carrie’s laughter exploded—sharp, guttural, involuntary shrieks tearing from her throat in ways that it cannot be done. Her hips jackknifed wildly against the pelvic strap, spine arching off the table. Every fiber clenched in a desperate, futile battle: fighting the tickling, fighting the laughter, fighting the floodgate pressure building low in her belly. The thumbs dug deeper, vibrating faster now, triggering violent spasms in her sweaty slick pelvic floor muscles. "STOP!" she screamed, the word dissolving into hysterical gasps. "I CAN'T—I'M—" (hysterical laughter)
Tears streamed down her face. (hysterical laughter) She felt the warm wetness before she consciously registered the release—a hot rush spreading beneath her, no doubt soaking the thin padding on the restraint table. Humiliation crashed over her, hotter than the urine. Her laughter dissolved into ragged wet sobs, shoulders shaking violently against the wrist restraints. The thumbs didn’t stop though. They maintained their deep vibrating zig zag pressure, prolonging the agonizing spasms as her bladder emptied completely. The tickler was very thorough, ensuring every last drop of pee was forced out under the relentless assault. Carrie could only sob and laugh, utterly broken.
Finally, the thumbs ceased and lifted. Carrie lay gasping, shuddering, soaked and utterly exposed. Her continued laughter was hollow, edged with despair, and lasted for an amazingly long time for no longer being touched or tickled.
Carrie blinked, her eyelids heavy as lead shutters. A ceiling swam into focus: smooth, pale gray, unremarkable. Not the padded black void. Panic fluttered weakly in her chest, but exhaustion pinned it down. Her neck felt stiff. She touched it instinctively. Smooth metal. The sleep collar. They must have used it. How else could she be here? The transition was seamless, terrifyingly blank. One moment: convulsing, soaked, screaming. The next: stillness, silence, in this bed.
She lay perfectly still, taking inventory. Clean sheets, crisp against her skin. Her body felt… washed? No lingering stickiness, no scent of urine or terror. Just the faint medicinal tang in the air and the soft cotton of the thin green robe she was wearing. Relief warred with humiliation. They’d cleaned her. Handled her unconscious body. The thought made her skin crawl. Slowly, she pushed herself up on her elbows. Empty. She was alone in her assigned room.
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