Glenhaven Happiness Manor (a tickle torture story) F/F (PART 3)

[LisaLisaJam]

Story by LisaLisaJam
Illustrations by LisaLisaJam

PART 3

The silence pressed in. Carrie lay back, staring at the gray ceiling. Lena’s confession stripped away any doubt. Glenhaven wasn’t about rehabilitation; it was about breaking wills through calculated cruelty. Carrie was so angry at her mother for putting her here. That bitch. Defiance felt pointless yet surrender felt like death. What choice was left? It was all just so humiliating. She blinked them back furiously. Escape felt impossible, they've thought of everything. All she had was this moment, the quiet before whatever was to be done to her next. She focused on breathing, slow and deep, trying to calm the frantic drumming of her heart against her ribs.

Around what Carrie guessed was 1 PM, the door hissed open. Lena stood framed in the doorway. Her expression was coolly professional, devoid of the earlier false warmth. "Stand up, Carrie," Lena commanded, her voice flat and authoritative. "Place your hands behind your back. Now please." Carrie remained seated on the bed, her legs curled beneath her. She met Lena’s gaze, a spark of stubbornness flaring despite the fear. "Why?" Carrie asked, her voice surprisingly steady. "What’s the use? You’re just going to torture me again anyway." She lifted her chin slightly. "I don’t have to help you torture me."

Lena didn’t react visibly. Her expression remained impassive. She simply watched Carrie, her light brown eyes calculating. Carrie felt a flicker of doubt right after she said those things. Had her defiance been pointless? Stupid? Lena hadn’t threatened her. Maybe… maybe defiance was futile. Maybe she should just comply. As Carrie hesitated, giving her own impulsive words a second thought, Lena’s hand moved swiftly to her belt. Her thumb pressed a small, recessed button. There was no sound, no flash. But an instant paralyzing wave of numbness slammed through Carrie’s neck collar and surged down her spine. Her vision blurred. Her limbs turned to lead. Consciousness dissolved into thick darkness before she could even gasp. She slumped motionless on her bed, as the sleep collar’s neural inhibitor flooded her system. Lena stepped calmly into the room, "Point proven," she murmured to the unconscious girl. "You do have to obey. And you will learn that disobedience has immediate consequences. You will definitely learn not to disobey me."

When consciousness returned, it wasn't as slow this time. Carrie snapped back to awareness with the immediacy of a shutting door. Her cheek pressed against cool, padded leather. Her vision swam, then cleared to reveal the textured surface near her eyes—deep burgundy vinyl, smelling faintly of disinfectant. She tried to lift her head, but a broad strap encircling around the back of her neck held it firmly down against the bench. Panic arose. She tried to move her arms. Impossible. They were stretched down farther below her, wrists pinned against each side of the bench's padded surface. Thick, unforgiving leather cuffs secured them there, buckled tight enough to gently bite into her skin. She tried to kick her legs. They were locked slightly apart, cuffs on each ankle, one leg on each side of what was in face a perfectly built, very effective spanking bench. Her feet were encased in the familiar, dreaded "tickle boots"—hard, glossy plastic shells molded precisely to her soles, ankles immobilized within them, each toe held immobile.

Straps crossed her calves and thighs, anchoring her legs immovably to the heavy frame of the padded spanking bench. Another broad strap cinched her waist tightly, pressing her belly against the bench’s surface, forcing her hips up slightly. Her bare bottom arched prominently upwards, utterly exposed. Her entire body felt extruded, presented—a helpless offering. Her naked skin prickled against the cool air. She was strapped face down, immobilized, positioned perfectly for punishment, specifically Carrie feared, for spanking. Her muscles strained uselessly against the restraints.

"Hello Carrie," said a man's voice. Warm, familiar, and utterly chilling. The voice was Daniel’s. It came from somewhere behind her exposed position. "I hope you're doing well today. It's nice to see you again." His footsteps circled slowly around the spanking bench. Carrie couldn’t turn her head to see him; the strap held her face pressed into the leather padding. She could only hear him, smell the faint antiseptic scent clinging to him, feel the shift in the air as he moved. He stopped directly behind her. She felt his gaze burning into her exposed buttocks. "Lena ordered this little... spur-of-the-moment training session," Daniel continued, his tone conversational, almost cheerful. A hint of anticipation threaded through his words. "Seems you needed a reminder about obedience protocols. Subtly," he added, his voice dropping lower, "I should let you know... I’m going to enjoy administering this particular reminder."

There was a pause. Carrie held her breath, every muscle tensed against the straps. Then came the first sharp SLAP. His bare palm connected squarely with the lower curve of her left buttock. The sound cracked through the room—sharp, percussive, startlingly loud. Carrie gasped, more from shock than the pain. The sting bloomed instantly, a hot, spreading patch on her cool skin. Before she could fully register it, another CRACK landed on her right cheek, slightly higher. Then another on the left, lower this time. He started out lightly, methodically, mapping her bottom. SLAP. Low left. CRACK. Mid-right. SLAP. High left. CRACK. Low right. The rhythm was deliberate, unhurried. Each spank landed cleanly on a slightly different spot, covering the expanse of her buttocks, slightly overlapping. The initial sting quickly deepened into a throbbing heat. Carrie clenched her jaw, biting back sounds. Her hips jerked instinctively against the waist strap with each impact, but the restraints held her exactly firmly in place. Daniel remained silent except for the rhythmic SLAP-CRACK-SLAP-CRACK. The air grew thick with the scent of leather and Carrie’s own rising panic. Her exposed skin flushed pink under the assault. The stings really hurt!

The pace remained steady, but the intensity subtly increased. The spanks landed harder, the CRACK echoing sharper. The heat built from a sting to a persistent burn. Carrie’s breath hitched, escaping in small, involuntary grunts. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the texture of the leather against her cheek, the bite of the wrist cuffs, anything but the rising fire on her backside. Daniel shifted his stance slightly. The next series landed squarely on the sensitive underside where buttock met thigh—the sit-spot. SLAP-SLAP-SLAP! Three rapid-fire blows in quick succession on each side. Carrie cried out sharply, her body bucking violently against the restraints. Tears filled her eyes. The pain was sharper here, deeper. Daniel paused. Carrie heard the rustle of his clothes as he leaned closer. "Focus on the sensation, Carrie," he murmured, his voice calm, almost instructive. "Feel the heat. Feel the sting. This is the consequence of disobedience. Remember it." His hand rested lightly, almost possessively, on her scorched skin for a moment. The touch wasn't comforting; it felt like branding. Then he pulled back. Carrie braced herself, trembling, knowing this was far from over. The rhythmic spanking resumed, harder now, landing on already tenderized flesh.

The next spank landed squarely on the center of her left buttock—already flushed and throbbing. It wasn't just the force; it was the placement. Daniel was targeting the exact spot where the nerve endings screamed loudest. Carrie gasped, a ragged sound torn from her throat. The pain wasn't just skin-deep anymore; it felt like hot needles driving into muscle. Another blow landed, mirroring the spot on her right cheek. Carrie choked back a sob. She couldn't help it. Her body jerked wildly against the straps, tears leaking freely now, soaking into the padded leather beneath her cheek. She desperately didn't want to beg him. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her break. But the pain was unbearable, unlike anything she'd ever felt—a relentless, escalating fire that obliterated thought. A low moan escaped her, trembling and broken. "P-Please..." The word slipped out, a whisper, muffled against the leather.

Daniel paused. The sudden silence was thick, broken only by Carrie's ragged breathing and choked sobs. "Please?" he echoed, his voice soft, dangerously calm. "Please what, Carrie?" He delivered two more sharp, measured spanks—CRACK! CRACK!—directly on the most inflamed areas. Carrie screamed—a raw, involuntary sound of pure agony. Her resolve shattered. "Stop! Please stop! (sobbing) It hurts! (sobbing) IT HURTS SO MUCH!"

The words exploded from her, punctuated by wrenching sobs. She despised herself for begging, for giving him exactly what he wanted—proof of her brokenness. But the pain was monstrous, a wildfire consuming her backside, radiating down her trembling thighs. Each breath felt hot through her lungs. "I can't! I can't take it!" she wailed, her voice cracking. "M-mercy! Please, Daniel... mercy!" Her pleas dissolved into incoherent cries as another trio of blows landed—harder, faster—on her sit spots. She bucked violently against the straps, her screams dissolving into wet, gasping coughs. Tears streamed down her face, pooling on the leather beneath her cheek.

He stopped abruptly. His hand rested heavily on her seared skin. "Mercy?" Daniel murmured, his thumb pressing into a welt. Carrie flinched violently. "Mercy implies respect. Did you show Lena mercy? Obedience?" His tone hardened. "No. You defied her. Directly. This"—he traced a burning welt—"isn't punishment, Carrie. It's education." He shifted, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper near her ear. "Feel this pain. Remember it. This is the cost of disobedience. Every. Single. Time."

Carrie whimpered, utterly defeated. "I-I'm so sorry! I'll obey! I swear!" The words tasted like ash, but the desperate need for the agony to end overwhelmed her pride. "Please... no more..." SLAP! Slap-Slap-Slap!

"Good," he said simply. He didn't sound triumphant; he sounded satisfied. Clinical. "Hold onto that feeling." He walked out of the room.

The door hadn't even fully sealed behind Daniel before it hissed open again. Lena entered, her stride unhurried, her expression serene. She surveyed Carrie, still immobilized face-down on the spanking bench, her bottom a landscape of angry red welts, her face tear-streaked against the leather. Lena didn't rush. She circled the bench slowly, her footsteps soft on the padded floor.

"You brought this upon yourself, Carrie," Lena stated, her voice calm, devoid of anger but layered with absolute authority. She stopped directly in front of Carrie's limited field of vision. Carrie's water-filled eyes, swollen from crying, struggled to focus. "Disobedience isn't tolerated here. Not a single instance. Not a single word." Lena circled again, passing behind the bench. Carrie flinched instinctively, anticipating another blow. None came. Lena reappeared on her other side. "You were told to stand. To place your hands behind your back. Simple instructions. You chose defiance." Lena paused directly behind her. Carrie could feel her presence, radiating cold certainty. "That choice," Lena continued, her voice dropping slightly, "earned you this pain. Understand?"

Carrie nodded desperately against the padding, the leather cool against her hot cheek. "Yes," she choked out, the word thick with tears. "I understand. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Her voice dissolved into ragged sobs. "I'll obey! Please, Lena, I'll obey!" Lena circled once more, completing a full revolution. Carrie's blurred vision caught the movement in Lena's right hand as she passed close to the bench's side. It wasn't a paddle or Daniel's bare hand. It was a flogger. Short-handled, with perhaps a dozen thick, flat leather falls. It looked heavy. Purposeful. Carrie whimpered, her entire body tensing against the straps. The sight of it promised more agony.

