LisaLisaJam
TMF Expert
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Part 5 (there are six total parts) has F/F tickling, and F/F foot worship. Please enjoy!
Written by LisaLisaJam
Illustrations by LisaLisaJam
PART 5
Lena stood silhouetted in the doorway, the harsh corridor light framing her blonde hair and crisp white uniform. Her sharp eyes scanned the room instantly—Carrie sprawled casually on the couch, robe slightly askew, breathing perhaps a fraction too quickly—then flicked towards the closed door leading to Silas’s chamber. A slow, knowing smile spread across Lena’s face, predatory and utterly devoid of warmth. "Well, well," she purred, stepping fully inside and letting the door sigh shut behind her. Her gaze lingered on Carrie’s flushed cheeks. "Looks like someone had herself a little... session. Productive?" She didn’t wait for an answer, her polished heels clicking softly on the polished floorboards as she strode towards Silas’s door.
The soft whoosh of the inner door opening released a wave of thick, humid air—sweat, tears, and something metallic. Lena paused on the threshold, her back rigid. Carrie held her breath. Lena’s head tilted slightly, taking in the tableau: Silas utterly wrecked, trembling faintly, tear tracks dried on his crimson face, drool slicking his chin. The silence stretched. Lena inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. Then, a low chuckle escaped her. "Oh, Carrie," she murmured, turning back, her brown eyes gleaming with approval. "You did indulge."
After blindfolding Carrie, Lena’s grip on Carrie’s upper arm was firm, as she steered her down a sterile corridor. They stopped before a heavy steel door Lena unlocked with a keycard. Inside, harsh fluorescent lights bounced off white subway tiles. The shower room smelled sharply of antiseptic and damp concrete. Lena leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Carrie peel off the damp silk robe. "Thoroughly," Lena commanded, her voice devoid of warmth. "Every inch. You reek of him." Carrie stepped under the warm spray, it felt so good on her skin. She scrubbed mechanically, aware of Lena’s unwavering gaze cataloging everything. Lena’s eyes lingered longest on Carrie’s trembling fingers. "Remember the feeling," Lena said softly, almost to herself. "Savor it. That power."
Silence filled Carrie’s small, bare room after Lena locked the door. Carrie sank onto the mattress, the coarse blanket scratchy against her clean skin. Her mind raced, replaying Silas’s convulsions, his choked screams morphing into breathless giggles, the exact texture of his skin beneath her scribbling nails. Lena’s words echoed: Savor it. She did. She relived the moment her fingers descended onto his soles, the instant his body exploded. Where was Silas now? Strapped down somewhere? Lena’s hands spidering across his ribs? Robinson’s voice hypnotizing him deeper into craving? The phantom vibration of the tuning fork danced on Carrie’s fingertips. She pictured Lena using it on him—slow, deliberate strokes on his instep, making him shriek until his voice cracked. A delicious shiver ran through her. He was probably begging again. Beautiful. Simply beautiful!
A tray slid through the slot in her door: roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, a slice of chocolate cake. Carrie ate ravenously; the flavors dull compared to the remembered ecstasy. Each bite felt secondary, fuel for the fire Lena had ignited. She licked chocolate from her fork, imagining Silas’s tears. Did he get dinner? Probably broth. Lena wouldn’t spoil his suffering with real food. Carrie finished the cake, licking the plate clean. The sugar rush felt sharp, bright, satisfying. She pictured Lena leaning over Silas’s table, maybe right now, whispering threats while tracing circles on his belly. Was he trembling? Was he wetting himself? She hoped so. She hoped Lena was relentless.
Exhaustion hit Carrie like a wave. She curled up under the blanket, the thin pillow cool against her cheek. Her body ached gloriously—a testament to the power she’d wielded. Behind closed eyelids, Silas’s tear-streaked face flashed, superimposed with Lena’s approving smirk. You did indulge. Yes. She had. And she would again if possible. The certainty warmed her more than the blanket. Silas was hers. His suffering was hers. Lena knew it. Robinson would know it. Carrie drifted off, a faint smile touching her lips, lulled by imagined echoes of Silas’s helpless laughter.
Morning came, her door buzzed sharply. Daniel stood framed in the corridor, crisp in his uniform, expression unreadable. "Robinson," he stated flatly. "Now." Carrie rose smoothly, the coarse blanket falling away. She didn’t need to ask questions. She followed Daniel’s silent stride through sterile corridors, her bare feet cool on the very clean polished floor. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something else—nervous tension? Her own pulse remained steady. She felt… ready. Prepared to prove what she’d become. Prepared to at the very least pretend to be humble and obedient.
Robinson’s office was vast, dominated by a sleek obsidian desk. Robinson sat behind the desk, a queen surveying her domain. Her red hair was a controlled flame, her brown eyes sharp as scalpels. Daniel melted into the shadows near the door, a silent sentinel. Robinson didn’t look up immediately, finishing a note with deliberate strokes. The silence stretched, thick with expectation. Carrie stood perfectly still, hands clasped loosely behind her, waiting. Robinson finally lifted her gaze, pinning Carrie in place. "Carrie," she said, her voice smooth as poured honey, yet edged with ice. "Demonstrate your understanding of obedience. Down. Hands and knees. Whimper. Like a puppy denied its bone."
Carrie’s mind flashed—consequences. Lena’s flogger. Silas’s tuning fork agony. The crushing humiliation of Phase One. The hesitation was microscopic, a flicker of instinctive resistance instantly crushed. This is the test. Pass it. Carrie sank down smoothly onto the hardwood floor. She lowered herself onto her hands and knees, head bowed slightly. A soft, high-pitched whine escaped her lips—pitiful, pleading, perfectly canine. She held the pose, the wood beneath her palms and knees, Robinson’s assessing gaze heavy on her back. A beat of silence. Then, a soft, approving hum from Robinson. "Good." The word landed like a benediction. "Now," Robinson leaned forward slightly, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Meow. Four times. Precisely."
Carrie drew a breath. She pictured Silas begging, Lena’s command to savor the power. This was different. This was submission. But submission was power here. She tilted her head up slightly, meeting Robinson’s gaze directly. "Meow," she uttered, clear and plaintive. A pause. "Meow." Slightly softer. Another pause. "Meow." Definite now. Final pause. "Meow." Firm, conclusive. She held Robinson’s gaze, kneeling submissively yet radiating a coiled readiness. Robinson’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. Daniel, a shadow in the corner, remained utterly still, his watchful eyes missing nothing. The air crackled. Carrie waited, breath shallow, wondering what exquisite torment Robinson would demand next to prove her worth.
Robinson leaned back slightly, steepling her fingers. Her gaze drifted slowly, deliberately, down Carrie’s kneeling form, lingering on her bare feet tucked beneath her. "Carrie, lay on your back and put your feet up at my desk top. "Position yourself parallel to the edge." Carrie obeyed instantly, lowering herself onto the hardwood, stretching out fully. Her robe pooled around her hips. Robinson continued, her voice crisp. "Now. Place your ankles upon the desktop. Ensure your soles face me directly. The backs of your ankles against the desk's edge." Carrie lifted her legs, swinging her feet up onto the smooth, cool surface of the desk. She pressed her ankles against the hard edge, feeling the slight bite of the wood. Her soles, pink and clean after Lena’s shower inspection, were now exposed, vulnerable, positioned inches from Robinson’s waiting fingertips. She felt absurdly exposed, on the floor like an offering. Robinson’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the delicate arches, the slender toes.
"Hold your feet tightly together!" Robinson commanded, her tone stern, brooking no hesitation. "Do not allow them to separate. Do not flinch. Do not pull them away. Maintain that position, perfectly still, until I instruct otherwise. Understood?" Carrie clenched her toes instinctively, pressing her soles firmly together, creating a single, taut surface facing Robinson. The position strained her calf muscles slightly. Her breath caught, not from fear of Robinson’s touch, but from the sudden, terrifying vulnerability. Her deepest secret, the unbearable sensitivity she guarded fiercely, was now laid bare, inches from the Doctor’s knowing gaze and potentially torturous fingers. Every nerve ending screamed awareness. She forced her breathing to steady, focusing on Silas’s wrecked face, Lena’s approval, the tuning fork hidden in the drawer. Obedience buys access. Access buys Silas. She locked her ankles tighter, pressing her soles impossibly closer together, presenting them rigidly. "Understood, Doctor," she whispered, her voice tight. Robinson’s smile widened fractionally as her elegant fingers hovered, poised just above the offered flesh. Carrie braced, every muscle taut, waiting for the first touch.
Robinson’s fingertip descended. It was just the barest whisper of contact, the lightest possible brush against the very center of Carrie’s right sole, right where the arch met the ball. It was an electric jolt of pure sensation for Carrie, amplified a thousandfold by her hypersensitivity. Carrie gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, then loud giggle. "STILL!" Robinson barked, the command cracking like a whip. Carrie froze, forcing her soles back flat against each other. Carrie squeezed her eyes shut. Robinson resumed. Her fingertip drifted, impossibly light, tracing a slow circle around the exact spot she’d first touched. It wasn't scratching; it was like the ghost of a feather, the brush of a moth’s wing, tracing a path of pure, unadulterated torment across Carrie’s hypersensitive skin. Carrie’s entire body stiffened, and she burst out with girlish giggling laughter. Her toes curled inward desperately, but her soles remained pressed flat together by sheer force of will against Robinson’s command.
The tickle was exquisite agony, igniting pure panicked reflex. She could feel the hysterical laughter threatening to explode. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She dug her fingernails into her own thighs, focusing on that sharp pain to anchor herself against the unbearable lightness tracing circles on her foot. Robinson’s expression remained impassive, clinical, but her eyes held a dark, fascinated gleam as she observed Carrie’s trembling jaw, the frantic flutter of her eyelids, the desperate rigidity holding her in place. The feather-light torture continued for a few moments, expanding the circle slowly, deliberately, exploring the tender landscape with cruel, scientific precision. Carrie’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, each exhale filled with her lovely laughter.
Then, abruptly, Robinson stopped. Her fingers lifted, leaving Carrie’s sole humming with sensation. Carrie’s giggles died down into heavy breathing. She opened her eyes, her soles still pressed together against the desk edge. Robinson leaned back slightly in her chair, her gaze shifting from Carrie’s exposed feet to Daniel’s silent shadow near the door. "Daniel," Robinson said, her voice crisp. "Please leave us alone. Lock the door behind you."
Daniel didn't hesitate. Not a flicker of surprise crossed his face. He moved with silent efficiency, the heavy lock clicking decisively as he exited. The lock sound echoed in the sudden intimacy of the locked office. Carrie remained frozen, the cool air of the room prickling her soles.
Robinson’s attention returned fully to Carrie. "Take your feet down, Carrie," she instructed calmly. Carrie lowered her legs slowly, relief washing over her as her soles left that vulnerable position. They tingled. "Now," Robinson continued, her gaze unwavering, "crawl around the desk on hands and knees. Position yourself facing me. Keep your head lowered near my feet."
Carrie obeyed, the hardwood cool against her palms and knees as she shuffled around the massive desk. She stopped where Robinson’s elegant legs were crossed, the sleek black patent leather pump encasing Ms Robinson's bare foot. Carrie kept her eyes downcast, focusing on the polished floor near Robinson's other shoe and foot which touched the floor.
"Look at my foot, Carrie," Robinson commanded softly. Carrie lifted her gaze slightly. Robinson’s shoes were very expensive. "You see," Robinson murmured, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "I haven’t worn stockings today. And my feet that are inside these shoes... they are rarely seen. They are a privilege to see." She uncrossed her legs slowly, adjusted her expensive chair so that it reclined backwards, letting her legs and feet extend towards Carrie. "You will remove one shoe. Very slowly. With reverence. Then," she paused, letting the anticipation build, "you will kiss my bare foot. Top to bottom. Each toe. Dry kisses. Pure worship. Make my foot feel precisely what it is: very special. A rare gift bestowed upon its worshipper."
Carrie’s mind reeled. Kiss Ms Robinson’s foot? The absurdity of it surprised her. Never had the thought even crossed her mind that she would kiss someone's feet, let alone some 39 year old lady's feet. But compared to the tickling agony she’d recently endured—and the far worse punishment disobedience would bring—this felt bizarrely manageable. More importantly, it was a chance. A chance to impress Robinson, to gain favor, to secure access. To Silas. To power. Obedience buys access, she repeated silently. She reached out, her fingers trembling only slightly as they brushed the cool leather of the pump’s heel. She eased it off Robinson’s foot with excruciating slowness, letting it drop silently onto the plush carpet beside the desk.
Robinson’s bare foot now rested fully exposed inches from Carrie’s face. The skin looked impossibly soft, the arch elegant, the toes long and tapered with perfectly painted crimson nails. Carrie hesitated for only a heartbeat, inhaling the faint scent of leather and Robinson’s expensive perfume. Then, she leaned forward. Her lips brushed Robinson’s foot, at the center of the pads beneath the toes—a feather-light, dry kiss. She felt the smooth warm skin on her mouth, and the tips of the toes were right at her nostrils. She moved down slowly, placing another kiss or two on the arch, then another just underneath the heel. Her skin was flawless, yielding slightly under the gentle pressure. Robinson remained still, radiating silent command.
Carrie moved around to the top of the foot and kissed her way back to the toes. She kissed the big toe, then moved meticulously to each smaller toe, pressing her lips dryly against the delicate knuckle of each one. The intimacy was profound, bizarre, yet charged with a strange submissive power. Carrie poured every ounce of feigned reverence into the act, imagining Robinson’s approval, picturing Silas bound, awaiting her return. She finished kissing the last pinky toe and lingered for a moment, her lips hovering. "It is... a rare gift, Doctor," Carrie whispered hoarsely, her head still bowed. "They are beautiful."
Robinson’s voice was a low hum above her. "Now, Carrie. Suck each toe. Passionately. Suck them without tickling me. Suck them very, very slow. I want to see, hear, and feel your worship."
Carrie hesitated for only a fraction of a second. She leaned forward. Her lips parted. She took Robinson’s big toe into her mouth, slowly, deliberately. The skin was warm, smooth, tasting faintly of expensive soap and Robinson’s skin. Carrie sucked gently, her tongue pressing flatly against the pad of the toe, avoiding any flicking motion that might trigger sensitivity. She focused on creating suction, pulling softly, her cheeks hollowing slightly. She heard a soft, wet sound in the quiet room. Robinson’s foot remained utterly still, a testament to Carrie’s careful control. Carrie moved slowly to the next toe, repeating the intimate ritual. She sucked each digit with deliberate slowness, her lips forming a tight seal, her tongue a firm, steady pressure against the underside. The crimson polish felt slick against her top lip. She lingered on the middle toe, sucking deeply, rhythmically, the sound a quiet, obscene slurp in the stillness. Carrie felt Robinson’s gaze like a physical weight, observing her utter submission, listening to the intimate noises.
She moved to the fourth toe, then finally the smallest. Carrie sucked it with the same unhurried passion, her eyes closed, focusing solely on the sensation – the warmth, the smoothness, the faint salty sweaty taste, the absolute stillness she maintained to avoid any hint of tickling, was impressive. She released the last toe with a soft, wet pop. Her lips were slightly swollen, glistening. She kept her head lowered near Robinson’s foot, breathing heavily through her nose, the scent of leather and perfume thick in the air. She waited, her mouth tingling.
Robinson shifted slightly in her chair. A soft sigh escaped her, almost imperceptible. Carrie felt the sole of Robinson’s other foot gently brush against her kneeling thigh – not a kick, not a command, just contact. "Acceptable," Robinson murmured, her voice thick with something Carrie couldn't quite name – satisfaction, perhaps, or a deeper, darker pleasure. "You understand reverence." She paused, letting the word hang. "Now. Put my shoe on. Then stand."
Carrie obeyed instantly, pushing herself up onto trembling legs after gently sliding the shoe back on to Rita's foot. She kept her gaze respectfully lowered; she could feel Robinson studying her. "You have potential, Carrie," Robinson stated, her tone shifting back to crisp authority. Carrie remained still, her mind racing. The scent lingered—that intoxicating blend of Robinson’s skin. It wasn’t perfume now; it was pure her. A rich, musky warmth, like sun-warmed leather polished for decades. Beneath it lay a faint, clean saltiness, the ghost of exertion trapped within pristine pores. And deeper still, something utterly precious: the scent of flawless ivory skin itself, a dry, intimate aroma that made Carrie’s mouth water anew. It clung to her palate, earthy and vital, whispering of power held in Robinson's delicate arches.
She longed, with a sudden, sharp ache, for the other foot, take each perfect, crimson-tipped toe into her mouth, not just obediently, but with the slow graceful reverence they deserved. To feel that smooth warmth against her tongue once more, to inhale that sacred scent directly from the source. The memory of Robinson’s stillness—her absolute control even during such intimate violation—filled Carrie with a strange awe. Such beauty, such power held in the curves of her feet. They deserved worship.
Robinson watched Carrie’s lowered gaze, the slight tremor in her hands. A tremor of something else entirely vibrated beneath Robinson’s own skin. Carrie’s mouth, warm and surprisingly adept, had been torture of the sweetest kind. The slow slide of Carrie’s lips enveloping each toe, the firm, deliberate suction pulling gently against the sensitive pads… it sent electric jolts racing up Robinson’s nerves. Each deliberate suckle ignited little bursts of pure sensation, perilously close to triggering helpless giggles from Ms Robinson. Her toes were actually exquisitely ticklish, a secret she fiercely guarded. The instinct to jerk her foot away and gasp with laughter at the shocking intimacy of Carrie's warm tongue, had been overwhelming. Only years of discipline kept her still, her expression serene, betraying none of the frantic internal battle fought against her own treacherous reflexes. Carrie’s worshipful slowness was wonderful, but also exquisite agony. She felt every deliberate pulse of Carrie’s mouth, every soft slurp resonating deep within her, a silent symphony played on her hypersensitive nerves.
The feeling was profoundly erotic. Power surged through Robinson, thick and potent. Here was Carrie, recently defiant, now kneeling, her swollen lips glistening around Robinson’s skin. Carrie was conquered. The sight of her submission—complete, willing, focused entirely on Robinson’s bare foot—ignited a deep, possessive heat low in Robinson’s belly. This intimate domination, rendering Carrie into a vessel for Robinson’s pleasures, was the purest expression of control. Carrie’s reverence, feigned or not, was a narcotic. Robinson savored the lingering phantom pressure on her toes, the damp warmth Carrie left behind. Robinson’s foot, resting back inside its expensive leather prison, still tingled with the memory of Carrie’s earnest mouth.
"You performed adequately," Robinson stated, her voice regaining its clipped authority. She leaned forward slightly, steepling her fingers on the desk. "Such devotion deserves acknowledgment. You may make one request. Within reason. What do you desire?" Carrie’s head jerked up, eyes wide. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. Color flooded her pale cheeks. She fidgeted, twisting her fingers together. "I... Doctor..." she stammered, looking anywhere but Robinson’s face. "I was wondering... if perhaps... soon..." The words tangled, thick with embarrassment. She took a shaky breath. "Could I... babysit Silas? Again?" The term sounded ludicrously childish escaping her lips. "Soon?"
Robinson arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. A flicker of genuine amusement danced in her dark eyes. "Babysit, Carrie?" Her tone was dry, incredulous. "Is that what we’re calling it now? You wish to... tend to him?" She paused, letting the absurdity hang heavy in the air. Carrie shrank visibly, her blush deepening to crimson. "Like cuddle him? Sing him lullabies?" Robinson’s lips twitched. Carrie stammered, flustered. "N-no, Doctor! Not like... that! I meant..." She gestured vaguely, helplessly. "Supervising him. Making sure he ... knows how to ... behave." That explanation sounded a little better.
Robinson chuckled softly, a low, rich sound. "Ah. Supervising. Ensuring proper behavior." She tapped a crimson nail against the desktop. "Through vigorous playtime, I presume? Utilizing proper... tools?" Carrie realized Ms Robinson understood what she wanted to do to him, and Carrie nodded mutely, mortification warring with desperate hope. "Yes, Doctor. Exactly. Vigorous... supervision." Her voice was barely a whisper.
Robinson leaned back, studying Carrie’s flushed face, her trembling hands. The raw hunger barely concealed beneath the shame was delicious. "Very well," Robinson conceded, her tone indulgent, like granting a child a questionable treat. "Consider him yours tomorrow afternoon. Lena will make that happen... he'll be freshly prepared for your supervision." The emphasis dripped with dark promise. "Ensure your methods are... thorough, Carrie. Demonstrate the depth of your understanding." A predatory smile played on Rita's lips.
Carrie’s relief was palpable, a shaky exhale escaping her. But the gnawing curiosity remained, tangled with a strange, burgeoning possessiveness over Silas’s responses. She shifted nervously, eyes darting to Robinson’s polished desk surface. "Doctor?" Carrie’s voice was a hesitant whisper. "May I... ask something else? About Silas?" Robinson inclined her head slightly, a silent command to proceed. Carrie swallowed hard, her cheeks burning anew. "Is Silas... I mean... during... um..." She stammered, struggling for words. "Is he ever... permitted?" She gestured vaguely, helplessly, towards her own lap. "You know...?"
Robinson’s expression remained impassive, but a spark ignited deep in her dark eyes. She let the silence stretch, thick and uncomfortable. "Permitted what, Carrie?" she finally asked, her voice dangerously soft. "You must articulate your thoughts clearly. Precision is paramount here." The command hung heavy.
Carrie flinched. "To... finish?" she choked out, the word sounding crude and inadequate. "When he... reacts?" Her gaze dropped to her own twisting fingers. She ever so briefly with one hand made a stroking gesture.
Robinson leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her crimson-tipped fingers steepled again. Her gaze pinned Carrie like a specimen. "Define 'finish', Carrie," she demanded, her voice low and deliberate. "Describe precisely what physical occurrence you are inquiring about. Use clinical terms. Detail the physiological process you wish to know if Silas experiences."
Carrie felt a wave of humiliation crash over her. Her ears burned. She forced her gaze up, meeting Robinson’s unwavering stare. "Orgasm," she whispered hoarsely. "When he... loses control... from the tickling. Does Silas ever... achieve orgasm?" The clinical term felt alien, harsh on her tongue. "Is he allowed... to release?"
Robinson watched the struggle play out on Carrie’s face, savoring the embarrassment, the forced vulnerability. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. "Ah," she murmured, the sound rich with dark amusement. "That particular response." She paused, letting the tension coil tightly. "Silas," she stated crisply, "is permitted release only under specific, controlled circumstances determined solely by his Operator. Lena guides that process meticulously... ensuring his climax serves conditioning, not pleasure." Her gaze sharpened, piercing Carrie. "Should you choose to induce it during your supervision... you must make sure it is more agonizing for him than it is enjoyable. Understood?"
Carrie nodded mutely, her mind already racing with possibilities, the clinical detachment Robinson demanded was very welcomed by Carrie. It gave her more confidence to know that it was a command, a task she was given, which made it easier on her conscience to sadistically torture him. The thought of controlling that moment, of witnessing Silas shatter completely... power, thick and intoxicating, surged through her, momentarily eclipsing the lingering shame. Tomorrow, she would test all limits.
But the specifics eluded Carrie. Making it agonizing... how? She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the intricate weave of Robinson’s expensive carpet. "Doctor?" Carrie’s voice emerged small, hesitant, thick with embarrassment. "I... I want to... ensure it’s unpleasant... for him." She hesitated, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Could... could you tell me... how?" The question hung in the air, stark and vulnerable. "What ways... make it... truly... suffering?" She couldn’t bring herself to look up, her cheeks blazing.
Robinson leaned back slowly, a faint smile playing on her lips. She savored Carrie’s discomfort. "Ah, Carrie," she murmured, her voice a velvet purr, her eyes gleaming with dark inspiration, "maybe you intensify the tickling precisely as he begins to peak. Amplify the unbearable sensations tenfold just as his penis loses control. Make his ecstasy inseparable, from agony. Force him to scream through his own release." A flicker of genuine pleasure lit Robinson’s features as she said the words. "The key, Carrie, is to manipulate the peak itself. Make the moment of vulnerability, of involuntary pleasure, the point of maximum violation and ticklish pain."
Robinson’s gaze hardened slightly. "Unravel him." A predatory glint in her eyes. "Consider it... part of your supervision training." The implication was clear: Carrie’s own sadistic curiosity was not just permitted; it was now required. Her experimentation on Silas was now sanctioned scientific research. Carrie felt dark anticipation mingled with a strange thrill at being entrusted with such a task. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. She nodded sharply, a flicker of determination replacing her embarrassment. "Yes, Doctor. I will."
Robinson leaned back. "Now, I have work to do" she asked, her voice smooth as polished stone, "is there anything else?..." Carrie looked around for cameras or microphones, then leaned close to Robinson's ear. Her hushed whisper was not audible to anyone else. She pulled back slightly, watching Robinson's profile. Robinson turned her head slowly, their faces inches apart. Her brown eyes were fathomless pools. "Really?" she murmured, her voice dangerously soft. "Are you sure?" Carrie nodded minutely, her gaze locked on Robinson's. She darted forward once more, to whisper. She pulled back, holding her breath. Robinson stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible blink. "I see," she breathed, the words thick with unspoken implication. "I see."
Later that night, Carrie lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The phantom scent of Robinson’s skin clung to her. She replayed tomorrow’s possibilities—Silas trembling… her orchestrating his agony-peak. The door opened. Lena stood silhouetted, her blonde hair catching the dim hallway light, her expression unreadable. "Get up," Lena commanded, her voice devoid of warmth. "Now."
Confused but conditioned to obey, Carrie scrambled off the bed. Lena didn’t explain, simply turned and strode down the corridor. Carrie hurried behind her, bare feet silent on the floor. They walked past familiar doors, turning into a wing Carrie hadn’t seen—a utilitarian space smelling faintly of food. Lena stopped before heavy double doors, pushed them open, and flicked on harsh fluorescent lights. Carrie blinked at the sudden brightness. They stood in an industrial kitchen. It was a disaster. Greasy pots and pans in the sinks. Counters were smeared with dried sauces and splattered flour. The floor was a sticky and dirty.