"Begging for mercy now?" Lena asked softly, stopping near Carrie's head. She leaned down close to Carrie's face. "You should have begged for obedience earlier. Before you forced Daniel's hand, before you forced my hand." Lena straightened. "But your apology is noted. And your promise to obey... will be tested at all times.

"Now," Lena continued, her voice shifting to a chillingly pleasant tone, "I will personally help you be a good girl." She walked calmly to Carrie's feet, encased in the rigid, glossy plastic "tickle boots." Carrie strained to see her, but Lena remained out of her limited peripheral vision. Carrie heard two distinct clicks—sharp, metallic sounds. Then came high-pitched whirring-clicking noises, like tiny gears spinning. From the sides and tops of each boot, thin, segmented mechanical arms unfolded—spider-like. They moved with unnerving precision, darting around Carrie's immobilized feet.

Instantly, dozens of needle-fine probes began tapping Carrie's soles and toes. Not scratching. Not stroking. Tapping. Rapid, unpredictable, relentless. Like a frenzied rain of tiny hammers hitting hypersensitive nerve endings. Carrie gasped and laughed at this pure, distilled ticklish agony erupting across the soles she knew were impossibly sensitive. The probes danced randomly—three flicking the arch, another drumming the ball of her foot, three more tapping madly beneath her toes, then instantly shifting to the hollow beneath her pinky toe. It was everywhere at once, chaotic, impossible to anticipate or brace against.

Carrie's breath choked giggles. Her body convulsed against the restraints, a desperate, futile attempt to jerk her feet away. But the boots held her utterly immobile. The giggles escalated very quickly—high-pitched, breathless, bordering on hysterical. "St-Stahahahap! Plehehehease!" The tapping intensified, the mechanical arms adjusting their angles, finding the most reactive spots, remembering the mapping they had done of her feet yesterday. Tears welled in her eyes again, mixing with sweat on her temples. The sheer overwhelming overload of sensation short-circuited her thoughts. Her laughter was now her only thoughts, and became ragged screams punctuated by desperate gasps for air. Her toes curled frantically inside their plastic prisons, but the movement only seemed to invite more targeted tapping from the relentless probes.

"Feel that, Carrie?" Lena's voice cut through her frantic laughter, cool and detached. "That's hypersensitivity. Your body suffering. Your laughter isn't defiance. It's pure helplessness." Lena paused, watching Carrie thrash and shriek. "This is your reminder. Every time you think of disobeying... remember the spanking. Remember the tapping. Remember the helplessness." The mechanical arms continued their relentless, chaotic dance across Carrie's soles, ensuring the lesson burned itself deep.

Carrie couldn't reply. Her world dissolved into the frantic percussion against her soles – a maddening, unpredictable rhythm that hijacked her nerves. Gales of hysterical laughter ripped from her throat, raw and desperate, mingling with sharp involuntary screams. Tears streamed down her face, pooling on the leather padding beneath her cheek. Her body convulsed violently against the straps, a futile dance orchestrated by the relentless probes. Every gasp for breath was instantly choked by another wave of ticklish agony. Words were impossible; her vocal cords were enslaved by pure, overwhelming sensation.

Unseen behind her, Lena watched. Her lips, usually curved in practiced warmth, were parted slightly, revealing the tip of her tongue pressed against her upper teeth. Her light brown eyes, normally bright and attentive, were hooded, darkened with predatory fascination. A flush crept up her neck, blooming across her high cheekbones. Her breathing was shallow, deliberate – each rise and fall of her chest synchronized with Carrie’s wildest spasms. The faintest sheen of perspiration glistened at her temples. The cool professionalism was utterly gone, replaced by a raw, visceral hunger. The sight, the sound of Carrie’s absolute, ticklish disintegration wasn't just satisfying; it was profoundly, disturbingly erotic. Lena shifted her weight subtly, pressing her thighs together. The sharp clicks and whirs of the mechanical arms weren't just operational sounds; they were the percussion section in a symphony of torment she conducted, and it thrilled her to her core.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, Lena’s focus wavered. Her gaze drifted downward from Carrie’s trapped, shuddering form to her own white-clad lap. Her left hand, resting loosely at her side, twitched. Slowly, deliberately, her fingers curled inward. Her fingertips slid across the taut fabric of her pants, pressing firmly against the sensitive mound beneath. She rubbed – a slow, circular motion, her knuckles tense with pressure. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, mingling with Carrie’s shrieks of laughter. Her hips rolled forward infinitesimally, seeking friction, seeking release. The look on her face transformed into pure, unadulterated sadistic arousal – lips parted in a silent moan, eyes half-lidded and glazed, utterly lost in the confluence of Carrie’s suffering and her own arousal.

The sharp CLICK-CLICK-CLICK of the mechanical probes intensified, a sudden, jarring shift in rhythm. It wasn't louder, but faster, more frantic, like hail hitting a tin roof. The abrupt change in sound acted like a derailer thrown onto her runaway train of pleasure. Lena blinked. Her hand froze. The predatory haze lifted, replaced by a flash of clarity. What am I doing? The thought slammed into her, sharp and unwelcome. There will be time for this later. She snatched her hand away as if scalded, pressing it flat against her thigh. Her cheeks burned crimson. She inhaled sharply, forcing her lungs to expand fully, pushing past the tightness in her chest. Professionalism. Control. That’s what mattered. That’s what defined her. Not this... lapse. She straightened her spine, smoothing her expression back into its usual cool detachment, though a faint tremor remained in her hands. Focus on the task. Finish the protocol.

Lena's focus was entirely on the target. With no warning at all, Lena swung the leather flogger down onto Carrie's ass! The initial impact wasn't a sharp slap; it was a heavy, deep THUD-WHUMP that seemed to sink into the muscle beneath the skin. Carrie gasped, a sharp intake of breath that froze in her throat. The pain bloomed slowly at first, a deep, spreading ache radiating from the point of impact, different from Daniel’s sharp sting – this was heavier, more bruising. Lena pulled the flogger back smoothly, the leather falls whispering against the air. She swung again. THUD-WHUMP. Same spot, slightly overlapping the first. Carrie cried out, a low groan escaping her clenched teeth. The ache intensified, layering onto the existing fire. Lena began a rhythm: methodical, rhythmic, unhurried. She wasn't trying to elicit screams quickly; she was building a deep, resonant throb. Each swing was controlled, deliberate, the heavy falls landing squarely on the fullest part of Carrie’s buttocks.

Though that fresh, deep pain confused her thoughts, it was only about three seconds until Carrie's feet violently reminded her they were being tickled furiously and nonstop at the highest level. The chaotic tapping probes intensified, hitting every hypersensitive spot mapped yesterday – the arch, the ball, beneath the toes, the hollows. Pure, electric ticklish agony continued to erupt across her soles. Carrie laughed – sharp, involuntary HA HAs! – instantly choked by another groan as Lena’s flogger landed its next heavy THUD-WHUMP! She had to now deal with the painful flogging at the same time both of her tender soles burned with ticklish agony. Her mind scrambled wildly to try and keep up.

She screamed! A raw cry of pain ripped from her throat as Lena landed another heavy blow directly on the bruising ache. Then she giggled! A frantic, breathless HEHE HA! as the probes drummed madly beneath her toes. She sobbed! Tears streamed down her face as the deep throb from her ass pulsed in time with Lena’s swings. She moaned in painful agony! A low, despairing sound as the relentless tapping on her soles triggered convulsive laughter again – HAHAHAHA!! She laughed like a hyena on helium! High-pitched, screeching, hysterical giggles erupting uncontrollably, only to be instantly silenced by Lena’s next THUD-WHUMP that punched the air from her lungs, replacing laughter with a pained gasp. The back-and-forth her mind had to deal with was impossible to keep up with. Pain demanded focus, demanded stillness to endure it; ticklish agony demanded frantic movement, demanded laughter, demanded attempted escape. Her body became a battleground between two conflicting opposite tortures, each demanding full attention, each amplifying the other. Her hips bucked wildly against the restraints, trying to escape both sensations at once – jerking away from the flogger's impact only drove her soles harder against the evil, never tiring, tapping probes.

Lena watched, her expression impassive but her eyes intensely focused. She adjusted her rhythm slightly, ensuring the flogger landed just as a particularly intense barrage of taps hit Carrie’s arches, creating a sickening crescendo of sensation. Carrie’s vocalizations became a chaotic symphony of suffering: sharp screams, frantic giggles, choked sobs, desperate moans, all overlapping and interrupting each other. Her breath came in ragged useless gasps. Her mind fractured under this dual assault. There was no coherent thought, only the alternating, overwhelming waves of deep, bruising pain and frantic, unbearable ticklishness, each feeding off the other, trapping her in a vortex of impossible sensations. Her body strained against the straps without her knowing it, muscles trembling violently, utterly enslaved by the relentless conflicting agonies Lena orchestrated.

Carrie’s mind dissolved into pure, fragmented sensation. Thud-whump! A deep ache bloomed – heavy, like a stone sinking into her flesh. Focus on the pain! Focus! Make it stop! Then instantly: Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap! Electric jolts of pure ticklish agony exploding across her soles – chaotic, frantic, impossible to ignore! Laugh! Must laugh harder! Can’t hold it! HAHA HA! Stop laughing! Focus on the pain! The pain! Thud-whump! Oh God no, the ache spreads deeper! Hold still! Stop jerking! But the tapping! Tap-tap-tAP-TAP-tap! Under the toes! Tickles! Tickles horribly! HEHEHE HE! Stop laughing! Please! Pain! Focus on the laughter, I mean on the pain! Make it stop! Thud-whump! Same spot! Worse! Burning! Bruising! Stop! Stop hitting! Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap! Not the arch! Sensitive arch! Too much! Too much! HAHAHA HAHA! Can’t breathe! Can’t think! Stop tickling! Stop hitting! Which one? Both! Both stop! Please! Lena make it stop! Thud-whump! Pain! Tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap! Tickles! Pain! Tickles! Pain! Tickles! I'm gonna die!

Her internal monologue shattered into primal conflicting impulses. Hold still for the pain! screamed one part. Jerk away from the tickles! screamed another. Her body obeyed neither command fully, thrashing uselessly against the restraints. Beg! screamed her humiliation. Don’t give them the satisfaction! screamed her pride. But pride was dust now. PLEHEHEHEASE! STAHAHAHAP! escaped her lips, mingling laughter and agony. Tears blurred her vision, sweat stung her eyes.