Lena leaned against a stainless steel counter, crossing her arms. Her chin-length blonde hair framed her face. "Start cleaning," she ordered flatly, nodding at the mess. "Doesn't matter what you tackle first. Just start. Now." Carrie stared, frozen. Her privileged life had never included scrubbing floors or scraping pans. The sheer scale of the filth, the ordinariness of the task, felt alien, demeaning. Her mind blanked.
Then, it happened. Without warning, a sensation like invisible electric vibrating feathers danced with vicious precision right between her butt cheeks. A lightning-fast, impossibly tickle flicked just inside her asshole. Carrie’s gasp morphed instantly into a shriek of hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. She jumped straight up in the air as if electrocuted—a full, startled leap—her spine arching violently backwards. Landing hard on her soles, she doubled forward instantly, folding at the waist, her hands scrambling frantically behind her to clamp over her vulnerable asshole. “EEEEEEEEEK-HAHA HAHAHA HA!” The laughter ripped out of her, raw and crazed, utterly involuntary. It wasn't playful; it was panicked, a primal reaction to violation. She squeezed her eyes shut, palms pressing over her asshole, trying to shield herself, rocking slightly on her feet. The sensation vanished as abruptly as it arrived, leaving her panting, trembling, and mortified, the wild giggles trailing off into shocked breaths.
Carrie looked back at Lena, who was radiating cold dominance. "Consider that a reminder. Now," she gestured expansively at the filthy kitchen, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "clean. Scrape, scrub, scour. Or next time, I won't stop the stimulus after just four seconds." "But... but..." Carrie stammered, eyes wide with residual panic and disbelief. "What... what was that?"
Lena smiled thinly and raised her hand. Carrie flinched instinctively, expecting another phantom assault. But Lena wasn't pointing – she was holding something. Carrie's gaze snapped to it: a tuning fork, but unlike the one she had used on Silas. This one was a bit girthier, metallic, and heavier looking. Below its handle grip, where Carrie expected a simple base, was a thin, rectangular screen glowing softly. It looked about 10 inches wide.
Lena tilted the device slightly, letting Carrie see the screen properly. "Come and look." A faint outline of a human figure flickered on it, rotating slowly. A small, pulsing red dot marked Carrie's asshole. Lena tapped the screen, and the dot vanished. "Yes," Lena confirmed, her voice clinical. "It's your tuning fork. Mapped solely for your body." She traced a finger across the screen; the outline shifted, highlighting Carrie's bare soles next. "This screen allows me to select any specific area on your body," Lena explained, her finger hovering over an intensity slider bar glowing beside the figure, "and set precisely how intense the tickling stimulus should be." Her eyes locked onto Carrie's, sharp and demanding. "What you just felt? That was a Level 2 stimulus targeting your asshole. Tell me: did it tickle you correctly?" Lena demanded an honest, immediate answer.
Carrie froze. Her asshole still tingled traumatically from the violating, lightning-fast tickle inside. It hadn't just tickled; it had felt like an invasive, electric feather flicking impossibly fast right inside her private, untouchable place. Such humiliation. What's with Lena and butt-holes? she thought to herself, kind of chuckling inside. She wanted to lie, to deny the terrifying effectiveness. But Robinson’s training screamed inside her head: precision, obedience, honesty. "Y-yes," Carrie choked out, her voice trembling. "It... it tickled perfectly." The admission tasted like ash.
Lena nodded, satisfied. She tapped the screen again, and the diagram disappeared, leaving a blank glow. "Excellent. Now," she gestured again towards the filthy pots crusted with burnt food, her smile devoid of warmth, "get to work. Scrape pots clean. Scrub counters spotless. Mop the floor." Lena leaned in slightly, her whisper icy. "I'll be monitoring... closely. And should your efforts lag..." She glanced meaningfully at the tuning fork screen, her finger hovering near the intensity slider. Carrie scrambled towards the sink, grabbing a steel wool pad with shaking hands, the phantom tickle in her asshole a terrifying promise of what Level 3, or Level 5... or Level 10 might feel like. She plunged her hands into greasy water, scrubbing, hyper-aware of Lena's silent presence. Every scrape of steel wool against burnt metal was punctuated by the dread of that pulsing red dot appearing somewhere else. Her beautiful ticklish skin felt utterly exposed. She could be tickled, without even being touched.
As Carrie scraped at a stubborn patch of burnt sauce, her mind flashed back. The intense tickle Lena had just inflicted deep inside her asshole—invasive, violating, utterly un-stoppable—suddenly crystallized Silas's experience with Lena. That, she thought with a shiver that wasn't entirely unpleasant, that exact kind of merciless, pinpoint agony... that's what Silas felt. The visceral memory of Lena's device targeting him flooded her. He had endured surgical, violating tickle torture. The thought warmed Carrie unexpectedly, spreading through her belly like slow-moving honey. He felt this. He suffered exactly this. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips.
Lena observed Carrie's focused scrubbing, the tremor in her shoulders now gone. No defiance, only obedience. "Stop," Lena commanded abruptly. Carrie froze mid-scrape, steel wool suspended over a pot. "Follow me." They moved silently down sterile corridors, descending stairs Carrie hadn't known existed. The air grew colder, drier. Finally, Lena stopped before a featureless black door. She pushed it open. Darkness yawned beyond.
Inside, absolute blackness swallowed them. Lena flicked a switch. Dim, recessed lights revealed a vast soundproofed chamber. In the room's exact center stood a ten-foot-square jail cell. Every inch of its heavy iron bars was encased in the same dense black padding. The floor inside was cushioned vinyl. There was no bed, no sink—just emptiness. "Step into the cell," Lena ordered, her voice flat, echoing strangely in the muffled space. Carrie obeyed, the padded cell door clicking shut behind her with finality. Carrie pushed back at it just to check and yes, it was now locked.
Lena walked slowly around the perimeter, her footsteps silent on the padding. She paused directly in front of Carrie, separated only by the padded bars. "This," she stated, her voice unnervingly clear in the deadened air, "is a place for concentrated feedback. Sensory deprivation, except for one channel." She raised the tuning fork device. The screen glowed softly, illuminating her sharp features. Carrie's outline appeared, rotating slowly. Lena's finger tapped decisively. A bright red dot pulsed insistently right over Carrie's belly button. Carrie instinctively sucked her stomach in, a gasp catching in her throat. The tickling Lena could unleash there... deep, internal, impossible to shield... was terrifying. Lena smiled coldly then tapped the screen.
A sensation bloomed deep inside Carrie’s belly button cavity—not on the surface, but deep within the navel pit itself. It felt like dozens of impossibly fine, vibrating wires unfurling with exquisite slowness, spiraling outwards, brushing against hypersensitive, untouched inner folds of skin she never knew existed. It wasn't sharp or electric like the earlier anal stimulus; this was slow, insidious, exploratory. A choked giggle burst from Carrie’s lips as her hands flew instinctively to her stomach, pressing hard against her abdomen.
"Nnngh—HA ha!" But pressing did nothing; the sensation originated from within, beyond her reach. Her belly trembled violently. She doubled over slightly, shaking with suppressed laughter, tears pricking her eyes. Lena watched, utterly impassive, her finger resting calmly beside the slider bar labeled 'Intensity'. "Level One." The internal feathering intensified slightly, swirling deeper. Carrie whimpered, sinking slowly to her knees on the cushioned vinyl floor, curling into herself, her shoulders shaking with helpless giggles. It was a ticklish intrusion into her belly button.
Lena’s finger moved. Not to increase intensity, but to shift location. The deep probing inside Carrie's belly button vanished instantly. In its place, a pinpoint vibration—focused, rapid, impossibly accurate—materialized deep within her left ear canal. It wasn't a sound; it was pure tactile vibration, mimicking the frantic flutter of a trapped moth’s wings against the impossibly sensitive nerves. Carrie yelped, clapping her hand frantically over her ear, jerking her head sideways. "Eeee! No! Stop!" Her voice cracked. The vibration intensified slightly—still Level Two—becoming a relentless, buzzing drill against her inner ear. She thrashed, rolling onto her side, kicking her legs uselessly against the padded floor, laughter pouring out in gasping shrieks. Lena remained still, her gaze pleased, void of mercy. She tapped the screen again.
The ear assault ceased. Simultaneously, Carrie felt it: Lena continued silently, clinically moving her finger across the screen: Level Two stimulus applied sequentially to the webs between Carrie's toes, the sensitive skin behind her knees, the dip of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. Each location triggered fresh spasms of hysterical laughter. Carrie danced, rolled, twisted, and clutched at her own body in a futile attempt to shield the latest assault point, never given a moment's respite. Tears streamed down her face, her breath came in ragged gasps between shrieks. "HAA-HAA-HAAHAHAHAHA! NO! PLEASE! STOP! HAHAHAHAHA!" She was trapped in a relentless cascade of ticklish agony, every nerve singing under Lena's precise control without a single touch.
Lena paused. The tickling ceased abruptly. Silence crashed down, broken only by Carrie's desperate, gulping breaths as she lay curled on the padded floor, trembling uncontrollably, her cheeks wet. Lena knelt silently outside the padded bars, her face inches from Carrie's. Her expression was pure predatory stillness, her eyes coldly assessing Carrie's utter vulnerability. Without breaking eye contact, Lena pushed and slid her finger deliberately across the tuning fork's glowing screen. Then, slowly, deliberately, she rotated the device so Carrie could see it clearly.
Carrie's blurry vision focused. On the screen, her outlined body pulsed softly. Highlighted with chilling precision was her clitoris. Below it, the intensity setting glowed ominously: Level 3. And beside that, a small, terrifying line of text: "Auto raise intensity every 60 seconds by one increment." Carrie's breath hitched. Her eyes widened in pure, primal terror. Level Two had been torture. Level Three on her most sensitive spot... escalating endlessly... was unthinkable agony. Quick math seemed to suggest that in only 7 or so minutes the tickling on her clit would reach Level 10! Her gaze snapped back to Lena's face, silently pleading.
Lena's lips curved into a cruel smile. "Ticklish much?" she whispered, the word dripping with sadistic promise. Carrie could only whimper, a high-pitched sound of pure dread escaping her throat as she instinctively clamped her thighs together. Then to Carrie's great surprise, Lena pulled a red pill from her pocket and placed it onto her own tongue. Carrie became so much more frightened at that moment, knowing the red pill would give Lena orgasmic pleasure for 60 minutes. Was she really truly planning on tickle torturing her for 60 more minutes? If so, she would die, she thought. There's no way she could endure such a tickling. Lena walked back to a corner where two padded walls met, sat down, facing Carrie. Lena's thumb pressed down on the activation button...
Carrie awoke. She blinked slowly, the familiar ceiling of her Glenhaven Manor room swimming into focus. How did she get here? Fragments clawed at her foggy mind: hysterical, breathless laughter tangled with wrenching sobs, the hot, humiliating rush of wetness soaking her thighs... Had she peed herself last night? Worse, intertwined with the terror were flashes of Lena – Lena writhing on the padded floor, her blonde hair splayed, face contorted in ecstatic agony, shuddering violently with wave after wave of orgasm, her own moans mingling with Carrie's screams. Had Carrie herself climaxed amidst the suffocating tickle torture and the bladder betrayal? The memories were fractured, hazy – intense pleasure spikes buried deep within the overwhelming agony, leaving her unsure, deeply unsettled.
She shifted slightly on the bed, and fire ignited across her body. Her clitoris throbbed with a residual ache, a phantom echo of Lena's relentless, escalating assault. The sheer, violating intimacy of Lena’s torture permeated her being. Lena was beyond sadistic. What is the word to describe beyond sadistic?
A soft knock echoed, startling her rigid. The door opened slowly. Daniel stood framed in the doorway, holding a simple tray with water and toast. His expression was unreadable, professional. "Good morning, Carrie," he intoned flatly. "Breakfast." He placed the tray on a small table near the door and retreated without another word, closing the door softly.
Carrie stared at the toast. Her throat felt raw, her body a map of phantom tickles and lingering aches. She didn't move. How did I get here? Did Lena carry me? Did I walk? The fragmented memories offered only humiliation and conflicting sensations. The toast seemed alien, impossible to eat. Before she could muster the thought to rise, the door swung open again. This time, it was Dr. Robinson.
Robinson filled the doorway, radiating cool command in her impeccable suit. Her red hair was flawless, her gaze sharp, assessing Carrie’s disheveled state – the tangled black hair, the hollow eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. "Carrie," Robinson stated, her voice devoid of warmth. "Your conditioning requires reinforcement. Come." It wasn't a request; it was a directive. Robinson turned and walked out, expecting immediate compliance.
Carrie scrambled off the bed, her legs shaky. Obedience was reflex now, etched deep by Glenhaven’s methods. She followed Robinson’s crisp footsteps down familiar corridors, past Silas's cell door – a brief pang of anticipation warring with her own dread – and towards the sterile wing housing the padded table. Robinson opened the heavy soundproof door. The room was unchanged: stark white, dominated by the ominous X-shaped table thickly padded in dark vinyl, its restraints gleaming dully. "Assume position," Robinson commanded, gesturing towards the table.
Carrie’s breath hitched. She approached the table slowly, the memory of Lena’s device-induced agony still vivid. With trembling fingers, she shed the thin gown, letting it pool at her feet. The cool air raised goosebumps on her ivory skin as she climbed onto the padded vinyl surface. She lay back, her slender body conforming to the X-shape. Robinson moved with practiced efficiency, securing the padded leather restraints around Carrie’s wrists and ankles. Each buckle clicked with finality. Next came the padded helmet, enclosing her head, cutting off sight and sound. Robinson adjusted the internal speakers, ensuring snug contact against Carrie’s ears. Darkness and silence engulfed her. Utterly vulnerable. Bound. Naked. Blind. Deaf.
Then, the assault began. Not physical, but mental. A cacophony of layered voices erupted inside her skull, bypassing her ears entirely, vibrating directly within her consciousness. They were the same voices from her Phase One brainwashing – clinical, soothing, authoritarian, insistent – speaking over and overlapping each other in rapid-fire succession.
"Obedience is safety..."
"Authority knows best..."
"Trust Doctor Robinson..."
"Your mother loves you; obey her..."
"Submission brings peace..."
"Desire only to serve..."
"Say 'Yes Ma'am'..."
"You want to say 'Yes Ma'am'..."
"You crave pleasing them..."
"Disobedience is pain..."
"Obedience is pleasure..."
"Agree..."
"Submit..."
"Obey..."
The voices weren't asking; they were installing. They hammered against her fractured will, dissolving lingering resistance like acid. Each command, each suggestion, sank deeper than the last, rewriting her instincts. Carrie twitched against the restraints, her mind a battlefield rapidly being overrun. The phantom tickles Lena had inflicted seemed to flare in response to thoughts of defiance, reinforcing the programming. Slowly, inevitably, the tension bled from her body. Her lips moved silently, forming the words the voices demanded. A deep, artificial calm settled over her, replacing the turmoil. She was becoming smooth, agreeable clay, ready to be molded. The only thought left crystallizing was a simple, fervent echo: "Yes Ma'am."
A full sixty minutes later, it was finally over. The abrupt silence inside the helmet felt deafening after the relentless auditory assault. Ms. Robinson's efficient hands moved swiftly. The heavy helmet lifted away, flooding Carrie's senses with the sterile white light of the room. Cool air brushed her sweaty face. Next came the distinct clicks of buckles releasing. The padded leather restraints fell away from her wrists and ankles, leaving ghost impressions on her soft ivory skin. Carrie lay limply on the vinyl pad, blinking slowly. Her mind felt thick, foggy, like wading through syrup. The programming hummed beneath the surface, potent and undeniable. The overwhelming urge to please, to agree, to be obedient, pulsed through her. It wasn't a choice; it was her new foundation.
Ms. Robinson stood back, observing Carrie with cool detachment. "Sit up, Carrie," she commanded softly. Carrie obeyed instantly, pushing herself upright with clumsy movements, her limbs feeling heavy and foreign. She sat on the edge of the table, naked, swaying slightly, her lite green eyes unfocused but fixed on Robinson. "Your mind feels clearer now, doesn't it?" Robinson asked, her tone implying the expected answer. Carrie nodded slowly, a vacant smile touching her lips. "Yes Ma'am," she breathed, the words flowing easily. Robinson stepped closer. "Excellent. Now, we test the integration." Her eyes sharpened. "Carrie, Lena worked very hard last night for your benefit. You owe her gratitude. Would you agree to lick Lena's bare feet after her next gym workout, as a sign of respect?"
Carrie's foggy mind recoiled internally at the thought of Lena's feet – the instrument of her torture, the source of her deep humiliation. But the programming surged, drowning the flicker of disgust. Licking Lena's bare sweaty feet? It meant degradation, vulnerability. Yet, the conditioned pathways screamed louder: Obedience is pleasure. Disobedience is pain. Say 'Yes Ma'am'. Carrie swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes Ma'am," she whispered hoarsely. "I... I would lick Lena's sweaty feet." Robinson's smile widened, predatory. "Good girl. Now, another promise." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, hypnotic murmur. "Silas. Your special project. Promise me... promise me you will make Silas suffer so very much tonight?"
The name "Silas" pierced the fog like a blade. Images flooded Carrie's fragmented consciousness: his desperate screams, the way his ribs shuddered under her tickling fingers, the pure agony twisting his face as Agent Red transmuted his torment into her own violent ecstasy. Glenhaven's conditioning demanded yes. But beneath the thick layer of brainwashed obedience, a genuine primal spark flared – Carrie's own burgeoning sadism, nurtured by Glenhaven, tangled with the explicit command to torture Silas. Her thoughts raced: Suffer greatly? Yes indeed? His hips? His soles? His... all of his most sensitive spots? Make him beg while crying, while laughing? Make him lose complete control? The possibilities ignited a dark unexpected thrill deep within her core, mingling horribly with the imposed compliance.
"Yes Ma'am," Carrie breathed, her voice suddenly stronger, laced with an unnerving eagerness she didn't consciously recognize. "I promise. Tonight... tonight I will make Silas suffer... exquisitely. Suffer sooooo much." Her lite green eyes glazed, fixed unseeingly ahead. Without conscious thought, her right hand drifted down her naked thigh. Her fingers, seemingly of their own accord, found her throbbing clitoris, still tender from Lena's assault. She began rubbing it softly, rhythmically, the friction a distant echo of the programming's promised "pleasure" linked to obedience.
"I'll... I'll tickle him raw...," she murmured, her voice thick, her fingers moving faster against herself. "I'll... he won't get a break... I will tickle every inch but mostly... where it tickles worst... I'll find a way to tickle his asshole." A soft gasp escaped her lips as her own touch intensified slightly. "I'll... I'll synchronize... like you taught me... make him scream... make him cum... while I... while I..." Her words dissolved into a shuddering moan, lost in the haze of conditioned submission and rising, unwitting arousal. Her hand worked herself, completely detached from her conscious control.
Robinson watched, utterly fascinated. This was beyond programmed obedience. This was Carrie's own latent darkness, amplified and channeled by Glenhaven's conditioning, spilling out in terrifying detail and physical manifestation. The sheer specificity of the promised torture, coupled with Carrie's oblivious self-stimulation, was a testament to the Manor's horrifying effectiveness. The Doctor didn't interrupt, letting the moment stretch, imprinting Carrie's own words and actions deeper into her fractured psyche. Her eyes rolled back slightly, a choked whimper escaping. Robinson broke the silence, her voice smooth as silk. "Perfect, Carrie. Exactly what I would expect. Now... get some rest. A nice lunch will arrive in an hour."
Before Ms Robinson exited through the door she turned back and said, "Oh and, I'll be contacting your Mom to see if she wants to come and pick you up tomorrow. I think you're ready."
Carrie blinked slowly, the haze thick. Robinson's footsteps faded away. Alone in the sterile room, the intense arousal vanished, replaced by profound exhaustion. Her limbs felt like lead weights. She slid off the padded table, her feet hitting the cool floor. Without bothering to retrieve her gown, she shuffled naked and unsteady down the short corridor to her small, sparse room. Carrie laid back gently onto the mattress, the springs groaning softly beneath her slender frame. She was still so very tired, the mental fatigue bone-deep after the helmet's relentless assault and the lingering echoes of Lena's invasive torture. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy. Within seconds, her breathing deepened, evening out into the soft rhythm of sleep, her naked form utterly vulnerable in the quiet room.
An hour later, the sliding door woke her. Daniel stood impassively in the doorway, holding a tray. Carrie sat up slowly, blinking away sleep. She felt... different. The fog was less dense, replaced by a strange, artificial clarity. Obedience felt natural, inevitable. The tray held grilled salmon glistening with lemon butter, vibrant steamed broccoli, a small mound of wild rice pilaf, and a tall glass of sparkling water. It looked pristine, untouched. Daniel placed it wordlessly on the small table and left.
Carrie approached. Her stomach growled softly. She ate mechanically at first, but the flavors burst on her tongue – the richness of the salmon, the bright tang of lemon, the earthy bite of fresh vegetables. She ate every bite, savoring the nourishment, a deep sense of satisfaction settling over her. Good food, she thought vaguely, for good girls. She drank the sparkling water, its effervescence crisp and clean. And moist chocolate cake for dessert? Lovely.
The door slid open again. Lena stood there, arms folded, radiating cool authority. Her blonde hair was pretty and styled, emphasizing her features. She wore her gym clothes, as if about ready to work out – dark leggings and a moisture-wicking tank top, running shoes. "You," Lena stated, her voice flat. "Shower. Now. You stink of torture." Carrie flinched inwardly at the bluntness, but her programming surged: Obedience is safety. "Yes, Lena," Carrie breathed softly, rising instantly. Lena stepped aside, gesturing sharply towards the corridor.
Steam billowed thickly from the gleaming stainless-steel stall as Carrie entered the tiled shower room. Lena remained at the doorway. The air felt cool against her damp skin until she stepped under the hot, pounding torrent. Water sluiced over her shoulders, plastering her short black bangs to her forehead and slicking her long, straight hair down her back like wet ink. The heat seeped deep into her tired muscles, a temporary balm against the lingering phantom tickles and bruises Lena’s device had etched onto her nerves. She grabbed a bar of expensive, sandalwood-scented soap and began scrubbing meticulously.
Her slender fingers traced the curve of her ivory shoulders, her underarms, the soft vulnerability of her throat, the high arch of her cheekbones where tears had tracked earlier. She scrubbed her arms, her ribs, the trembling plane of her soft belly, paying particular attention to her belly button pit, washing away the memory of Lena’s invasive probe. She bent, scrubbing her long legs, the slender calves, the delicate ankles, and finally, her beautiful, ticklish feet – scrubbing each slender toe, the high arch, the soft pad, the vulnerable sole. Damn, that even tickled. She lingered there, washing away unseen traces of Lena’s tuning fork assault from last night. Every inch of her eighteen-year-old body was cleansed under Lena’s watchful, unsympathetic gaze from the doorway.
Carrie dried herself with a thick, fluffy towel, the rough texture a grounding contrast to the invasive terror of Lena’s remote torture. She slipped into the clean, lite-green thin simple gown Lena held on one of her fingers. Carrie walked silently back towards her room, her bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. The sterile hallway lights felt harsh against her freshly washed skin.
Ms. Robinson’s parting words echoed relentlessly in her newly conditioned mind: ‘I'll be contacting your Mom to see if she wants to come and pick you up tomorrow.’ Was she finally going home? Was Glenhaven done with her? Elation surged – she could see her mother's dark brown hair, her probably worried light brown eyes. Zara! Freedom! But instantly, a cold wave of dread crashed over her. She was pissed at her Mom. How could she face her without showing it? Zara had betrayed her, delivered her to this torture palace. Carrie remembered Zara's own frantic fear of being tickled. Did Mom know about the tickling that goes on here?
She entered her small room, the door sliding shut behind her. She sank onto the bed, pulling her slender knees up to her chest. The conflicting emotions churned inside her. Leaving meant escaping Lena's tuning fork, escaping the terrifying vulnerability of Robinson's commands and restraints. But... leaving also meant leaving Silas. Her pulse quickened. Tonight was her sanctioned session. Her promise to Robinson burned bright: ‘I will make Silas suffer... exquisitely.’ And oh my did she want to, with or without promising she'd do it. He was born to be tortured. He craved it.
She will be doing him a favor. The memory of using Agent Red flooded her senses – the addictive rush of power as Silas writhed beneath her fingers, his agony transforming into her own violent, shuddering pleasure. She imagined his ribs convulsing under relentless tickling, the choked screams escaping his lips as she synchronized torture with his release. Glenhaven had unlocked a dark, thrilling part of her she never knew existed. Annihilating Silas... it was hers to command, hers to enjoy, completely sanctioned. At Glenhaven, she was powerful in that way. At Glenhaven, she could unleash her sadism without consequence, without judgment. And now she wondered... how many other "patients" were here at Glenhaven? Patients she might eventually get the chance to .... "meet."
And Robinson... Carrie slowly chewed her lower lip, a flicker of something warmer amidst the fear. The Doctor's sophisticated beauty, her cool command... Carrie remembered the profound intimacy of worshiping Robinson’s bare foot, the scent of expensive leather and clean salty skin. The Doctor hadn't punished her harshly after Lena's torture; she'd reinforced her, tested her, and then... praised her. She had granted Carrie her request to supervise Silas again. Was a twisted kind of friendship forming?
Carrie recalled the Doctor's sharp gaze softening almost imperceptibly when Carrie obeyed flawlessly. And the orgasms... Carrie’s cheeks flushed. Lena’s Level 10 clitoral assault last night mixed agony with terrifying ecstasy, forcing convulsive releases she couldn't control. Robinson’s own expert fingertips, tracing her vulva, her clit, with clinical precision during Phase One had ignited a slow, devastating burn that built into an explosive climax unlike anything Carrie had ever felt before – controlled, imposed, yet undeniably powerful. So many intense memories already packed into her short time here.