Lena heard nothing else. Not the rhythmic THUDS of her own flogger striking flesh. Not the frantic CLICK-CLICK-CLICK of the probes. Only Carrie’s glorious symphony: the desperate, breathless giggles erupting after each barrage of taps, the sharp, ragged cries of pain following every heavy flogger blow, the wet, choking sobs that bridged them. It washed over Lena, a wave of pure intoxicating sound. Her clinical detachment evaporated, replaced by a deep resonant hum of arousal vibrating through her core. Her lower belly burned, a furnace of desire stoked by each tortured gasp, each helpless laugh. She was utterly "in the zone," her world narrowed to Carrie’s suffering and the exquisite pleasure it ignited within her own body. The flogger swung almost unconsciously now, guided by instinct, landing its heavy impacts with metronomic precision, perfectly timed to amplify Carrie’s frantic vocalizations.

The flogger fell from Lena’s suddenly limp fingers, hitting the padded floor with a muffled thud. The probes continued their relentless tapping, Carrie’s laughter filling the air. Lena didn’t care. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her hands, trembling slightly, flew to her own waistband. Professionalism? Protocol? Forgotten. The burning need consumed her. With quick, jerky movements, she unfastened her pants, shoving them and her underwear down just past her hips. Her fingers plunged immediately between her legs, finding the slick heat there. She gasped aloud, her eyes slamming shut for a second, head thrown back. Her fingers moved frantically, urgently, circling her clit with rough, desperate pressure. Her other hand clutched onto the left side of Carrie's slender waist, squeezing those particular ticklish muscle groups hard, with the intention of heightening Carrie's ticklish agony. A low moan escaped her lips, louder than Carrie’s current frantic laughing crying giggles. She pressed her thighs together, trapping her own hand, seeking friction, seeking release now. Her hips jerked forward against her fingers. The sounds Carrie made – the suffering Lena herself orchestrated – were the only fuel she needed. This wasn't just arousal; it was a visceral consuming need ignited by Carrie’s helpless torment.

She opened her eyes, fixing them on Carrie’s immobilized form. Hearing Carrie’s tear-streaked pleas, her twisting tickled torso, her exposed welted buttocks, and knowing those trapped feet were suffering intense tickling under the probes… it amplified everything. Lena’s fingers worked faster on her pussy. She pressed brutally against her clit. Her breath became ragged pants that matched Carrie’s useless gasps. "Look at you," Lena hissed, her voice thick with lust and exertion, barely audible over Carrie’s noises. "Look at you… squirming… laughing…" Each word punctuated by frantic breathless gasps of pleasure building. "My good little… suffering… girl…suffer for me." Her focus was absolutely predatory. Carrie’s agony was Lena’s personal aphrodisiac.

Carrie, trapped in her own sensory hell, barely registered Lena’s actions beyond the sudden cessation of the flogging and the strange, choked sounds Lena was making. The probes tapped, tapped, tapped – pure ticklish agony demanding her laughter, and receiving it. She laughed high, broken sounds. Then Lena’s voice, thick and strange, cut through: "Such… beautiful… helplessness…"

Carrie twisted instinctively against the straps, trying to lessen the unbearable tickling. But Lena’s grip on her waist was iron-fisted. Her fingers weren't just holding; they were digging, probing, finding the spaces between Carrie's strands of muscles, the soft vulnerable flesh just above her hipbone. Lena’s thumb pressed deep into the hollow beside Carrie’s back, while her fingers curled inward, sinking into the sensitive muscles flanking her abdomen. It wasn't a surface tickle; it was a deep, invasive kneading, a relentless pressure that bypassed skin and burrowed straight into the core of Carrie’s ticklishness. It felt like Lena’s fingers were vibrating inside her waist, igniting nerves buried deep within muscle and bone. How was she so good at this!

The sensation was horrifyingly different from the frantic surface tapping on her soles. This was slow, deliberate torture, a deep, grinding tickle that scraped against her very core. Carrie gasped, a sound caught between shock and the gurgles of uncontrollable laughter. Her torso bucked violently, a desperate, involuntary spasm trying to dislodge the invasive fingers. "NNNGGHHHAAA HAA!" The sounds ripped from her throat, choked screams dissolving instantly into hysterical, gasping laughter. "STOP! DEEP! TOO DEEP! LAHAHAHA HAHA!" The sheer, deep-seated agony of it was overwhelming, pushing her beyond the surface ticklishness into a realm of pure, visceral torment.

Lena watched Carrie’s face contort, saw the tendons stand out in her neck as she screamed-laughed, felt the desperate, futile thrashing of her torso against the straps. The raw unfiltered agony in Carrie’s eyes, the sheer helplessness radiating from every pore, was the final spark. Lena’s own gasp was sharp, almost pained. Her eyes flew wide for an instant, pupils dilating violently, her eyes rolled back in her head. Her hips slammed forward against her trapped hand, pressing her clit hard against the pads of her fingers. A shudder, deep and seismic, ripped through her entire body—starting low in her belly, exploding outward in concentric waves that locked her muscles rigid. Her back arched sharply, lifting her heels slightly off the floor, a momentary silent scream stretching her lips wide. Her fingers inside Carrie’s waist convulsed, digging deeper involuntarily, intensifying Carrie’s torment even as Lena’s own world dissolved. Her orgasm wasn't a wave; it was a detonation—violent, consuming, utterly obliterating. How could Lena even still be standing. White light flashed behind her eyelids. Her breath stopped entirely for three seconds, suspended in pure ecstatic agony. Then it rushed out in a ragged guttural cry that echoed off the padded walls—a sound so very primal ripped from her core, mingling horrifically with Carrie’s frantic laughter. Pleasure, sharp as broken glass and hot as molten iron, flooded every nerve ending, leaving her trembling violently, her legs threatening to buckle. Her fingers finally went slack against Carrie’s waist, but the deep, grinding pressure lingered for a long moment before she slowly pulled her hand away, leaving Carrie gasping and shuddering, still experiencing the foot tickling.

For several heartbeats, Lena remained frozen, bent slightly at the waist, her pants bunched around her hips, her hand slick and trembling. Her chest heaved. Sweat plastered strands of blonde hair to her temples. The flush on her cheeks deepened to a furious crimson, spreading down her throat. She blinked slowly, the predatory glaze slowly clearing from her light brown eyes, replaced first by a dazed vacancy. Her weakened arm, muscles still trembling from the aftershocks of her climax, fumbled awkwardly downward. Her fingers brushed the smooth casing of the tickle boot control panels. The frantic CLICK-CLICK-CLICK died down and ceased. The mechanical arms retracted silently, folding back into the boots' soles like sinister claws withdrawing. The sudden silence was noticeable after the cacophony of taps and screams.

Carrie’s hysterical laughter didn’t stop immediately. It choked, gasped, dissolved into ragged, wet sobs that shook her entire restrained body. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, dripping onto the padded leather beneath her face. Her feet, hypersensitive and exhausted, twitched weakly inside the rigid boots. Her mind was a numb, aching void, the conflicting agonies replaced by a hollow trembling exhaustion. She was quite literally physically exhausted to the point of nearly passing out.

Lena straightened with visible effort, her movements stiff, almost clumsy. She pulled her underwear and pants back up over her hips, her fingers fumbling calmly with the fastenings. The flush remained on her cheekbones, but her expression began to harden, regaining a semblance of its usual cool detachment, though her eyes remained unnaturally bright. She smoothed her shirt, avoiding looking at Carrie. "That," Lena began, her voice surprisingly steady, though slightly huskier than normal, "was profoundly pleasurable." She adjusted her waistband, her touch lingering almost unconsciously near her core. "It still buzzes... intensely... between my legs Carrie." She gestured vaguely towards her pelvis, a flicker of that predatory satisfaction crossing her face. "A deep, warm thrumming. Proof of your suffering's effectiveness."

She stepped closer to the bench, her lite blue sneakers almost silent on the padded floor. Leaning down slightly, her voice dropped to a low, intimate murmur that cut through Carrie’s fading sobs. She unbuckled Carrie's neck restraint. "If it were solely my decision, Carrie, you wouldn't be going home. Ever." Carrie’s breath really truly hitched. Lena’s gaze was unnervingly direct and serious. "I would own you. Keep you. Right here. My personal... project." A cold smile touched her lips. "Imagine it. Your days structured around my whims. Your obedience constantly tested, not just with the flogger or straight up tickling, but with whatever delightful torment I devised." Lena paused, letting the horrifying image sink in. Carrie’s sobs had quieted to terrified silent shudders. "Your laughter, your tears, your desperate pleas... they would all be mine. Regularly. Continuously. Utterly. Never ending fuel for my pleasure. Your suffering would be the sole purpose of your existence." Lena straightened fully, her expression hardening into its professional mask once more, though the predatory light still burned deep in her eyes. "Consider that fantasy, Carrie. While you still have the luxury of imagining an end to this." She turned sharply and walked out the door, leaving Carrie trembling in the suffocating silence, the phantom buzz of Lena’s pleasure a terrifying echo in her own bruised violated flesh.

Carrie could do nothing but rest her face back down on the padding. A faint, grotesque smile remained etched onto her lips, muscles locked from laughing so hard and so long. Sweat dripped from her chin, mingling with the tears still pooling beneath her cheek. Her entire body felt hollowed out, a trembling shell drained of everything except exhaustion and a deep, aching numbness. The hypersensitive soles of her feet throbbed dully inside the rigid boots, phantom taps echoing against her nerves. Her ass burned with a deep, bruising ache where Lena’s flogger had landed its heavy blows. The deep grinding pressure Lena had inflicted on her waist muscles lingered like a bruise on her soul. She was utterly spent, physically incapable of even lifting her head again.

Carrie surfaced slowly, like a diver breaching after too long underwater. Cool sheets pressed against her cheek, not padded leather. Soft mattress beneath her, not unforgiving bench. Her eyes blinked open, unfocused, taking in the sterile dark grey ceiling of her assigned room at Glenhaven. She was in her bed. How? The last thing she remembered was Lena’s terrifying promise, the suffocating silence after the flogger fell, the phantom buzz of Lena’s pleasure echoing. Her own bruised flesh. Then… nothing. Utter blankness. Had the neural collar simply switched her off like a malfunctioning appliance? Or had the sheer exhaustion of enduring Lena’s dual assault finally dragged her into oblivion? Her body felt impossibly heavy, limbs leaden, every muscle protesting. The deep ache in her buttocks was a constant throb, a brutal reminder that it had been punished. Her feet, mercifully free from the boots, prickled with hypersensitive awareness beneath the thin blanket. If she had to make a guess, she'd say that during the boot tickling her feet had received a total of literally no less than 500,000 individual tickle taps.