...To be continued and concluded in Part6
Written by LisaLisaJam
Illustrations by LisaLisaJam
PART 5
Lena stood silhouetted in the doorway, the harsh corridor light framing her blonde hair and crisp white uniform. Her sharp eyes scanned the room instantly—Carrie sprawled casually on the couch, robe slightly askew, breathing perhaps a fraction too quickly—then flicked towards the closed door leading to Silas’s chamber. A slow, knowing smile spread across Lena’s face, predatory and utterly devoid of warmth. "Well, well," she purred, stepping fully inside and letting the door sigh shut behind her. Her gaze lingered on Carrie’s flushed cheeks. "Looks like someone had herself a little... session. Productive?" She didn’t wait for an answer, her polished heels clicking softly on the polished floorboards as she strode towards Silas’s door.
The soft whoosh of the inner door opening released a wave of thick, humid air—sweat, tears, and something metallic. Lena paused on the threshold, her back rigid. Carrie held her breath. Lena’s head tilted slightly, taking in the tableau: Silas utterly wrecked, trembling faintly, tear tracks dried on his crimson face, drool slicking his chin. The silence stretched. Lena inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. Then, a low chuckle escaped her. "Oh, Carrie," she murmured, turning back, her brown eyes gleaming with approval. "You did indulge."
After blindfolding Carrie, Lena’s grip on Carrie’s upper arm was firm, as she steered her down a sterile corridor. They stopped before a heavy steel door Lena unlocked with a keycard. Inside, harsh fluorescent lights bounced off white subway tiles. The shower room smelled sharply of antiseptic and damp concrete. Lena leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Carrie peel off the damp silk robe. "Thoroughly," Lena commanded, her voice devoid of warmth. "Every inch. You reek of him." Carrie stepped under the warm spray, it felt so good on her skin. She scrubbed mechanically, aware of Lena’s unwavering gaze cataloging everything. Lena’s eyes lingered longest on Carrie’s trembling fingers. "Remember the feeling," Lena said softly, almost to herself. "Savor it. That power."
Silence filled Carrie’s small, bare room after Lena locked the door. Carrie sank onto the mattress, the coarse blanket scratchy against her clean skin. Her mind raced, replaying Silas’s convulsions, his choked screams morphing into breathless giggles, the exact texture of his skin beneath her scribbling nails. Lena’s words echoed: Savor it. She did. She relived the moment her fingers descended onto his soles, the instant his body exploded. Where was Silas now? Strapped down somewhere? Lena’s hands spidering across his ribs? Robinson’s voice hypnotizing him deeper into craving? The phantom vibration of the tuning fork danced on Carrie’s fingertips. She pictured Lena using it on him—slow, deliberate strokes on his instep, making him shriek until his voice cracked. A delicious shiver ran through her. He was probably begging again. Beautiful. Simply beautiful!
A tray slid through the slot in her door: roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, a slice of chocolate cake. Carrie ate ravenously; the flavors dull compared to the remembered ecstasy. Each bite felt secondary, fuel for the fire Lena had ignited. She licked chocolate from her fork, imagining Silas’s tears. Did he get dinner? Probably broth. Lena wouldn’t spoil his suffering with real food. Carrie finished the cake, licking the plate clean. The sugar rush felt sharp, bright, satisfying. She pictured Lena leaning over Silas’s table, maybe right now, whispering threats while tracing circles on his belly. Was he trembling? Was he wetting himself? She hoped so. She hoped Lena was relentless.
Exhaustion hit Carrie like a wave. She curled up under the blanket, the thin pillow cool against her cheek. Her body ached gloriously—a testament to the power she’d wielded. Behind closed eyelids, Silas’s tear-streaked face flashed, superimposed with Lena’s approving smirk. You did indulge. Yes. She had. And she would again if possible. The certainty warmed her more than the blanket. Silas was hers. His suffering was hers. Lena knew it. Robinson would know it. Carrie drifted off, a faint smile touching her lips, lulled by imagined echoes of Silas’s helpless laughter.
Morning came, her door buzzed sharply. Daniel stood framed in the corridor, crisp in his uniform, expression unreadable. "Robinson," he stated flatly. "Now." Carrie rose smoothly, the coarse blanket falling away. She didn’t need to ask questions. She followed Daniel’s silent stride through sterile corridors, her bare feet cool on the very clean polished floor. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something else—nervous tension? Her own pulse remained steady. She felt… ready. Prepared to prove what she’d become. Prepared to at the very least pretend to be humble and obedient.
Robinson’s office was vast, dominated by a sleek obsidian desk. Robinson sat behind the desk, a queen surveying her domain. Her red hair was a controlled flame, her brown eyes sharp as scalpels. Daniel melted into the shadows near the door, a silent sentinel. Robinson didn’t look up immediately, finishing a note with deliberate strokes. The silence stretched, thick with expectation. Carrie stood perfectly still, hands clasped loosely behind her, waiting. Robinson finally lifted her gaze, pinning Carrie in place. "Carrie," she said, her voice smooth as poured honey, yet edged with ice. "Demonstrate your understanding of obedience. Down. Hands and knees. Whimper. Like a puppy denied its bone."
Carrie’s mind flashed—consequences. Lena’s flogger. Silas’s tuning fork agony. The crushing humiliation of Phase One. The hesitation was microscopic, a flicker of instinctive resistance instantly crushed. This is the test. Pass it. Carrie sank down smoothly onto the hardwood floor. She lowered herself onto her hands and knees, head bowed slightly. A soft, high-pitched whine escaped her lips—pitiful, pleading, perfectly canine. She held the pose, the wood beneath her palms and knees, Robinson’s assessing gaze heavy on her back. A beat of silence. Then, a soft, approving hum from Robinson. "Good." The word landed like a benediction. "Now," Robinson leaned forward slightly, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Meow. Four times. Precisely."
Carrie drew a breath. She pictured Silas begging, Lena’s command to savor the power. This was different. This was submission. But submission was power here. She tilted her head up slightly, meeting Robinson’s gaze directly. "Meow," she uttered, clear and plaintive. A pause. "Meow." Slightly softer. Another pause. "Meow." Definite now. Final pause. "Meow." Firm, conclusive. She held Robinson’s gaze, kneeling submissively yet radiating a coiled readiness. Robinson’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. Daniel, a shadow in the corner, remained utterly still, his watchful eyes missing nothing. The air crackled. Carrie waited, breath shallow, wondering what exquisite torment Robinson would demand next to prove her worth.
Robinson leaned back slightly, steepling her fingers. Her gaze drifted slowly, deliberately, down Carrie’s kneeling form, lingering on her bare feet tucked beneath her. "Carrie, lay on your back and put your feet up at my desk top. "Position yourself parallel to the edge." Carrie obeyed instantly, lowering herself onto the hardwood, stretching out fully. Her robe pooled around her hips. Robinson continued, her voice crisp. "Now. Place your ankles upon the desktop. Ensure your soles face me directly. The backs of your ankles against the desk's edge." Carrie lifted her legs, swinging her feet up onto the smooth, cool surface of the desk. She pressed her ankles against the hard edge, feeling the slight bite of the wood. Her soles, pink and clean after Lena’s shower inspection, were now exposed, vulnerable, positioned inches from Robinson’s waiting fingertips. She felt absurdly exposed, on the floor like an offering. Robinson’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the delicate arches, the slender toes.
"Hold your feet tightly together!" Robinson commanded, her tone stern, brooking no hesitation. "Do not allow them to separate. Do not flinch. Do not pull them away. Maintain that position, perfectly still, until I instruct otherwise. Understood?" Carrie clenched her toes instinctively, pressing her soles firmly together, creating a single, taut surface facing Robinson. The position strained her calf muscles slightly. Her breath caught, not from fear of Robinson’s touch, but from the sudden, terrifying vulnerability. Her deepest secret, the unbearable sensitivity she guarded fiercely, was now laid bare, inches from the Doctor’s knowing gaze and potentially torturous fingers. Every nerve ending screamed awareness. She forced her breathing to steady, focusing on Silas’s wrecked face, Lena’s approval, the tuning fork hidden in the drawer. Obedience buys access. Access buys Silas. She locked her ankles tighter, pressing her soles impossibly closer together, presenting them rigidly. "Understood, Doctor," she whispered, her voice tight. Robinson’s smile widened fractionally as her elegant fingers hovered, poised just above the offered flesh. Carrie braced, every muscle taut, waiting for the first touch.
Robinson’s fingertip descended. It was just the barest whisper of contact, the lightest possible brush against the very center of Carrie’s right sole, right where the arch met the ball. It was an electric jolt of pure sensation for Carrie, amplified a thousandfold by her hypersensitivity. Carrie gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, then loud giggle. "STILL!" Robinson barked, the command cracking like a whip. Carrie froze, forcing her soles back flat against each other. Carrie squeezed her eyes shut. Robinson resumed. Her fingertip drifted, impossibly light, tracing a slow circle around the exact spot she’d first touched. It wasn't scratching; it was like the ghost of a feather, the brush of a moth’s wing, tracing a path of pure, unadulterated torment across Carrie’s hypersensitive skin. Carrie’s entire body stiffened, and she burst out with girlish giggling laughter. Her toes curled inward desperately, but her soles remained pressed flat together by sheer force of will against Robinson’s command.
The tickle was exquisite agony, igniting pure panicked reflex. She could feel the hysterical laughter threatening to explode. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She dug her fingernails into her own thighs, focusing on that sharp pain to anchor herself against the unbearable lightness tracing circles on her foot. Robinson’s expression remained impassive, clinical, but her eyes held a dark, fascinated gleam as she observed Carrie’s trembling jaw, the frantic flutter of her eyelids, the desperate rigidity holding her in place. The feather-light torture continued for a few moments, expanding the circle slowly, deliberately, exploring the tender landscape with cruel, scientific precision. Carrie’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, each exhale filled with her lovely laughter.
Then, abruptly, Robinson stopped. Her fingers lifted, leaving Carrie’s sole humming with sensation. Carrie’s giggles died down into heavy breathing. She opened her eyes, her soles still pressed together against the desk edge. Robinson leaned back slightly in her chair, her gaze shifting from Carrie’s exposed feet to Daniel’s silent shadow near the door. "Daniel," Robinson said, her voice crisp. "Please leave us alone. Lock the door behind you."
Daniel didn't hesitate. Not a flicker of surprise crossed his face. He moved with silent efficiency, the heavy lock clicking decisively as he exited. The lock sound echoed in the sudden intimacy of the locked office. Carrie remained frozen, the cool air of the room prickling her soles.
Robinson’s attention returned fully to Carrie. "Take your feet down, Carrie," she instructed calmly. Carrie lowered her legs slowly, relief washing over her as her soles left that vulnerable position. They tingled. "Now," Robinson continued, her gaze unwavering, "crawl around the desk on hands and knees. Position yourself facing me. Keep your head lowered near my feet."
Carrie obeyed, the hardwood cool against her palms and knees as she shuffled around the massive desk. She stopped where Robinson’s elegant legs were crossed, the sleek black patent leather pump encasing Ms Robinson's bare foot. Carrie kept her eyes downcast, focusing on the polished floor near Robinson's other shoe and foot which touched the floor.
"Look at my foot, Carrie," Robinson commanded softly. Carrie lifted her gaze slightly. Robinson’s shoes were very expensive. "You see," Robinson murmured, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "I haven’t worn stockings today. And my feet that are inside these shoes... they are rarely seen. They are a privilege to see." She uncrossed her legs slowly, adjusted her expensive chair so that it reclined backwards, letting her legs and feet extend towards Carrie. "You will remove one shoe. Very slowly. With reverence. Then," she paused, letting the anticipation build, "you will kiss my bare foot. Top to bottom. Each toe. Dry kisses. Pure worship. Make my foot feel precisely what it is: very special. A rare gift bestowed upon its worshipper."
Carrie’s mind reeled. Kiss Ms Robinson’s foot? The absurdity of it surprised her. Never had the thought even crossed her mind that she would kiss someone's feet, let alone some 39 year old lady's feet. But compared to the tickling agony she’d recently endured—and the far worse punishment disobedience would bring—this felt bizarrely manageable. More importantly, it was a chance. A chance to impress Robinson, to gain favor, to secure access. To Silas. To power. Obedience buys access, she repeated silently. She reached out, her fingers trembling only slightly as they brushed the cool leather of the pump’s heel. She eased it off Robinson’s foot with excruciating slowness, letting it drop silently onto the plush carpet beside the desk.
Robinson’s bare foot now rested fully exposed inches from Carrie’s face. The skin looked impossibly soft, the arch elegant, the toes long and tapered with perfectly painted crimson nails. Carrie hesitated for only a heartbeat, inhaling the faint scent of leather and Robinson’s expensive perfume. Then, she leaned forward. Her lips brushed Robinson’s foot, at the center of the pads beneath the toes—a feather-light, dry kiss. She felt the smooth warm skin on her mouth, and the tips of the toes were right at her nostrils. She moved down slowly, placing another kiss or two on the arch, then another just underneath the heel. Her skin was flawless, yielding slightly under the gentle pressure. Robinson remained still, radiating silent command.
Carrie moved around to the top of the foot and kissed her way back to the toes. She kissed the big toe, then moved meticulously to each smaller toe, pressing her lips dryly against the delicate knuckle of each one. The intimacy was profound, bizarre, yet charged with a strange submissive power. Carrie poured every ounce of feigned reverence into the act, imagining Robinson’s approval, picturing Silas bound, awaiting her return. She finished kissing the last pinky toe and lingered for a moment, her lips hovering. "It is... a rare gift, Doctor," Carrie whispered hoarsely, her head still bowed. "They are beautiful."
Robinson’s voice was a low hum above her. "Now, Carrie. Suck each toe. Passionately. Suck them without tickling me. Suck them very, very slow. I want to see, hear, and feel your worship."
Carrie hesitated for only a fraction of a second. She leaned forward. Her lips parted. She took Robinson’s big toe into her mouth, slowly, deliberately. The skin was warm, smooth, tasting faintly of expensive soap and Robinson’s skin. Carrie sucked gently, her tongue pressing flatly against the pad of the toe, avoiding any flicking motion that might trigger sensitivity. She focused on creating suction, pulling softly, her cheeks hollowing slightly. She heard a soft, wet sound in the quiet room. Robinson’s foot remained utterly still, a testament to Carrie’s careful control. Carrie moved slowly to the next toe, repeating the intimate ritual. She sucked each digit with deliberate slowness, her lips forming a tight seal, her tongue a firm, steady pressure against the underside. The crimson polish felt slick against her top lip. She lingered on the middle toe, sucking deeply, rhythmically, the sound a quiet, obscene slurp in the stillness. Carrie felt Robinson’s gaze like a physical weight, observing her utter submission, listening to the intimate noises.
She moved to the fourth toe, then finally the smallest. Carrie sucked it with the same unhurried passion, her eyes closed, focusing solely on the sensation – the warmth, the smoothness, the faint salty sweaty taste, the absolute stillness she maintained to avoid any hint of tickling, was impressive. She released the last toe with a soft, wet pop. Her lips were slightly swollen, glistening. She kept her head lowered near Robinson’s foot, breathing heavily through her nose, the scent of leather and perfume thick in the air. She waited, her mouth tingling.
Robinson shifted slightly in her chair. A soft sigh escaped her, almost imperceptible. Carrie felt the sole of Robinson’s other foot gently brush against her kneeling thigh – not a kick, not a command, just contact. "Acceptable," Robinson murmured, her voice thick with something Carrie couldn't quite name – satisfaction, perhaps, or a deeper, darker pleasure. "You understand reverence." She paused, letting the word hang. "Now. Put my shoe on. Then stand."
Carrie obeyed instantly, pushing herself up onto trembling legs after gently sliding the shoe back on to Rita's foot. She kept her gaze respectfully lowered; she could feel Robinson studying her. "You have potential, Carrie," Robinson stated, her tone shifting back to crisp authority. Carrie remained still, her mind racing. The scent lingered—that intoxicating blend of Robinson’s skin. It wasn’t perfume now; it was pure her. A rich, musky warmth, like sun-warmed leather polished for decades. Beneath it lay a faint, clean saltiness, the ghost of exertion trapped within pristine pores. And deeper still, something utterly precious: the scent of flawless ivory skin itself, a dry, intimate aroma that made Carrie’s mouth water anew. It clung to her palate, earthy and vital, whispering of power held in Robinson's delicate arches.
She longed, with a sudden, sharp ache, for the other foot, take each perfect, crimson-tipped toe into her mouth, not just obediently, but with the slow graceful reverence they deserved. To feel that smooth warmth against her tongue once more, to inhale that sacred scent directly from the source. The memory of Robinson’s stillness—her absolute control even during such intimate violation—filled Carrie with a strange awe. Such beauty, such power held in the curves of her feet. They deserved worship.
Robinson watched Carrie’s lowered gaze, the slight tremor in her hands. A tremor of something else entirely vibrated beneath Robinson’s own skin. Carrie’s mouth, warm and surprisingly adept, had been torture of the sweetest kind. The slow slide of Carrie’s lips enveloping each toe, the firm, deliberate suction pulling gently against the sensitive pads… it sent electric jolts racing up Robinson’s nerves. Each deliberate suckle ignited little bursts of pure sensation, perilously close to triggering helpless giggles from Ms Robinson. Her toes were actually exquisitely ticklish, a secret she fiercely guarded. The instinct to jerk her foot away and gasp with laughter at the shocking intimacy of Carrie's warm tongue, had been overwhelming. Only years of discipline kept her still, her expression serene, betraying none of the frantic internal battle fought against her own treacherous reflexes. Carrie’s worshipful slowness was wonderful, but also exquisite agony. She felt every deliberate pulse of Carrie’s mouth, every soft slurp resonating deep within her, a silent symphony played on her hypersensitive nerves.
The feeling was profoundly erotic. Power surged through Robinson, thick and potent. Here was Carrie, recently defiant, now kneeling, her swollen lips glistening around Robinson’s skin. Carrie was conquered. The sight of her submission—complete, willing, focused entirely on Robinson’s bare foot—ignited a deep, possessive heat low in Robinson’s belly. This intimate domination, rendering Carrie into a vessel for Robinson’s pleasures, was the purest expression of control. Carrie’s reverence, feigned or not, was a narcotic. Robinson savored the lingering phantom pressure on her toes, the damp warmth Carrie left behind. Robinson’s foot, resting back inside its expensive leather prison, still tingled with the memory of Carrie’s earnest mouth.
"You performed adequately," Robinson stated, her voice regaining its clipped authority. She leaned forward slightly, steepling her fingers on the desk. "Such devotion deserves acknowledgment. You may make one request. Within reason. What do you desire?" Carrie’s head jerked up, eyes wide. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. Color flooded her pale cheeks. She fidgeted, twisting her fingers together. "I... Doctor..." she stammered, looking anywhere but Robinson’s face. "I was wondering... if perhaps... soon..." The words tangled, thick with embarrassment. She took a shaky breath. "Could I... babysit Silas? Again?" The term sounded ludicrously childish escaping her lips. "Soon?"
Robinson arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. A flicker of genuine amusement danced in her dark eyes. "Babysit, Carrie?" Her tone was dry, incredulous. "Is that what we’re calling it now? You wish to... tend to him?" She paused, letting the absurdity hang heavy in the air. Carrie shrank visibly, her blush deepening to crimson. "Like cuddle him? Sing him lullabies?" Robinson’s lips twitched. Carrie stammered, flustered. "N-no, Doctor! Not like... that! I meant..." She gestured vaguely, helplessly. "Supervising him. Making sure he ... knows how to ... behave." That explanation sounded a little better.
Robinson chuckled softly, a low, rich sound. "Ah. Supervising. Ensuring proper behavior." She tapped a crimson nail against the desktop. "Through vigorous playtime, I presume? Utilizing proper... tools?" Carrie realized Ms Robinson understood what she wanted to do to him, and Carrie nodded mutely, mortification warring with desperate hope. "Yes, Doctor. Exactly. Vigorous... supervision." Her voice was barely a whisper.
Robinson leaned back, studying Carrie’s flushed face, her trembling hands. The raw hunger barely concealed beneath the shame was delicious. "Very well," Robinson conceded, her tone indulgent, like granting a child a questionable treat. "Consider him yours tomorrow afternoon. Lena will make that happen... he'll be freshly prepared for your supervision." The emphasis dripped with dark promise. "Ensure your methods are... thorough, Carrie. Demonstrate the depth of your understanding." A predatory smile played on Rita's lips.
Carrie’s relief was palpable, a shaky exhale escaping her. But the gnawing curiosity remained, tangled with a strange, burgeoning possessiveness over Silas’s responses. She shifted nervously, eyes darting to Robinson’s polished desk surface. "Doctor?" Carrie’s voice was a hesitant whisper. "May I... ask something else? About Silas?" Robinson inclined her head slightly, a silent command to proceed. Carrie swallowed hard, her cheeks burning anew. "Is Silas... I mean... during... um..." She stammered, struggling for words. "Is he ever... permitted?" She gestured vaguely, helplessly, towards her own lap. "You know...?"
Robinson’s expression remained impassive, but a spark ignited deep in her dark eyes. She let the silence stretch, thick and uncomfortable. "Permitted what, Carrie?" she finally asked, her voice dangerously soft. "You must articulate your thoughts clearly. Precision is paramount here." The command hung heavy.
Carrie flinched. "To... finish?" she choked out, the word sounding crude and inadequate. "When he... reacts?" Her gaze dropped to her own twisting fingers. She ever so briefly with one hand made a stroking gesture.
Robinson leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her crimson-tipped fingers steepled again. Her gaze pinned Carrie like a specimen. "Define 'finish', Carrie," she demanded, her voice low and deliberate. "Describe precisely what physical occurrence you are inquiring about. Use clinical terms. Detail the physiological process you wish to know if Silas experiences."
Carrie felt a wave of humiliation crash over her. Her ears burned. She forced her gaze up, meeting Robinson’s unwavering stare. "Orgasm," she whispered hoarsely. "When he... loses control... from the tickling. Does Silas ever... achieve orgasm?" The clinical term felt alien, harsh on her tongue. "Is he allowed... to release?"
Robinson watched the struggle play out on Carrie’s face, savoring the embarrassment, the forced vulnerability. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. "Ah," she murmured, the sound rich with dark amusement. "That particular response." She paused, letting the tension coil tightly. "Silas," she stated crisply, "is permitted release only under specific, controlled circumstances determined solely by his Operator. Lena guides that process meticulously... ensuring his climax serves conditioning, not pleasure." Her gaze sharpened, piercing Carrie. "Should you choose to induce it during your supervision... you must make sure it is more agonizing for him than it is enjoyable. Understood?"
Carrie nodded mutely, her mind already racing with possibilities, the clinical detachment Robinson demanded was very welcomed by Carrie. It gave her more confidence to know that it was a command, a task she was given, which made it easier on her conscience to sadistically torture him. The thought of controlling that moment, of witnessing Silas shatter completely... power, thick and intoxicating, surged through her, momentarily eclipsing the lingering shame. Tomorrow, she would test all limits.
But the specifics eluded Carrie. Making it agonizing... how? She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the intricate weave of Robinson’s expensive carpet. "Doctor?" Carrie’s voice emerged small, hesitant, thick with embarrassment. "I... I want to... ensure it’s unpleasant... for him." She hesitated, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Could... could you tell me... how?" The question hung in the air, stark and vulnerable. "What ways... make it... truly... suffering?" She couldn’t bring herself to look up, her cheeks blazing.
Robinson leaned back slowly, a faint smile playing on her lips. She savored Carrie’s discomfort. "Ah, Carrie," she murmured, her voice a velvet purr, her eyes gleaming with dark inspiration, "maybe you intensify the tickling precisely as he begins to peak. Amplify the unbearable sensations tenfold just as his penis loses control. Make his ecstasy inseparable, from agony. Force him to scream through his own release." A flicker of genuine pleasure lit Robinson’s features as she said the words. "The key, Carrie, is to manipulate the peak itself. Make the moment of vulnerability, of involuntary pleasure, the point of maximum violation and ticklish pain."
Robinson’s gaze hardened slightly. "Unravel him." A predatory glint in her eyes. "Consider it... part of your supervision training." The implication was clear: Carrie’s own sadistic curiosity was not just permitted; it was now required. Her experimentation on Silas was now sanctioned scientific research. Carrie felt dark anticipation mingled with a strange thrill at being entrusted with such a task. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. She nodded sharply, a flicker of determination replacing her embarrassment. "Yes, Doctor. I will."
Robinson leaned back. "Now, I have work to do" she asked, her voice smooth as polished stone, "is there anything else?..." Carrie looked around for cameras or microphones, then leaned close to Robinson's ear. Her hushed whisper was not audible to anyone else. She pulled back slightly, watching Robinson's profile. Robinson turned her head slowly, their faces inches apart. Her brown eyes were fathomless pools. "Really?" she murmured, her voice dangerously soft. "Are you sure?" Carrie nodded minutely, her gaze locked on Robinson's. She darted forward once more, to whisper. She pulled back, holding her breath. Robinson stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible blink. "I see," she breathed, the words thick with unspoken implication. "I see."
Later that night, Carrie lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The phantom scent of Robinson’s skin clung to her. She replayed tomorrow’s possibilities—Silas trembling… her orchestrating his agony-peak. The door opened. Lena stood silhouetted, her blonde hair catching the dim hallway light, her expression unreadable. "Get up," Lena commanded, her voice devoid of warmth. "Now."
Confused but conditioned to obey, Carrie scrambled off the bed. Lena didn’t explain, simply turned and strode down the corridor. Carrie hurried behind her, bare feet silent on the floor. They walked past familiar doors, turning into a wing Carrie hadn’t seen—a utilitarian space smelling faintly of food. Lena stopped before heavy double doors, pushed them open, and flicked on harsh fluorescent lights. Carrie blinked at the sudden brightness. They stood in an industrial kitchen. It was a disaster. Greasy pots and pans in the sinks. Counters were smeared with dried sauces and splattered flour. The floor was a sticky and dirty.