The door hissed open with pneumatic smoothness. Carrie flinched, instinctively curling tighter into herself, bracing for Lena’s predatory return, for Daniel’s cheerful cruelty, for more pain or ticklish agony. Instead, the scent that drifted in was cool, crisp, expensive – antiseptic mingled with subtle bergamot and vetiver. Rita Robinson entered the room. She moved with unhurried precision, her tailored charcoal suit immaculate, her shoulder-length red hair perfectly styled. Her high heels clicked softly on the floor, a stark contrast to Lena’s sneakers on padded surfaces. Her expression was serene, unreadable, her brown eyes sweeping the room with detached observation before settling on Carrie’s trembling form huddled on the bed. Robinson carried no instruments, no restraints, just a sleek tablet tucked under one arm. Her presence wasn't overtly threatening; it was calculated, radiating absolute control of everything and everyone. She stopped near the foot of the bed, looking down at Carrie with an unnerving stillness.

"Carrie," Robinson began, her voice low, modulated, calm. It cut through the lingering haze of Carrie’s exhaustion and fear like a scalpel. "It’s day three or four for you now. How do you feel about your training progress here at Glenhaven?" The question was delivered with the professional detachment of a doctor inquiring about post-operative pain levels. No hint of Lena’s sadistic glee, no echo of Daniel’s cheerful brutality. Just calm inquiry. Carrie stared, dumbfounded. How did she feel? Her ass throbbed with deep, bruising aches and welts. Her feet prickled with hypersensitive agony, the phantom echo of countless tickle taps still vibrating beneath her skin. Her waist muscles twinged where Lena’s fingers had burrowed deep. Humiliation was a constant, low-grade fever. She felt broken, hollowed out, terrified. Yet Robinson dared to ask in a way as if inquiring about a spa retreat? The sheer purposeful disconnect was jarring, almost more terrifying than outright menace.

Carrie’s jaw clenched. Rage, hot and acidic, surged up her throat. She wanted to scream. To shriek obscenities. To accuse Robinson of running a torture chamber, of employing monsters like Lena and Daniel, of orchestrating her degradation. She wanted to spit in that serene, beautiful face. But the memory slammed into her with paralyzing force: Lena’s terrifying promise echoing in the suffocating silence after her dual torture, Daniel’s painful lesson about the cost of disobedience, the neural collar’s swift, chilling paralysis. Opening her mouth in defiance now wouldn't unring the bell of Lena’s orgasmic ecstasy fueled by her suffering; it would only invite more, worse. Robinson wasn't Lena; she was the architect. Disrespecting her would be catastrophic.

With immense effort, Carrie swallowed the scorching bile of her fury. She forced her trembling limbs to relax slightly against the cool sheets. She lowered her gaze, a deliberate gesture of submission learned through searing pain. "I feel..." Her voice emerged raspy, cracked from screaming and laughter, but she carefully modulated it, smoothing the ragged edges into something approximating calm respect. "...grateful, Doctor Robinson." The words tasted like ground glass, but she pushed them out. "The training... it’s been... enlightening." Her eyes remained fixed on Robinson’s polished charcoal pumps, unable to meet those detached brown eyes. She focused on keeping her breathing even, her posture non-threatening. Every instinct screamed rebellion, but survival screamed louder.

Robinson remained motionless, a statue of elegant authority. The silence stretched, thick. Carrie could feel the doctor's gaze boring into the top of her bowed head. Finally, Robinson spoke, her voice dropping a fraction, gaining a subtle cutting edge. "Carrie." The single word held a command. "Look at me." Carrie’s breath froze. Slowly, painfully, she lifted her head. Her neck muscles screamed. Her eyes traveled up the immaculate charcoal suit, past the subtle curve of her hips, the tailored waist, the expensive silk blouse, the elegant column of her throat, until finally, reluctantly, she met Robinson’s gaze. It was like staring into polished obsidian – cool, deep, utterly unreadable. "When addressing me," Robinson continued, her tone deceptively soft, "you will maintain eye contact. Unless I explicitly instruct you not to look upon me. This is fundamental. It demonstrates respect, attentiveness, and your commitment to transparency within our relationship. Failure to comply signifies disrespect and will be addressed accordingly. Understood?" The threat hung unspoken in the air.

Carrie forced herself to hold that unnerving gaze. The detachment in Robinson’s brown eyes was terrifying. Lena’s sadism was raw, visceral; Daniel’s cruelty was cheerful. Robinson’s control was absolute, chillingly rational. "Yes, Doctor Robinson," Carrie whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes locked on Robinson’s despite the instinctive terror screaming to look away. "Understood."

Robinson slightly tilted her head, as if analyzing Carrie’s compliance under a microscope. "Good. Now, articulate your gratitude to me. Detail precisely how your training has been 'enlightening'. Be specific." The command was delivered with seriousness, so Carrie needed to say something. Carrie swallowed, her throat dry as sandpaper. "I... I understand now," she began, forcing her voice steady, keeping her eyes locked on Robinson’s impassive face. "The cost of disobedience. The importance of... submission." Each word scraped raw against her pride. "The... techniques used. They demonstrate the consequences very... effectively." Carrie felt sweat bead along her hairline. "Louder please," Robinson commanded, her voice a cool scalpel slicing through the tension. "Enunciate."

Carrie cleared her throat, pushing her voice to a clearer, stronger register. "I understand the cost of disobedience now, Doctor Robinson. The pain... the helplessness. It teaches obedience faster than words." She paused, forcing herself to hold that unnerving gaze. "And the... tickling. It shows how easily control can be lost. How vulnerable I am. How completely I rely on your mercy." The admission tasted like bile, but she pushed it out. "It makes submission... necessary. For survival."

Robinson's expression remained a mask of detached assessment. She tapped a single, perfectly manicured finger against her tablet. "Adequate," she stated, the word neither praise nor condemnation. She took a deliberate step closer to the bed, her expensive perfume momentarily overwhelming the room's scent. "Conventional therapy fails the profoundly disrespectful. Words are ignored. Consequences delayed or mitigated breed contempt. Here, consequences are immediate, visceral, and unforgettable. We bypass the rationalization, the defiance, and speak directly to the primal core. Pain and ticklish helplessness are universal languages." Her cool gaze swept over Carrie's bruised form. "Your suffering is efficient. Your mother paid for transformation, not coddling. Your humiliation serves a purpose: stripping you bare, forcing you to rebuild yourself correctly. Obediently."

Carrie’s focus abruptly fractured. Her mother paid for this. The thought slammed into her exhaustion like a physical blow. Zara. Her no-nonsense mother, perpetually exasperated, endlessly complaining about Carrie’s attitude. The woman who couldn't endure a pedicure because her own feet were too ticklish. The woman who’d put her here at Glenhaven, promising 'professional help'. Carrie hadn’t dwelled on the mechanics, just the suffocating dread of being sent away. Now, the reality crystallized with brutal clarity: Zara had written a check. A large check. For this. For Daniel’s cheerful spankings. For Lena’s predatory ecstasy fueled by Carrie's agony. For Robinson’s detached dissection of her spirit. Every bruise, every tear shed from ticklish torment, every shred of dignity ripped away – paid for by her own mother’s signature. A white-hot wave of fury surged through Carrie’s numbness, momentarily eclipsing the physical aches. It wasn't just Robinson or Lena inflicting this; it was Zara’s deliberate choice. Her mother had purchased her torture.

"...Mapping," Robinson stated abruptly, slicing through Carrie’s internal storm. Her tone was clinical, devoid of inflection. "I'm about to take you to the mapping room." She paused, letting the statement hang. "We are going to finish mapping out your entire body."

Mapping? Carrie’s mind recoiled. The word echoed strangely, devoid of context. Images flashed – Lena’s tracing finger on her hypersensitive sole, Daniel’s systematic exploration during the emulsion bath. Was that mapping? Cataloging her weaknesses? Her ticklish spots? The sheer, terrifying invasiveness of the concept made her skin crawl. "What… what does that even mean, Doctor Robinson?" Carrie forced the question out, her voice strained but respectful, eyes locked on Robinson’s impassive face as commanded.

Robinson didn’t even glance at her. She tapped her tablet screen once. "Irrelevant," she replied flatly. "The procedure requires your cooperation. Are you going to walk to the lab and allow me to strap you down calmly?" Her gaze finally lifted, pinning Carrie with chilling directness. "Or do I need to press your sleep button?" Her thumb hovered meaningfully near the tablet's edge.

The choice was stark, brutal, devoid of nuance. Walk willingly into unknown torment or be switched off like a malfunctioning toy and wake up already restrained, already vulnerable. The neural collar’s chilling paralysis was a fresh terror. Carrie’s body screamed protest, every muscle heavy and bruised. Her feet prickled painfully at the mere thought of movement. Defiance flared again – a desperate urge to refuse, to scream, to curl tighter into the bed. But Lena’s terrifying promise echoed: Your suffering would be the sole purpose of your existence. Robinson was the architect. Disobedience wasn't defiance; it was volunteering for Lena’s ownership. With a shuddering breath that scraped her raw throat, Carrie pushed herself upright. Pain lanced through her buttocks. Her legs trembled violently as she swung them over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched the cool linoleum floor, the hypersensitive soles instantly screaming at the contact. She winced, biting back a gasp.

Robinson watched, impassive, her tablet held loosely. She offered no assistance, no acknowledgment of the monumental effort required. Her silence was a pressure. Carrie gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, forcing her abused muscles to cooperate. She stood. Her knees buckled momentarily, but she locked them, swaying unsteadily. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Every step towards Robinson felt like walking on shattered glass. The hypersensitive soles sent jolts up her legs with each tentative movement. The deep ache in her buttocks throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other, her gaze fixed on the polished toes of Robinson’s charcoal pumps. Eye contact wasn't demanded while moving, a small, terrifying mercy. She stopped a respectful distance away, trembling visibly, her breath ragged.

Robinson turned without a word and walked towards the door. Carrie followed, a hobbling shadow. The corridor stretched endlessly, sterile and silent except for the soft click of Robinson’s heels and Carrie’s own uneven, shuffling barefoot steps. Each footfall was agony. The phantom tickling vibrations beneath her skin intensified with movement. She kept her head down focusing on the gleaming floor, trying to ignore the suffocating dread coiling tighter in her gut with every step. Where was Lena? Daniel? Was this mapping something new?

They turned a corner. Robinson stopped abruptly before an unmarked steel door. Carrie nearly stumbled into her. The doctor raised her tablet, tapped swiftly, and a soft chime sounded. The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond. Carrie froze. The scent hit her first – sterile plastic, faint ozone, and beneath it, the lingering ghost of her own terror-sweat. Her eyes snapped to the center of the room. There it was. The X-shaped padded table. Stark white padding, thick black straps dangling loosely. Instantly, her mind flashed: pinned spread-eagle, helpless, Someone’s fingers tracing her ribs, her hips, every touch an electric ticklish agony. She saw the rigid boots that clamped over her feet and ankles, holding her soles utterly exposed. A gasp escaped her lips. She stopped, her bruised body trembling. She couldn’t go back onto that thing. Not again. Not willingly. Robinson turned slowly. Her expression hadn’t changed, but her eyes, cool and assessing, locked onto Carrie’s face. The silent command was absolute: Move. Carrie swallowed thickly. She forced one trembling leg forward, then the other.

Her gaze darted above the dreaded table. Near the ceiling, on a long adjustable arm was a large, smooth, sphere. A single circular opening, barely wider than Carrie's neck, gaped darkly at its center. Recognition slammed into her: the hypnotic spiral projector. The device that had drilled obedience into her fractured mind. Its silent presence felt just as threatening than the straps. She recalled how it truly made her thoughts succumb to it's thoughts. Those voices, those very believable voices that soothed her mind with commands and questions that only have one answer, YES.

Robinson gestured toward the X-table with her tablet. "Position yourself on your back. Centered." Her voice held the sterile cadence of a lab technician. Carrie shuffled forward, each step grinding the hypersensitive soles of her feet against the cool floor. She paused at the table's edge, her bruised buttocks screaming at the thought of contact. Slowly, painfully, Carrie pivoted herself backward onto the padded surface. The padding yielded slightly, but the pressure ignited fresh waves of pain from her welts. She flinched. Robinson moved with unhurried precision, very tightly securing thick leather restraints around Carrie's wrists and then her feet into the rigid, bottomless, tickle boots. The familiar, hated clamps locked over Carrie's feet with a soft clunk, forcing her soles into full exposure. Then very efficiently, Ms Robinson buckled the straps just above each knee, just above each elbow, and the single strap over her hip bones. There was no trying to escape now for Carrie. It had been done. She had laid there and allowed herself to be methodically strapped in.

Robinson leaned over her, adjusting the sphere's rotating twisting turning arm so that it was just above Carrie's head. She pushed a button on it, and it split in half. Its dark aperture aligned precisely with Carrie's neck. Ms Robinson positioned it over her head, pushed another button and it slowly begin to close, as Ms Robinson guided it perfectly so that the hole would be around Carrie's neck. Click. It was done. Carrie instantly remembered the blindness and the silence it provides. She was briefly amazed at how soundproof it was. She heard a small click and then could hear Ms Robinson's voice. "Your mapping requires stillness," Robinson stated. "Physical and mental. I will now lock the sphere in place so that you cannot move your head or neck. The hypnosis ensures compliance. Resistance prolongs the procedure, so you will comply." A short pause. "Begin the induction sequence." Click. And just like that Carrie was deaf again. She couldn't hear anything but her own loud breathing.

Inside the sphere, a faint, deep hum vibrated the air. Carrie stared up into the void. A pinprick of light appeared, swirling lazily. It expanded into a pulsing, intricate spiral—vivid cobalt and silver. Hypnotic patterns pulsed inward, pulling at Carrie's focus. Her eyelids grew heavy. The spiral deepened, twisting, pulling her thoughts into its vortex. A detached calm began to seep through her terror, muting the pain, smoothing the jagged edges of her panic. Her breathing slowed. Her muscles loosened against the restraints. The spiral was all she desired.

Then, the voices began. Not loud, but layered, overlapping, filling the silent darkness. A gentle male baritone: "You feel calm. Deeply calm." A soft female alto: "Your body is relaxed. Heavy. Safe." A soothing tenor: "The restraints are comfortable. Necessary." Carrie felt her resistance melting away. The voices were undeniable truths. Why fight? Obedience was peace. Obedience was safety. A chorus of whispers echoed the core command: "You will obey Doctor Robinson." "You will be compliant." "You will surrender." Each statement felt like a warm blanket settling over her mind. Carrie’s lips parted slightly; a sigh escaped. Yes. Obedience. Safety.

The questions started. Gentle, insistent probes. "You want to be good, don’t you?" A chorus of murmurs affirmed it. Carrie’s mind whispered back: Yes. "Disobedience causes pain. You don’t want pain, do you?" Images of Daniel’s hand, Lena’s flogger flashed—instantly linked to the sharp sting of fear. No pain. "Submission brings comfort. You crave comfort now." The deep ache in her muscles seemed to agree. Comfort. The voices intensified, swirling around the central pillar: "You will be obedient. Won’t you?" It wasn’t a question anymore; it was a command wrapped in velvet. A hundred voices, male and female, young and old, whispered, murmured, demanded: "Obedience." "Surrender." "Comply." "Say yes." Carrie’s mind, stripped of defiance by the pulsing cobalt spiral, grasped the simplicity. Obedience meant no more pain. No more helpless terror. Her lips moved silently: Yes.

The barrage shifted subtly. "Doctor Robinson knows best." "She guides you." "Her commands are for your benefit." Carrie saw Robinson’s impassive face, her cool brown eyes. Detachment became wisdom. Cruelty became necessary instruction. The hypnotic voices rewrote reality: Lena’s predatory ecstasy was dedication. Daniel’s cheerful brutality was discipline. Carrie’s own terror was… progress. "You are learning," a gentle tenor soothed. "You are becoming better." "Trust the process." Carrie’s fragmented thoughts dissolved into agreement. Trust. The sphere hummed, a physical vibration syncing with the mental onslaught. Her body felt heavy, anchored, safe within the restraints. The voices layered, reinforcing: "Obedience is peace." "Obedience is safety." "You will obey." "Say yes." Carrie breathed out, the word forming in her mind, so willing and ready to spill.

Then 60 minutes later, gradually there was silence. Profound silence. The cobalt spiral vanished. The deep hum ceased. The voices evaporated. Carrie blinked slowly into absolute soundless darkness. Her mind felt… so soft. Empty. Like thoughtless pudding. Only the echoes remained, solid and undeniable truths: Obedience. Safety. Trust Doctor Robinson. Be good. They weren’t thoughts she had; they were her thoughts. Humility washed over her, warm and thick. She was malleable clay, waiting for the sculptor’s hand. Ready.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The silence was bliss. Slowly, sluggishly, Carrie’s own awareness began to seep back. It wasn't a sudden jolt, but a reluctant awakening. The deep ache in her buttocks throbbed back into existence. The hypersensitivity of her soles registered against the smooth plastic of the boots. The pressure of the strap over her hip bones. The cool collar encircling her neck beneath the sphere. Reality wasn't the voices anymore; it was the straps, the realization of how ticklish she is, and thus the utter helplessness of her position. Where was Doctor Robinson? What came next? The hypnotic calm was receding, leaving behind the vulnerable core of Carrie, strapped down and utterly exposed. The mapping. The word echoed in the newfound quiet of her mind, heavy with dread. Mapping meant… touching? Exploring?

Just then, Rita Robinson's voice sliced through the silence inside the soundproof sphere. It wasn't loud, but startlingly crisp and immediate, amplified directly into Carrie’s ears. "Phase One Hypnotic Conditioning: Complete. Excellent assimilation rate, Carrie." A pause, clinical and precise. "Full sensory mapping protocol will commence immediately. Prepare for tactile assessment. There may be some ticklishness to deal with." Carrie sensed cold scissors? traveling against her skin in the areas needed to cut away her robe? Yes, that is definitely what she was right now feeling Dr. Robinson doing. And just like that, 15 seconds later as Rita Robinson pulled away the cut open thin robe material ... Carrie was fully naked, spread eagle tight, unable to move anything. When trying to curl her fingers Carrie realized they would not budge, that individual tiny straps were holding them open and straight. She couldn't even move her fingers now!? They must have applied those during her hypnosis session.

Carrie felt the cool air against her bare skin first. Then came the softest hum, like shelflike machinery activating. A hundred tiny pinpricks of cold metal touched her simultaneously – not just her soles this time, but everywhere. Her ribs. Her hips. The insides of her thighs. The soft skin of her underarms. The sensitive sides of her neck. Even her scalp. It wasn't fingers; it felt like dozens of spider-leg probes, lightly tapping the surface of her skin in rapid, intricate patterns. The sensation wasn't painful. It was... peculiar. Intrusive. Then the tapping intensified, focusing on areas she instinctively knew were vulnerable – the dip above her hip bone, the spaces between her ribs. A startled giggle burst from Carrie’s lips before she could stop it. The tapping shifted instantly, concentrating on that spot, maintaining a relentless, feather-light rhythm. Another giggle escaped, higher-pitched this time. The probes seemed to react, adjusting their pattern, keeping her teetering right on the edge of uncontrollable laughter. It wasn't the deep agonizing tickle torture Lena inflicted; this was different. Persistent, maddening, impossible to ignore. A low, breathy chuckle became a constant undercurrent beneath her ragged breathing. Her body twitched involuntarily against the restraints, muscles fluttering like trapped butterflies, but the straps held her utterly immobile.

The probes mapped her reactions with chilling precision. Where a giggle erupted, they lingered and intensified their tapping tempo. Where she managed a shaky gasp, they eased slightly before probing another nearby zone. Carrie felt like a circuit board being meticulously tested, her involuntary laughter the indicator light. The metal points danced over her belly button, triggering helpless giggles that made her stomach muscles spasm. They explored the delicate skin behind her knees, sending jolts of ticklish electricity up her thighs, pulling more breathless laughter. It was relentless, systemic, designed to keep her suspended in a state of constant low-level ticklish agony. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the darkness of the sphere – not from terror this time, but from the sheer exhausting absurdity of being tickled, literally everywhere by tiny machines. Her laughter became a thin, continuous stream, punctuated by hitched breaths and involuntary jerks against her bonds. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg; she could only laugh, trapped in her own hypersensitive nerves.