Lena leaned against a stainless steel counter, crossing her arms. Her chin-length blonde hair framed her face. "Start cleaning," she ordered flatly, nodding at the mess. "Doesn't matter what you tackle first. Just start. Now." Carrie stared, frozen. Her privileged life had never included scrubbing floors or scraping pans. The sheer scale of the filth, the ordinariness of the task, felt alien, demeaning. Her mind blanked.
Then, it happened. Without warning, a sensation like invisible electric vibrating feathers danced with vicious precision right between her butt cheeks. A lightning-fast, impossibly tickle flicked just inside her asshole. Carrie’s gasp morphed instantly into a shriek of hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. She jumped straight up in the air as if electrocuted—a full, startled leap—her spine arching violently backwards. Landing hard on her soles, she doubled forward instantly, folding at the waist, her hands scrambling frantically behind her to clamp over her vulnerable asshole. “EEEEEEEEEK-HAHA HAHAHA HA!” The laughter ripped out of her, raw and crazed, utterly involuntary. It wasn't playful; it was panicked, a primal reaction to violation. She squeezed her eyes shut, palms pressing over her asshole, trying to shield herself, rocking slightly on her feet. The sensation vanished as abruptly as it arrived, leaving her panting, trembling, and mortified, the wild giggles trailing off into shocked breaths.
Carrie looked back at Lena, who was radiating cold dominance. "Consider that a reminder. Now," she gestured expansively at the filthy kitchen, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "clean. Scrape, scrub, scour. Or next time, I won't stop the stimulus after just four seconds." "But... but..." Carrie stammered, eyes wide with residual panic and disbelief. "What... what was that?"
Lena smiled thinly and raised her hand. Carrie flinched instinctively, expecting another phantom assault. But Lena wasn't pointing – she was holding something. Carrie's gaze snapped to it: a tuning fork, but unlike the one she had used on Silas. This one was a bit girthier, metallic, and heavier looking. Below its handle grip, where Carrie expected a simple base, was a thin, rectangular screen glowing softly. It looked about 10 inches wide.
Lena tilted the device slightly, letting Carrie see the screen properly. "Come and look." A faint outline of a human figure flickered on it, rotating slowly. A small, pulsing red dot marked Carrie's asshole. Lena tapped the screen, and the dot vanished. "Yes," Lena confirmed, her voice clinical. "It's your tuning fork. Mapped solely for your body." She traced a finger across the screen; the outline shifted, highlighting Carrie's bare soles next. "This screen allows me to select any specific area on your body," Lena explained, her finger hovering over an intensity slider bar glowing beside the figure, "and set precisely how intense the tickling stimulus should be." Her eyes locked onto Carrie's, sharp and demanding. "What you just felt? That was a Level 2 stimulus targeting your asshole. Tell me: did it tickle you correctly?" Lena demanded an honest, immediate answer.
Carrie froze. Her asshole still tingled traumatically from the violating, lightning-fast tickle inside. It hadn't just tickled; it had felt like an invasive, electric feather flicking impossibly fast right inside her private, untouchable place. Such humiliation. What's with Lena and butt-holes? she thought to herself, kind of chuckling inside. She wanted to lie, to deny the terrifying effectiveness. But Robinson’s training screamed inside her head: precision, obedience, honesty. "Y-yes," Carrie choked out, her voice trembling. "It... it tickled perfectly." The admission tasted like ash.
Lena nodded, satisfied. She tapped the screen again, and the diagram disappeared, leaving a blank glow. "Excellent. Now," she gestured again towards the filthy pots crusted with burnt food, her smile devoid of warmth, "get to work. Scrape pots clean. Scrub counters spotless. Mop the floor." Lena leaned in slightly, her whisper icy. "I'll be monitoring... closely. And should your efforts lag..." She glanced meaningfully at the tuning fork screen, her finger hovering near the intensity slider. Carrie scrambled towards the sink, grabbing a steel wool pad with shaking hands, the phantom tickle in her asshole a terrifying promise of what Level 3, or Level 5... or Level 10 might feel like. She plunged her hands into greasy water, scrubbing, hyper-aware of Lena's silent presence. Every scrape of steel wool against burnt metal was punctuated by the dread of that pulsing red dot appearing somewhere else. Her beautiful ticklish skin felt utterly exposed. She could be tickled, without even being touched.
As Carrie scraped at a stubborn patch of burnt sauce, her mind flashed back. The intense tickle Lena had just inflicted deep inside her asshole—invasive, violating, utterly un-stoppable—suddenly crystallized Silas's experience with Lena. That, she thought with a shiver that wasn't entirely unpleasant, that exact kind of merciless, pinpoint agony... that's what Silas felt. The visceral memory of Lena's device targeting him flooded her. He had endured surgical, violating tickle torture. The thought warmed Carrie unexpectedly, spreading through her belly like slow-moving honey. He felt this. He suffered exactly this. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips.
Lena observed Carrie's focused scrubbing, the tremor in her shoulders now gone. No defiance, only obedience. "Stop," Lena commanded abruptly. Carrie froze mid-scrape, steel wool suspended over a pot. "Follow me." They moved silently down sterile corridors, descending stairs Carrie hadn't known existed. The air grew colder, drier. Finally, Lena stopped before a featureless black door. She pushed it open. Darkness yawned beyond.
Inside, absolute blackness swallowed them. Lena flicked a switch. Dim, recessed lights revealed a vast soundproofed chamber. In the room's exact center stood a ten-foot-square jail cell. Every inch of its heavy iron bars was encased in the same dense black padding. The floor inside was cushioned vinyl. There was no bed, no sink—just emptiness. "Step into the cell," Lena ordered, her voice flat, echoing strangely in the muffled space. Carrie obeyed, the padded cell door clicking shut behind her with finality. Carrie pushed back at it just to check and yes, it was now locked.
Lena walked slowly around the perimeter, her footsteps silent on the padding. She paused directly in front of Carrie, separated only by the padded bars. "This," she stated, her voice unnervingly clear in the deadened air, "is a place for concentrated feedback. Sensory deprivation, except for one channel." She raised the tuning fork device. The screen glowed softly, illuminating her sharp features. Carrie's outline appeared, rotating slowly. Lena's finger tapped decisively. A bright red dot pulsed insistently right over Carrie's belly button. Carrie instinctively sucked her stomach in, a gasp catching in her throat. The tickling Lena could unleash there... deep, internal, impossible to shield... was terrifying. Lena smiled coldly then tapped the screen.
A sensation bloomed deep inside Carrie’s belly button cavity—not on the surface, but deep within the navel pit itself. It felt like dozens of impossibly fine, vibrating wires unfurling with exquisite slowness, spiraling outwards, brushing against hypersensitive, untouched inner folds of skin she never knew existed. It wasn't sharp or electric like the earlier anal stimulus; this was slow, insidious, exploratory. A choked giggle burst from Carrie’s lips as her hands flew instinctively to her stomach, pressing hard against her abdomen.
"Nnngh—HA ha!" But pressing did nothing; the sensation originated from within, beyond her reach. Her belly trembled violently. She doubled over slightly, shaking with suppressed laughter, tears pricking her eyes. Lena watched, utterly impassive, her finger resting calmly beside the slider bar labeled 'Intensity'. "Level One." The internal feathering intensified slightly, swirling deeper. Carrie whimpered, sinking slowly to her knees on the cushioned vinyl floor, curling into herself, her shoulders shaking with helpless giggles. It was a ticklish intrusion into her belly button.
Lena’s finger moved. Not to increase intensity, but to shift location. The deep probing inside Carrie's belly button vanished instantly. In its place, a pinpoint vibration—focused, rapid, impossibly accurate—materialized deep within her left ear canal. It wasn't a sound; it was pure tactile vibration, mimicking the frantic flutter of a trapped moth’s wings against the impossibly sensitive nerves. Carrie yelped, clapping her hand frantically over her ear, jerking her head sideways. "Eeee! No! Stop!" Her voice cracked. The vibration intensified slightly—still Level Two—becoming a relentless, buzzing drill against her inner ear. She thrashed, rolling onto her side, kicking her legs uselessly against the padded floor, laughter pouring out in gasping shrieks. Lena remained still, her gaze pleased, void of mercy. She tapped the screen again.
The ear assault ceased. Simultaneously, Carrie felt it: Lena continued silently, clinically moving her finger across the screen: Level Two stimulus applied sequentially to the webs between Carrie's toes, the sensitive skin behind her knees, the dip of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. Each location triggered fresh spasms of hysterical laughter. Carrie danced, rolled, twisted, and clutched at her own body in a futile attempt to shield the latest assault point, never given a moment's respite. Tears streamed down her face, her breath came in ragged gasps between shrieks. "HAA-HAA-HAAHAHAHAHA! NO! PLEASE! STOP! HAHAHAHAHA!" She was trapped in a relentless cascade of ticklish agony, every nerve singing under Lena's precise control without a single touch.
Lena paused. The tickling ceased abruptly. Silence crashed down, broken only by Carrie's desperate, gulping breaths as she lay curled on the padded floor, trembling uncontrollably, her cheeks wet. Lena knelt silently outside the padded bars, her face inches from Carrie's. Her expression was pure predatory stillness, her eyes coldly assessing Carrie's utter vulnerability. Without breaking eye contact, Lena pushed and slid her finger deliberately across the tuning fork's glowing screen. Then, slowly, deliberately, she rotated the device so Carrie could see it clearly.
Carrie's blurry vision focused. On the screen, her outlined body pulsed softly. Highlighted with chilling precision was her clitoris. Below it, the intensity setting glowed ominously: Level 3. And beside that, a small, terrifying line of text: "Auto raise intensity every 60 seconds by one increment." Carrie's breath hitched. Her eyes widened in pure, primal terror. Level Two had been torture. Level Three on her most sensitive spot... escalating endlessly... was unthinkable agony. Quick math seemed to suggest that in only 7 or so minutes the tickling on her clit would reach Level 10! Her gaze snapped back to Lena's face, silently pleading.
Lena's lips curved into a cruel smile. "Ticklish much?" she whispered, the word dripping with sadistic promise. Carrie could only whimper, a high-pitched sound of pure dread escaping her throat as she instinctively clamped her thighs together. Then to Carrie's great surprise, Lena pulled a red pill from her pocket and placed it onto her own tongue. Carrie became so much more frightened at that moment, knowing the red pill would give Lena orgasmic pleasure for 60 minutes. Was she really truly planning on tickle torturing her for 60 more minutes? If so, she would die, she thought. There's no way she could endure such a tickling. Lena walked back to a corner where two padded walls met, sat down, facing Carrie. Lena's thumb pressed down on the activation button...
Carrie awoke. She blinked slowly, the familiar ceiling of her Glenhaven Manor room swimming into focus. How did she get here? Fragments clawed at her foggy mind: hysterical, breathless laughter tangled with wrenching sobs, the hot, humiliating rush of wetness soaking her thighs... Had she peed herself last night? Worse, intertwined with the terror were flashes of Lena – Lena writhing on the padded floor, her blonde hair splayed, face contorted in ecstatic agony, shuddering violently with wave after wave of orgasm, her own moans mingling with Carrie's screams. Had Carrie herself climaxed amidst the suffocating tickle torture and the bladder betrayal? The memories were fractured, hazy – intense pleasure spikes buried deep within the overwhelming agony, leaving her unsure, deeply unsettled.
She shifted slightly on the bed, and fire ignited across her body. Her clitoris throbbed with a residual ache, a phantom echo of Lena's relentless, escalating assault. The sheer, violating intimacy of Lena’s torture permeated her being. Lena was beyond sadistic. What is the word to describe beyond sadistic?
A soft knock echoed, startling her rigid. The door opened slowly. Daniel stood framed in the doorway, holding a simple tray with water and toast. His expression was unreadable, professional. "Good morning, Carrie," he intoned flatly. "Breakfast." He placed the tray on a small table near the door and retreated without another word, closing the door softly.
Carrie stared at the toast. Her throat felt raw, her body a map of phantom tickles and lingering aches. She didn't move. How did I get here? Did Lena carry me? Did I walk? The fragmented memories offered only humiliation and conflicting sensations. The toast seemed alien, impossible to eat. Before she could muster the thought to rise, the door swung open again. This time, it was Dr. Robinson.
Robinson filled the doorway, radiating cool command in her impeccable suit. Her red hair was flawless, her gaze sharp, assessing Carrie’s disheveled state – the tangled black hair, the hollow eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. "Carrie," Robinson stated, her voice devoid of warmth. "Your conditioning requires reinforcement. Come." It wasn't a request; it was a directive. Robinson turned and walked out, expecting immediate compliance.
Carrie scrambled off the bed, her legs shaky. Obedience was reflex now, etched deep by Glenhaven’s methods. She followed Robinson’s crisp footsteps down familiar corridors, past Silas's cell door – a brief pang of anticipation warring with her own dread – and towards the sterile wing housing the padded table. Robinson opened the heavy soundproof door. The room was unchanged: stark white, dominated by the ominous X-shaped table thickly padded in dark vinyl, its restraints gleaming dully. "Assume position," Robinson commanded, gesturing towards the table.