Mapping, Carrie’s mind screamed through the giggles. They’re mapping my ticklish spots! Cataloging every weakness. The horrifying purpose crystallized. This wasn't torture for punishment's sake; it was data collection. Each giggle, each flinch, was a data point for Robinson’s cold calculus. The probes intensified their tapping on her ribs, finding the exact spot beneath her left breast that sent her into a gasping, hiccupping fit. Her laughter pitched higher, edging towards a squeal, but the machines pulled back just enough to keep her hovering below that threshold of shrieking terror. They wanted her laughing not screaming. They wanted her hypersensitive, not hysterical. It was controlled clinical agony. Humiliation burned hot. She was utterly exposed, her deepest vulnerability – the secret she’d guarded so fiercely – laid bare and exploited by unfeeling metal spiders. Her mother had paid for this. Paid for them to know exactly where and how to break her.

About 15 minutes later, Carrie’s laughter started to dissolve into tearful hiccups as the probes stopped tickling and slowly retracted. The sudden cessation left her skin buzzing, hypersensitive. It was once again darkness and deafness for Carrie. She tried asking Dr Robinson if she could hear her but there was no reply.

Carrie didn’t know Dr. Robinson was still in the room, having dismissed Lena and Daniel hours ago. The sterile lab was now lit only by the faint glow of monitoring screens reflecting off Rita’s crimson hair as she warmed a specialized oil blend to precisely 105 degrees. The scent of lavender and something sharp, almost medicinal, filled the air as she stirred. She dipped a wide, absorbent horsehair brush into the viscous liquid, letting it drip thickly before approaching the immobilized girl.

Blind and deaf inside the sphere, Carrie startled violently when the first warm, slick stroke coated her left armpit. The sensation was alien—thick, heated oil spreading over skin still tingling from the probes. Before she could process it, the brush dragged firmly across her right pit, coating every nerve ending. The oil’s warmth seeped deep, amplifying sensitivity tenfold. Carrie’s breath froze. Then the tickling began.

Not machines this time. Fingertips—light, deliberate, spidering over the oiled hollows. Carrie’s back arched off the table as silent screams tore through her at first. The oil made every touch electric, slippery, impossible to endure. Robinson’s nails traced maddening scratches, feather-light yet devastating. Carrie thrashed against restraints that held like iron as laughter burst out in gasps of forced laughter. Her mind fragmented—no hypnosis, just raw, ticklish agony by means of old school fingertips. Robinson leaned close, her breath a ghost against Carrie’s ear. "Shhh, little bird," she murmured, knowing Carrie couldn’t hear. "This is just between us." Her fingers danced a little faster, digging into the oil-slicked flesh. Carrie’s body convulsed, laughter turning desperate, wet. Robinson smiled. The mapping was done. This? This tickling session was just for pleasure.

The brush reappeared, dripping gobs of warm oil onto Carrie’s breasts, which dripped its way down to all her ribs. It pooled in the hollows before Robinson swept it down her sides with agonizing slowness. Every nerve screamed in Carrie's torso. Carrie’s laughter choked as shuddering gasps. Robinson’s touch followed the oil, fingertips skating over the hypersensitive skin randomly, easily gliding. She traced the dip of Carrie’s navel, circled it, then dragged a single nail down the quivering plane of her stomach. Carrie bucked wildly, her scream trapped inside the sphere. Ms Robinson had turned the one way sound on before she started. She could hear all of Carrie's laughter, but Carrie could hear nothing. It made the tickling even worse because of her sensory deprivation. No eyes no ears.

Robinson paused. She dipped two fingers into the oil, letting them glisten with globs of thick oil. Slowly, deliberately, she brushed hovered them over Carrie's pelvis, which caused the oil to drip in many directions. Down onto Carrie's pussy, down around it to her inner thighs, and much of it stayed pooled on her belly button area. Carrie's mind froze. Robinson’s fingers then spidered with feather-light precision all around the sensitive skin where her legs met her torso. Carrie exploded with unreal laughter. Her entire body strained against the restraints, a hysterical spastic high pitch laugh shaking her frame. Tears streamed down her temples, soaking into the padding of the sphere. Ms Robinson listened to her laugh and watched the reaction of her body, fascinated. This girl’s vulnerability was exquisite. This girl's vulnerability was ... arousing.

Robinson poured a thick stream of oil directly onto Carrie’s lower belly. It pooled warmly in her navel before cascading down her hips and into the crease of her groin. Carrie’s laughter hitched, turning into frantic gulps for air. Robinson’s fingers followed the oil trail, tracing maddening paths around the slickened hip bones, dipping teasingly into the hollows, repeatedly, slowly, taking her sweet time. Each stroke was agonizingly slow, deliberate, exploratory. Robinson’s nails scraped lightly over the oil-slicked skin just above Carrie’s pubic mound – a spot Carrie didn’t even know existed as a tickle spot. Carrie’s body jackknifed against the straps, a silent scream tearing through her throat as laughter erupted in violent, uncontrollable bursts. Her hips twisted desperately, trying to escape the unbearable sensation, but Robinson’s fingers pursued relentlessly, digging into the soft flesh with cruel expertise.

Robinson leaned close to the sphere, her lips curling into a predatory smile. Carrie’s laughter was a symphony of helpless agony – wet, gasping, punctuated by choked sobs. Robinson’s eyes, cold and analytical, drank in every twitch, every tear, every desperate arch of Carrie’s back. Robinson sighed, a sound of deep satisfaction. "So responsive," she murmured, unheard. "Such perfect data." Her fingers intensified their cruel dance, swirling and scratching over the oil-drenched pelvic area with renewed vigor, pushing Carrie deeper into the torturous vortex of ticklish sensation. Carrie’s laughter became a continuous, breathless shriek, her mind dissolving into pure ticklish panic. Robinson watched, utterly rapt, her expression a mask of pure sadism. This wasn't just mapping anymore. This was pure, unadulterated enjoyment. Carrie’s suffering was her masterpiece.

Robinson dipped the wide horsehair brush back into the warm oil, letting it soak until thick globs dripped onto the stainless steel tray. She lifted it, deliberately letting it hover over Carrie’s splayed thighs. With a slow, deliberate motion, she swept the brush down the full length of Carrie’s left inner thigh. The oil flowed like a thick, warm river, coating the delicate skin from groin to knee. She repeated the motion on the right thigh, ensuring every inch was saturated. The oil pooled in the creases where thigh met torso. Robinson smiled wider, placing the brush aside. The canvas was prepared.

Robinson positioned herself between Carrie’s legs. She placed both hands flat against Carrie’s oil-slicked inner thighs, just above the knees. Her thumbs dug in firmly, finding the dense tendons running beneath the skin. Carrie gasped, a sharp intake of breath the moment the thumbs applied pressure there. Then Robinson began. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she dragged her thumbs upwards along the inner thighs, applying deep, unyielding pressure directly onto those vulnerable tendons and muscles. The sensation wasn't feather-light; it was deep, invasive, and unbearably ticklish. Carrie’s laughter exploded into hysterical shrieks instantly. Her legs strained, trying to clamp shut, but the straps held them wide apart. Robinson maintained the pressure, her thumbs grinding relentlessly upwards towards Carrie’s groin. Tears streamed down Carrie’s face inside the head gear as she gasped, choked, and screamed with un-earthly laughter, her body bucking wildly against the table. Robinson’s expression was one of cruel amusement. Robinson leaned closer, her breath ghosting over Carrie’s oiled skin. "Beg," she whispered, knowing Carrie couldn't hear, but enjoying the command nonetheless. "Beg me to stop."

Robinson intensified her assault. Now she used all ten fingers, spidering them rapidly but firmly up and down the entire length of both inner thighs simultaneously. Her fingertips dug into the slick muscles, finding every sensitive spot mapped earlier – the soft skin near the groin, the tendons beside the knee, the vulnerable flesh midway. It was a symphony of unbearable ticklish torture, deep pressure combined with rapid, probing movements that exploited the oil's lubrication to slide effortlessly across hypersensitive nerves. Carrie’s body became a frantic arc, straining against the straps with impossible force. Laughter erupted in violent, choking bursts, screams and desperate gulping breaths. Tears flooded the sphere's padding, mixing with sweat and oil. Her face contorted in silent agony, mouth wide in a perpetual scream she couldn't hear, eyes squeezed shut against the unbearable sensation. Robinson leaned closer, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the monitors. Her expression was chillingly serene – a mask of detached fascination.

A slight smile touched her lips, not warm, but predatory. Her cool brown eyes absorbed every detail. It was a study in exquisite suffering, and Robinson savored it. Her fingers never slowed; they danced their cruel dance, digging deeper, sliding faster, ensuring Carrie remained suspended in that peak state of unbearable ticklish agony, insuring she remained unable to find enough breath to properly laugh. Robinson tilted her head slightly, observing the precise moment Carrie’s silent screams hitched into a breathless, hysterical sob. "Beautiful," she murmured, unheard. Her fingers intensified their pressure on the most vulnerable spots near Carrie’s groin, eliciting another violent spasm and a fresh torrent of tears. Carrie’s mind fragmented at that point. Thoughts dissolved into pure sensation – the relentless fingers, the slick oil, the straps biting into her flesh, the soundless void swallowing her screams. There was only the tickling. Only Robinson. Only surrender. This was pure, sadistic artistry. Robinson imagined Carrie’s pleading eyes unseen behind the sphere, her entire being reduced to a shuddering, laughing, crying wreck pinned beneath her skilled hands.

Robinson finally withdrew her spidering fingers. Carrie’s body collapsed against the restraints, shuddering with residual tremors, gasping wetly inside the sphere. Robinson picked up the horsehair brush again, dripping with warm oil. She held it directly over Carrie’s exposed pelvis. With deliberate slowness, almost reverence, she tilted it. A thick, viscous stream of oil poured forth, hitting Carrie’s lower belly and flowing downwards. It pooled warmly in the hollow of her navel before cascading over the gentle swell of her pubic mound. Robinson guided the stream, ensuring every fold and curve was saturated – the outer lips slicked, the inner folds drenched, the sensitive hood coated. More oil flowed down, tracing paths over her inner thighs and pooling beneath her hips. The brush itself followed, gently sweeping the excess oil, ensuring Carrie’s entire pussy was gleaming, slick, and utterly vulnerable. Carrie felt the warm flood, the intimate coating, and a fresh wave of terrified anticipation seized her. She couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't hear – only feel the oil's invasive warmth spreading where she was most exposed.