Carrie’s breath hitched. She approached the table slowly, the memory of Lena’s device-induced agony still vivid. With trembling fingers, she shed the thin gown, letting it pool at her feet. The cool air raised goosebumps on her ivory skin as she climbed onto the padded vinyl surface. She lay back, her slender body conforming to the X-shape. Robinson moved with practiced efficiency, securing the padded leather restraints around Carrie’s wrists and ankles. Each buckle clicked with finality. Next came the padded helmet, enclosing her head, cutting off sight and sound. Robinson adjusted the internal speakers, ensuring snug contact against Carrie’s ears. Darkness and silence engulfed her. Utterly vulnerable. Bound. Naked. Blind. Deaf.
Then, the assault began. Not physical, but mental. A cacophony of layered voices erupted inside her skull, bypassing her ears entirely, vibrating directly within her consciousness. They were the same voices from her Phase One brainwashing – clinical, soothing, authoritarian, insistent – speaking over and overlapping each other in rapid-fire succession.
"Obedience is safety..."
"Authority knows best..."
"Trust Doctor Robinson..."
"Your mother loves you; obey her..."
"Submission brings peace..."
"Desire only to serve..."
"Say 'Yes Ma'am'..."
"You want to say 'Yes Ma'am'..."
"You crave pleasing them..."
"Disobedience is pain..."
"Obedience is pleasure..."
"Agree..."
"Submit..."
"Obey..."
The voices weren't asking; they were installing. They hammered against her fractured will, dissolving lingering resistance like acid. Each command, each suggestion, sank deeper than the last, rewriting her instincts. Carrie twitched against the restraints, her mind a battlefield rapidly being overrun. The phantom tickles Lena had inflicted seemed to flare in response to thoughts of defiance, reinforcing the programming. Slowly, inevitably, the tension bled from her body. Her lips moved silently, forming the words the voices demanded. A deep, artificial calm settled over her, replacing the turmoil. She was becoming smooth, agreeable clay, ready to be molded. The only thought left crystallizing was a simple, fervent echo: "Yes Ma'am."
A full sixty minutes later, it was finally over. The abrupt silence inside the helmet felt deafening after the relentless auditory assault. Ms. Robinson's efficient hands moved swiftly. The heavy helmet lifted away, flooding Carrie's senses with the sterile white light of the room. Cool air brushed her sweaty face. Next came the distinct clicks of buckles releasing. The padded leather restraints fell away from her wrists and ankles, leaving ghost impressions on her soft ivory skin. Carrie lay limply on the vinyl pad, blinking slowly. Her mind felt thick, foggy, like wading through syrup. The programming hummed beneath the surface, potent and undeniable. The overwhelming urge to please, to agree, to be obedient, pulsed through her. It wasn't a choice; it was her new foundation.
Ms. Robinson stood back, observing Carrie with cool detachment. "Sit up, Carrie," she commanded softly. Carrie obeyed instantly, pushing herself upright with clumsy movements, her limbs feeling heavy and foreign. She sat on the edge of the table, naked, swaying slightly, her lite green eyes unfocused but fixed on Robinson. "Your mind feels clearer now, doesn't it?" Robinson asked, her tone implying the expected answer. Carrie nodded slowly, a vacant smile touching her lips. "Yes Ma'am," she breathed, the words flowing easily. Robinson stepped closer. "Excellent. Now, we test the integration." Her eyes sharpened. "Carrie, Lena worked very hard last night for your benefit. You owe her gratitude. Would you agree to lick Lena's bare feet after her next gym workout, as a sign of respect?"
Carrie's foggy mind recoiled internally at the thought of Lena's feet – the instrument of her torture, the source of her deep humiliation. But the programming surged, drowning the flicker of disgust. Licking Lena's bare sweaty feet? It meant degradation, vulnerability. Yet, the conditioned pathways screamed louder: Obedience is pleasure. Disobedience is pain. Say 'Yes Ma'am'. Carrie swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes Ma'am," she whispered hoarsely. "I... I would lick Lena's sweaty feet." Robinson's smile widened, predatory. "Good girl. Now, another promise." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, hypnotic murmur. "Silas. Your special project. Promise me... promise me you will make Silas suffer so very much tonight?"
The name "Silas" pierced the fog like a blade. Images flooded Carrie's fragmented consciousness: his desperate screams, the way his ribs shuddered under her tickling fingers, the pure agony twisting his face as Agent Red transmuted his torment into her own violent ecstasy. Glenhaven's conditioning demanded yes. But beneath the thick layer of brainwashed obedience, a genuine primal spark flared – Carrie's own burgeoning sadism, nurtured by Glenhaven, tangled with the explicit command to torture Silas. Her thoughts raced: Suffer greatly? Yes indeed? His hips? His soles? His... all of his most sensitive spots? Make him beg while crying, while laughing? Make him lose complete control? The possibilities ignited a dark unexpected thrill deep within her core, mingling horribly with the imposed compliance.
"Yes Ma'am," Carrie breathed, her voice suddenly stronger, laced with an unnerving eagerness she didn't consciously recognize. "I promise. Tonight... tonight I will make Silas suffer... exquisitely. Suffer sooooo much." Her lite green eyes glazed, fixed unseeingly ahead. Without conscious thought, her right hand drifted down her naked thigh. Her fingers, seemingly of their own accord, found her throbbing clitoris, still tender from Lena's assault. She began rubbing it softly, rhythmically, the friction a distant echo of the programming's promised "pleasure" linked to obedience.
"I'll... I'll tickle him raw...," she murmured, her voice thick, her fingers moving faster against herself. "I'll... he won't get a break... I will tickle every inch but mostly... where it tickles worst... I'll find a way to tickle his asshole." A soft gasp escaped her lips as her own touch intensified slightly. "I'll... I'll synchronize... like you taught me... make him scream... make him cum... while I... while I..." Her words dissolved into a shuddering moan, lost in the haze of conditioned submission and rising, unwitting arousal. Her hand worked herself, completely detached from her conscious control.
Robinson watched, utterly fascinated. This was beyond programmed obedience. This was Carrie's own latent darkness, amplified and channeled by Glenhaven's conditioning, spilling out in terrifying detail and physical manifestation. The sheer specificity of the promised torture, coupled with Carrie's oblivious self-stimulation, was a testament to the Manor's horrifying effectiveness. The Doctor didn't interrupt, letting the moment stretch, imprinting Carrie's own words and actions deeper into her fractured psyche. Her eyes rolled back slightly, a choked whimper escaping. Robinson broke the silence, her voice smooth as silk. "Perfect, Carrie. Exactly what I would expect. Now... get some rest. A nice lunch will arrive in an hour."
Before Ms Robinson exited through the door she turned back and said, "Oh and, I'll be contacting your Mom to see if she wants to come and pick you up tomorrow. I think you're ready."
Carrie blinked slowly, the haze thick. Robinson's footsteps faded away. Alone in the sterile room, the intense arousal vanished, replaced by profound exhaustion. Her limbs felt like lead weights. She slid off the padded table, her feet hitting the cool floor. Without bothering to retrieve her gown, she shuffled naked and unsteady down the short corridor to her small, sparse room. Carrie laid back gently onto the mattress, the springs groaning softly beneath her slender frame. She was still so very tired, the mental fatigue bone-deep after the helmet's relentless assault and the lingering echoes of Lena's invasive torture. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy. Within seconds, her breathing deepened, evening out into the soft rhythm of sleep, her naked form utterly vulnerable in the quiet room.
An hour later, the sliding door woke her. Daniel stood impassively in the doorway, holding a tray. Carrie sat up slowly, blinking away sleep. She felt... different. The fog was less dense, replaced by a strange, artificial clarity. Obedience felt natural, inevitable. The tray held grilled salmon glistening with lemon butter, vibrant steamed broccoli, a small mound of wild rice pilaf, and a tall glass of sparkling water. It looked pristine, untouched. Daniel placed it wordlessly on the small table and left.
Carrie approached. Her stomach growled softly. She ate mechanically at first, but the flavors burst on her tongue – the richness of the salmon, the bright tang of lemon, the earthy bite of fresh vegetables. She ate every bite, savoring the nourishment, a deep sense of satisfaction settling over her. Good food, she thought vaguely, for good girls. She drank the sparkling water, its effervescence crisp and clean. And moist chocolate cake for dessert? Lovely.
The door slid open again. Lena stood there, arms folded, radiating cool authority. Her blonde hair was pretty and styled, emphasizing her features. She wore her gym clothes, as if about ready to work out – dark leggings and a moisture-wicking tank top, running shoes. "You," Lena stated, her voice flat. "Shower. Now. You stink of torture." Carrie flinched inwardly at the bluntness, but her programming surged: Obedience is safety. "Yes, Lena," Carrie breathed softly, rising instantly. Lena stepped aside, gesturing sharply towards the corridor.
Steam billowed thickly from the gleaming stainless-steel stall as Carrie entered the tiled shower room. Lena remained at the doorway. The air felt cool against her damp skin until she stepped under the hot, pounding torrent. Water sluiced over her shoulders, plastering her short black bangs to her forehead and slicking her long, straight hair down her back like wet ink. The heat seeped deep into her tired muscles, a temporary balm against the lingering phantom tickles and bruises Lena’s device had etched onto her nerves. She grabbed a bar of expensive, sandalwood-scented soap and began scrubbing meticulously.
Her slender fingers traced the curve of her ivory shoulders, her underarms, the soft vulnerability of her throat, the high arch of her cheekbones where tears had tracked earlier. She scrubbed her arms, her ribs, the trembling plane of her soft belly, paying particular attention to her belly button pit, washing away the memory of Lena’s invasive probe. She bent, scrubbing her long legs, the slender calves, the delicate ankles, and finally, her beautiful, ticklish feet – scrubbing each slender toe, the high arch, the soft pad, the vulnerable sole. Damn, that even tickled. She lingered there, washing away unseen traces of Lena’s tuning fork assault from last night. Every inch of her eighteen-year-old body was cleansed under Lena’s watchful, unsympathetic gaze from the doorway.
Carrie dried herself with a thick, fluffy towel, the rough texture a grounding contrast to the invasive terror of Lena’s remote torture. She slipped into the clean, lite-green thin simple gown Lena held on one of her fingers. Carrie walked silently back towards her room, her bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. The sterile hallway lights felt harsh against her freshly washed skin.
Ms. Robinson’s parting words echoed relentlessly in her newly conditioned mind: ‘I'll be contacting your Mom to see if she wants to come and pick you up tomorrow.’ Was she finally going home? Was Glenhaven done with her? Elation surged – she could see her mother's dark brown hair, her probably worried light brown eyes. Zara! Freedom! But instantly, a cold wave of dread crashed over her. She was pissed at her Mom. How could she face her without showing it? Zara had betrayed her, delivered her to this torture palace. Carrie remembered Zara's own frantic fear of being tickled. Did Mom know about the tickling that goes on here?
She entered her small room, the door sliding shut behind her. She sank onto the bed, pulling her slender knees up to her chest. The conflicting emotions churned inside her. Leaving meant escaping Lena's tuning fork, escaping the terrifying vulnerability of Robinson's commands and restraints. But... leaving also meant leaving Silas. Her pulse quickened. Tonight was her sanctioned session. Her promise to Robinson burned bright: ‘I will make Silas suffer... exquisitely.’ And oh my did she want to, with or without promising she'd do it. He was born to be tortured. He craved it.
She will be doing him a favor. The memory of using Agent Red flooded her senses – the addictive rush of power as Silas writhed beneath her fingers, his agony transforming into her own violent, shuddering pleasure. She imagined his ribs convulsing under relentless tickling, the choked screams escaping his lips as she synchronized torture with his release. Glenhaven had unlocked a dark, thrilling part of her she never knew existed. Annihilating Silas... it was hers to command, hers to enjoy, completely sanctioned. At Glenhaven, she was powerful in that way. At Glenhaven, she could unleash her sadism without consequence, without judgment. And now she wondered... how many other "patients" were here at Glenhaven? Patients she might eventually get the chance to .... "meet."
And Robinson... Carrie slowly chewed her lower lip, a flicker of something warmer amidst the fear. The Doctor's sophisticated beauty, her cool command... Carrie remembered the profound intimacy of worshiping Robinson’s bare foot, the scent of expensive leather and clean salty skin. The Doctor hadn't punished her harshly after Lena's torture; she'd reinforced her, tested her, and then... praised her. She had granted Carrie her request to supervise Silas again. Was a twisted kind of friendship forming?
Carrie recalled the Doctor's sharp gaze softening almost imperceptibly when Carrie obeyed flawlessly. And the orgasms... Carrie’s cheeks flushed. Lena’s Level 10 clitoral assault last night mixed agony with terrifying ecstasy, forcing convulsive releases she couldn't control. Robinson’s own expert fingertips, tracing her vulva, her clit, with clinical precision during Phase One had ignited a slow, devastating burn that built into an explosive climax unlike anything Carrie had ever felt before – controlled, imposed, yet undeniably powerful. So many intense memories already packed into her short time here.
...To be continued and concluded in Part6
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