Robinson placed the brush aside. Her fingertip, nail perfectly filed, touched the very top of Carrie’s pubic mound, just above the hood. Carrie flinched violently. Robinson paused. Then, with agonizing slowness, she dragged the fingertip straight down the center-line, tracing the cleft between the outer lips with feather-light pressure. Carrie’s body jerked, a gasp escaping. Robinson’s finger reached the sensitive perineum, hovered, then began its ascent. Up it came, tracing the same path, slightly to the left this time, the nail scraping maddeningly against the slick, hypersensitive inner fold. Carrie’s hips bucked wildly. Robinson’s other hand joined, index finger tracing a mirror path slightly to the right, up and down, slow, deliberate, scratching lightly.

The sensations weren't deep; they were surface-level, electric, unbearable. Robinson’s fingers became spiders exploring a sacred, oiled temple. Left. Right. Up. Down. Circling the outer lips slowly. Dipping shallowly into the entrance, not penetrating, just brushing the impossibly ticklish rim with her nails. Tracing maddening patterns on the hood itself. Each touch was calculated, experienced, designed to exploit every mapped vulnerability. Carrie’s laughter quickly returned, high-pitched, frantic, breathless, a desperate counterpoint to the silent tears flooding her cheeks. Her body strained against the straps in futile, spastic jerks.

Did Carrie understand? Robinson wondered, her fingers never ceasing their torment. Did this trembling, laughing, crying girl realize that Robinson wasn't just mapping anymore? That she was sculpting sensations? Robinson knew exactly how to manipulate nerves, how to build unbearable tension not just through laughter, but through pleasure twisted into agony. She’d done it countless times before. With the right pressure, the right rhythm, applied to the precisely mapped spots on the inner thighs, the crease of the groin, the hood itself… she could force a climax purely through tickling. The body doesn’t distinguish the source, only the overwhelming nerve signals. Carrie would laugh hysterically while convulsing in orgasmic release. It was the ultimate surrender, the deepest humiliation, the ultimate forced surrender. Robinson’s thumb pressed firmly into the slick tendon high on Carrie’s inner thigh, rubbing in tight circles while her index finger skittered rapidly over the oil-slicked hood. Carrie’s laughter hitched, turning ragged and wet. A deep tremor ran through her immobilized frame. Was the girl aware such a violation was possible? That Robinson could make her body betray her so utterly? Robinson doubted it. Eighteen was rather young, so innocent regarding such perverse expertise. Most mature adults had no idea either.

Robinson intensified her assault. Both hands worked in tandem now – thumbs pressing deep, grinding circles into the ticklish tendons at the tops of Carrie’s inner thighs, while her fingers danced rapid-fire patterns over her saturated vulva, flicking, scratching, tracing maddening paths. The oil amplified every touch into an electric shock. Carrie’s laughter dissolved into a continuous, breathless shriek, punctuated by choked gasps. Her body arched impossibly high off the table, straining against every restraint.

Tears streamed relentlessly. Robinson saw the telltale signs: the frantic flutter of Carrie’s abdomen, the desperate clench of muscles she couldn’t control, the high-pitched keening underlying the laughter. She was teetering on the precipice. Robinson leaned closer, her voice a low murmur Carrie couldn’t hear, "Come on, little bird. Show me." Her fingers focused, relentless, on the most sensitive spots she’d mapped, pushing Carrie relentlessly towards the edge where hysterical laughter collided with unbearable, tickle-forced pleasure.

Carrie’s mind fragmented. Amidst the hurricane of ticklish agony, a horrifying, alien warmth bloomed deep within her pelvis. It wasn't just the oil’s slick heat; it was a pulsing, insistent pressure building despite her terror. Her laughter hitched, choked off by a gasp that felt different – sharp, involuntary. Mortification burned hotter than any oil. No! Not this! Not here! Her internal scream was a desperate plea against her own treacherous body. She tried to clamp down mentally, picturing ice, stone, anything cold and unfeeling. She focused on the straps biting her wrists, the cold metal against her hips, anything but the maddening fingers dancing on her slick skin and the awful, rising tide inside her. Stop it! Stop feeling that! But Robinson’s fingers were relentless spiders, tracing paths that ignited sparks of sensation she couldn’t suppress. Each deliberate scrape, each circling pressure on her inner thigh tendon, each feather-light flick over her hood sent jolts straight to that burgeoning heat, feeding it relentlessly.

Her desperate mental battle was shattered again and again by the violent spasms of ticklish laughter that seized her. Every time she tried to focus on freezing the arousal, Robinson’s thumb would grind deeper into the tendon near her groin, or her fingernail would scrape just so over her clitoral hood, and Carrie’s body would convulse with helpless, gasping giggles, tearing her concentration apart. The laughter itself felt obscene now, intertwined with the terrifying physical response she couldn’t control. Each hysterical gasp seemed to pull the arousal tighter, higher. She felt slickness that wasn't just oil pooling between her thighs.

The humiliation was suffocating, worse than any exposure. Robinson was doing this. Robinson was making her feel this, forcing her body to betray her utterly amidst the torture. What could she do? Fighting was futile; resisting the sensations only seemed to intensify them. Surrender meant… that. Carrie’s mind scrabbled for an escape that didn’t exist, trapped between unbearable tickling and the terrifying inevitability of her own forced climax. Panic warred with the insistent, building pressure. Robinson’s fingers never slowed, a cruel maestro orchestrating Carrie’s unraveling.

The thought screamed through the fragmented chaos: She knows! She knows exactly what she’s doing! Why else would she stay here? Why else would her fingers keep dancing…*there?* The realization hit Carrie like icy water. This wasn't just mapping. This wasn't even just torture for its own sake. Robinson was deliberately tickling her to orgasm. The horror of it was absolute. Yet, even as the violation crashed over her, the relentless, expert tickling continued its work. The laughter choked off into a ragged gasp. A tremor, deeper and more profound than any before, ripped through Carrie’s bound frame. Her hips lifted off the table in a desperate, involuntary arch. The tickling sensations, sharp and unbearable, were suddenly inseparable from the overwhelming tide of pleasure surging upwards. Against her will, against every shred of her terrified resistance, Carrie admitted it within the silent prison of her mind: It feels… good. Oh god, it feels so… Her thoughts dissolved into pure, overwhelming sensation. Helpless. Ticklish. Aroused beyond bearing. There was nothing left to do but feel it.

The peak arrived not as a singular explosion, but as a catastrophic implosion. It tore through her like lightning grounded in her slick, tortured core. One moment she was gasping, suspended on the agonizing edge; the next, her entire body seized. A scream ripped from her throat, as her spine arched impossibly high against the restraints. Her legs strained against the locked boots, toes curling violently. Inside the sphere, her eyes flew wide, blind, but seeing only the white-hot intensity consuming her.

The tickling didn't stop – Robinson’s fingers dug, circled, scratched relentlessly – but now every touch was a detonator wired directly into the pleasure center. Waves of ecstasy, sharp and shocking, radiated outwards, colliding violently with the hysterical laughter still bellowing from her lungs. She convulsed violently with tears streaming freely, shuddering uncontrollably. It was pleasure fused with agony, ecstasy born of violation, an orgasm ripped from her by torturous fingertips. The intensity was terrifying, obliterating thought, leaving only raw shuddering sensations. Carrie felt herself fragmenting, dissolving under the onslaught.

Robinson watched, utterly rapt. Carrie’s body was a masterpiece of involuntary reaction: the violent arching, the desperate straining against straps, the frantic flutter of her ticklish abdomen, the way her hips bucked and bucked against the relentless fingers, the screaming. Robinson saw the precise moment Carrie’s consciousness fractured under the overload. Her fingers maintained their cruel rhythm, prolonging the convulsions, ensuring every spasm was milked for its full, shuddering intensity.

Carrie collapsed back onto the table, utterly spent. Her chest heaved, slick with sweat. Every muscle felt liquefied, disconnected. The tickling hadn't stopped. Robinson’s fingers were still spidering over her oil-slicked vulva, tracing the same maddening paths. The touch registered instantly, amplified a hundredfold. No, Carrie’s exhausted mind screamed silently. It’s worse. The hypersensitivity was blinding. Where before Robinson’s nails scraping her hood had been unbearable, now it felt like razor blades dipped in acid, but ticklish acid. The softest brush against her inner thigh tendon sent jolts of pure agony-laughter tearing through her raw nerves. Her entire pelvis felt like exposed nerve endings dipped in fire ants. Robinson’s touch wasn't just tickling now; it was electric torture applied directly to her most vulnerable, overstimulated flesh. Carrie’s body, incapable of another climax (or was it) could only react with frantic hysterical jerks and choked wet gasps that sounded like drowning. Tears flooded anew, hot and desperate.

Robinson leaned closer, her lips curling into a smile of pure predatory delight. She saw the raw terror in Carrie’s immobilized posture, the way her oil-slicked skin flinched at every micro-movement of her fingers. "So Exquisite," Robinson murmured, unheard by Carrie. Her fingertips became surgeons of sensation. She focused entirely on Carrie’s clitoral hood, slick and swollen. Using the very tip of her index fingernail, she traced impossibly slow circles around its base, applying feather-light pressure that felt like branding irons. Carrie’s hips bucked violently, a scream tearing through her throat. Robinson added her thumb, pressing deep into the hypersensitive tendon high on Carrie’s inner thigh, grinding in slow, deep circles. The dual assault – the surface torment and the deep, invasive pressure – shattered Carrie's world. Her laughter became continuous breathless shrieks, punctuated by desperate gulps for air that never felt sufficient. Her body became a frantic, spastic marionette, dancing on Robinson’s strings. Robinson watched, utterly absorbed, her expression serene. Carrie’s suffering wasn't just data anymore; it was Robinson’s personal symphony, each tortured gasp a note she conducted with cruel precision. She didn’t care about the agony vibrating through Carrie’s frame; she cared only for the purity of the reaction she was extracting.

The cruelty intensified. Robinson dragged her nail across the hood itself, a slow, deliberate scrape that ignited nerve endings Carrie didn't know existed. Simultaneously, her other hand spidered rapidly over Carrie’s saturated vulva, fingertips flicking maddeningly against the slick outer lips and dipping shallowly into the impossibly ticklish entrance. Carrie’s mind screamed STOP! but her body betrayed her utterly. Every touch, every scrape, every deep grind sent fresh jolts of unbearable sensation screaming through her raw nerves. Robinson saw the involuntary flutter deep in Carrie’s abdomen, the desperate clenching that couldn't be controlled. She leaned closer, her breath hot against the sphere’s surface. "Again," she whispered, a command Carrie couldn't hear but her body obeyed. Robinson’s fingers became relentless, focusing solely on the most mapped, most vulnerable spots – hood, tendon, entrance. The tickling wasn't just torture now; it was a scalpel carving pleasure from agony. Carrie’s breath hitched violently. A tremor started deep within her pelvis, radiating outwards like seismic waves. Her hips lifted off the table in a desperate, involuntary arch. The sensations – sharp, unbearable tickling fused with overwhelming, terrifying pleasure – collided catastrophically. No! Not again! Stop feeling it! Carrie’s silent plea was drowned by the tidal wave crashing over her.

The second orgasm detonated with nuclear force. It wasn't pleasure; it was annihilation. It ripped through Carrie’s core, tearing a raw, ragged scream from her throat that vibrated uselessly against the sphere’s padding. Her body locked rigid, spine arched impossibly high against the straps, every muscle straining to the point of tearing. Her legs strained against the locked boots, toes curling. Robinson’s fingers continued scratching relentlessly. After about 30 more unbearable seconds, Ms Robinson removed her hands from Carrie's body. She pressed a button with her oily finger on her tablet and Carrie's head gear split in half and mechanically pulled itself away, revealing Carrie's face.

Carrie’s face was a mask of utter devastation. Her mouth gaped wide in a silent scream that had long since lost its voice, reduced to desperate, wet gasps that shuddered through her frame. Tears streamed down her cheeks in torrents, carving paths through the sweat and oil slicking her skin. Her eyes, wide and unseeing, stared blindly upwards, pupils dilated with shock and unbearable sensation. Hiccups wracked her chest violently, interrupting the frantic gulps for air that never seemed to fill her lungs. Between each gasp came choked sobs – deep, guttural sounds of pure anguish that shuddered her entire body. Tiny, hysterical giggles bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and brittle, escaping her lips only to be swallowed by the next desperate sob or wet gasp. Her jaw trembled uncontrollably. Saliva glistened at the corners of her slack mouth. Her nostrils flared with each frantic, insufficient inhalation. Her skin, flushed a deep, blotchy crimson, shone with a slick mixture of tears, sweat, and warm oil. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly, unable to close against the sensory onslaught even as her eyes rolled back slightly before focusing again on the sterile ceiling lights. For five agonizing minutes, Carrie existed solely as a vessel of raw, uncontrollable reaction: moaning low in her throat, crying silent rivers, sobbing as her chest ached, moaning again as residual tremors shook her, crying fresh tears at the utter humiliation, sobbing anew at the violation, punctuated by those brittle, hysterical giggles and choked screams that echoed only in the hollow space of her own skull.

Robinson watched, extremely pleased with her work, her expression a chilling blend of scientific study and predatory sadistic satisfaction. She didn't touch Carrie, merely observed the aftermath of suffering she’d orchestrated. Slowly, the violent spasms subsided into deep, shuddering tremors. Carrie’s desperate gasps grew slightly deeper, though still ragged and wet. The sobs softened into exhausted whimpers. The giggles faded. Her eyes, still streaming tears, blinked slowly, dazedly focusing on the harsh fluorescent lights above.

Confusion reigned supreme in Carrie’s shattered mind. The lines between agony, pleasure, humiliation, and violation were irrevocably blurred. Her thoughts were fractured shards, impossible to assemble into coherent understanding. The sensory deprivation, the relentless tickling, the forced climaxes – it had fried her cognitive pathways. All that remained was a desperate, primal need to appease the source of her torment, to make the pain stop. She blinked again, her tear-blurred vision catching the shape of Dr. Robinson standing beside her. The sight triggered a wave of profound terror, instantly followed by a bizarre surge of misplaced guilt. She’s upset, Carrie’s fried brain whispered. I made her upset. I was bad. I didn’t obey.

A fresh sob tore from Carrie’s throat, thick with mucus and despair. Her jaw trembled violently. "I’m s-sorry," she choked out, the words thick and slurred. "I’m s-so sorry… for that." She didn’t specify what "that" was – the screaming? The thrashing? The climaxes Robinson had forced upon her? Her broken mind couldn’t distinguish. Robinson tilted her head, intrigued, a flicker of amusement touching her lips. Carrie misinterpreted it as disapproval. "D-don’t be upset," she pleaded desperately, tears flooding anew. "Please… d-don’t be mad." Her eyes were wide pools of terrified contrition. "Th-that wasn’t me," she gasped, shaking her head weakly against the table. "It wasn’t… me doing that." She was disowning her own tortured reactions, her own violated body, desperate to distance herself from the source of Robinson’s perceived displeasure.

The words tumbled out, fragmented, illogical, born of utter mental disintegration. "I understand," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I under…" A deep, racking sob cut her off. She fought for breath, forcing the words through tears and tremors. "...under*stand* now." It was a hollow echo of Robinson’s earlier demands, devoid of true comprehension, only the desperate mimicry of submission. Then, the ultimate surrender, whispered like a sacred vow through trembling lips: "I’m yours."

Doctor Rita Robinson was taken aback by these phenomena she was witnessing. What happened to Carrie's mind from that unbearable torture session?

Carrie blinked rapidly, her tear-swollen eyes struggling to focus on Robinson’s silhouette. "You… tickled me?" she slurred, her voice thick with confusion and mucus. A hysterical giggle bubbled up, instantly choked by a sob. "The pleasure was…" She trailed off, her brow furrowing as if trying to grasp smoke. Her gaze drifted past Robinson, unfocused. "Get started," she mumbled urgently, her voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "Get Zara. Hurry!" Then, her expression softened into something disturbingly serene. "Tickle me forever." Her head lolled weakly against the table. "It’s… easier."

Robinson leaned forward, genuinely fascinated. This wasn't just programmed obedience; this was profound cognitive fragmentation. Carrie wasn't apologizing for defiance anymore; she was apologizing for existing, for the involuntary reactions Robinson had inflicted. Her mind was desperately stitching together nonsensical narratives – confusing the torturer with a rescuer, mistaking agony for pleasure, pleading for her own mother’s involvement in her captivity. The sheer incoherence was so very beautiful. Robinson tapped her tablet, recording every fractured utterance.

"Shhh," Robinson murmured, her voice unexpectedly soft, a velvet glove over iron. She gently brushed a tear-streaked strand of hair from Carrie’s forehead. The touch, devoid of tickling intent, made Carrie flinch violently, a fresh sob tearing loose. "Yes, little one," Robinson continued, her eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. "You are indeed mine. And I hope it is forever." She watched Carrie’s eyelids flutter closed, exhaustion finally claiming her.

...To Be Continued

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Pictures...

 

[LisaLisaJam]

More Pictures...

 

[aseltar]

Really Nice!

 

[genitickler]

Amazing description of the tickling 🙂 Thanks so much!

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Pop Quiz! To test how closely you read this Part 3. What pictures are missing from this story?

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Really Nice!

Wow you read it fast. Do you think each part is too long? How long would you say it took you to read Part 3?
@aseltar

 

[Ladybella23]

Damn this is so good!!

 

[tommytikl]

Pop Quiz! To test how closely you read this Part 3. What pictures are missing from this story?

Maybe a shot of the thigh tickling, either inner thighs where she squeezes, or the barely there clit tickle..

 

[tommytikl]

I enjoyed the spanking scene as I have found that a tender rear end can be very ticklish afterward, not painful, deep brushing but 10 hand smacks bring blood to the surface and then turn the skin on fire....

 

[milagros317]

A slight smile touched her lips, not warm, but predatory. Her cool brown eyes absorbed every detail. It was a study in exquisite suffering, and Robinson savored it. Her fingers never slowed; they danced their cruel dance, digging deeper, sliding faster, ensuring Carrie remained suspended in that peak state of unbearable ticklish agony, insuring she remained unable to find enough breath to properly laugh. Robinson tilted her head slightly, observing the precise moment Carrie’s silent screams hitched into a breathless, hysterical sob. "Beautiful," she murmured, unheard. Her fingers intensified their pressure on the most vulnerable spots near Carrie’s groin, eliciting another violent spasm and a fresh torrent of tears. Carrie’s mind fragmented at that point. Thoughts dissolved into pure sensation – the relentless fingers, the slick oil, the straps biting into her flesh, the soundless void swallowing her screams. There was only the tickling. Only Robinson. Only surrender. This was pure, sadistic artistry. Robinson imagined Carrie’s pleading eyes unseen behind the sphere, her entire being reduced to a shuddering, laughing, crying wreck pinned beneath her skilled hands.

Part 3 is magnificent! The paragraph above is wonderful from both points of view. It makes me not only want to be the gleeful, skilled, sadistic Dr. Robinson, but also to be her helpless victim, subject to her attentions forever and ever.

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Damn this is so good!!

@Ladybella23 Awe thanks. In my opinion PART #4 ascends to way above so good. The return of Silas and all the mind games is amazing. And to be clear I'm speaking about PART 4 that I haven't released yet.

 

[milagros317]

@Ladybella23 Awe thanks. In my opinion PART #4 ascends to way above so good. The return of Silas and all the mind games is amazing. And to be clear I'm speaking about PART 4 that I haven't released yet.

I am eagerly awaiting the release of PART 4, in part because you have promised cruel F/m tickling in that part.

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Amazing description of the tickling 🙂 Thanks so much!

🙂 What good is a story if you don't describe it. Thanks for liking it.

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Maybe a shot of the thigh tickling, either inner thighs where she squeezes, or the barely there clit tickle..

Yeah. I think you nailed it. Those pictures towards the end of Part 3 are missing. Dang the pictures take me SOOOOOO long to make. 🙂

 

[tommytikl]

Yeah. I think you nailed it. Those pictures towards the end of Part 3 are missing. Dang the pictures take me SOOOOOO long to make. 🙂

I was going to ask if they took you a while? I appreciate all the more that you do it

 

[LisaLisaJam]

I enjoyed the spanking scene as I have found that a tender rear end can be very ticklish afterward, not painful, deep brushing but 10 hand smacks bring blood to the surface and then turn the skin on fire....

Yep, ass cheeks that have been slapped and are red with life, are definitely very much more ticklish to soft touches. Agreed.

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Here are the rest of the pictures from PART 3. I really hope you like them..?

 

[LisaLisaJam]

...

 

[milagros317]

Wonderful pictures!
My favorite is attached; it is the type that I love, a picture of the face of a lee who is suffering extreme tickle torture.

 

[LisaLisaJam]

Wonderful pictures!
My favorite is attached; it is the type that I love, a picture of the face of a lee who is suffering extreme tickle torture.

I know I simply adore the close-up laughter ones like that. You can see and hear the happy suffering.