Written by: LisaLisaJam
Illustrated by: LisaLisaJam
PART 4
Who knows how many hours had passed before Carrie awakened. She was again in her own Manor room, alone in the quiet. The sterile silence pressed in, disorienting. She blinked, staring at the familiar ceiling tiles – anchors in a sea of fractured memory. What parts of it were real? The oil? The probes mapping her skin? The impossible crushing laughter? The… climaxes? Her hand drifted down beneath the thin blanket, fingers trembling. She quickly and gently touched her clit. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through her – not pleasure, but hypersensitive alarm, a raw echo screaming touch was torture. She snatched her hand away, heart hammering. Yes, the phantom sensation screamed. It happened. But how? How could tickling do that? The confusion was a thick fog, mingling with the gnawing emptiness in her stomach. She was so hungry. The hunger felt real, grounding. Everything else felt like a grotesque dream woven by Robinson’s whispers and fingers.
She pushed herself upright, wincing at the deep, pervasive ache in her muscles, especially her inner thighs and pelvis. It felt like she’d run a marathon while being electrocuted. The silence amplified the buzzing in her ears, leftover static from the sphere. She tried to reconstruct the sequence: the lab, the oil, the unbearable touch… Robinson’s face, serene and cruel. The terrifying surrender: I’m yours. Had she really said that? Shame burned hot in her cheeks. And her mother… Zara? Had Robinson truly said Zara knew? Was Zara part of… this? The thought was colder than the room.
The door hissed open silently. Lena stood there, holding a tray with a simple bowl of broth and dry crackers. Her expression was unreadable, professional detachment masking whatever lurked beneath. "Eat," she commanded, her voice flat. She placed the tray on the bedside table without meeting Carrie’s bewildered gaze.
The aroma hit Carrie like a physical force – rich, savory, intensely real. Her trembling hands reached for the spoon. The broth was warm, salty, thick with soft vegetables. The first sip flooded her mouth, a cascade of simple, undeniable goodness. She didn't taste humiliation or Robinson’s touch; she tasted nourishment. She gulped it down, barely chewing the crackers, the crunch loud in the quiet room. It wasn't elegant; it was survival. She scraped the bowl clean, licking the spoon, the simple act anchoring her fractured self.
Exhaustion pulled her under like a riptide. She slept deeply, dreamlessly, wrapped in the heavy silence of the Manor. When Daniel’s firm knock shattered the stillness, it felt like surfacing from drowning. He stood silhouetted in her doorway. "Get up," he commanded, his voice flat. "Robinson wants you." No explanation. Just command. Carrie obeyed, her movements stiff, the deep ache in her thighs and pelvis flaring with each step. He led her through sterile corridors, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, past closed doors that whispered of unseen procedures.
The camera room was a cave of blinking electronics and cool air smelling faintly of dust and solder. Screens covered one wall, most dark and dormant. Robinson stood before the sole active monitor, her posture rigid, hands clasped behind her back. She didn't turn as they entered. "Carrie," she stated, her voice crisp, cutting through the hum. "Sit here." She gestured to a hard plastic chair directly facing the large glowing screen. Carrie obeyed, her stomach knotting.
On the screen, a high quality live video showed a large room, completely empty. A young man was on his knees, waiting alone. Robinson finally turned, her gaze locking onto Carrie’s with unnerving intensity. "I want you to watch this, Carrie." The command was absolute, devoid of inflection. "I command you to not look away. Watch every second of it. Do you understand?" Carrie felt the air vanish from her lungs. Full of cold, creeping fear, she managed a jerky nod. "Y-yes." Her voice was a cracked whisper. She clenched her fists on her knees, nails digging into her palms—a desperate anchor against the rising tide of dread. Robinson gave a curt nod and tapped her tablet. The footage began.
Silas knelt alone in the center of the sterile room, shoulders slumped. He looked young, maybe 21, dark brown hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. His eyes darted nervously toward the door. Lena entered, her expression chillingly blank. In her hand, she held a device Carrie hadn’t seen before: a sleek, silver tuning fork with a thick handle and the humming emitter tips glowing faintly blue. Lena didn’t approach Silas all the way. She stopped ten feet away, raised the fork, and pointed it directly at his ribs, his mid-section.
Silas reacted. It wasn’t laughter yet—just pure, startled shock. His eyes widened impossibly, locking onto Lena. Then it hit him. A sudden, violent jerk wracked his body as if he’d been electrocuted, followed instantly by a high-pitched hysterical shriek of laughter. He doubled over, curling into a tight ball on the floor, arms clamping uselessly over his ribs. His laughter wasn't joyful; it was a raw tearing sound ripped from his throat, punctuated by desperate gasps for air that never came. "NO! PLEASE STOP!" he screamed between convulsive peals of crazy laughter. He writhed, kicking his legs frantically, heels drumming against the polished floor. His face flushed deep crimson, veins bulging in his neck as he fought for breath that the relentless tickling sensation—deep, vibrating, impossibly intense—denied him.
Lena remained utterly still, arm outstretched, the humming fork unwavering. Her face was content, sadistic. The invisible assault from the tuning fork was merciless. Silas rolled onto his back now, arching violently, his hands scrabbling uselessly at his own sides as if he could claw out the maddening sensation. "CAN'T BREATHE! STOP! MERCY!" he shrieked, his voice cracking into a hoarse sobbing-laugh. His body bucked and twisted like a landed fish, every muscle straining against the invisible torture that clearly came from that thing Lena was holding. Spittle flew from his mouth. His laughter became a continuous, ragged scream devoid of fun, devoid of humor, instead a pure biological scientific terror. He choked, gagged, gasped wetly, only before another torrent of agonized laughter erupted. Lena watched, her face a mask of uncaring efficiency. The fork hummed. Silas’s struggles grew weaker, his screams dissolving into breathless, silent heaves, his body jerking uncontrollably on the floor, utterly broken by the invisible tickling waves.
Carrie watched, paralyzed. Her own ribs tingled sympathetically, phantom echoes of Silas’s torment scraping across her nerves. This wasn't just torture; it was annihilation from a distance. How was this being done? Why was this being done? That guy was suffering so much tickling that he couldn't breath well enough, and he couldn't fight against it even though he wasn't restrained.
Silas’s screams dissolved into wet, choking rasps. His body spasmed weakly. Lena remained statue-still, the humming fork’s blue tip unwavering. She adjusted a knob on the device, the invisible vibrations intensified. Silas arched violently, spine lifting off the ground as if pulled by wires, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. Tears streamed freely, mixing with saliva pooling beneath his cheek. His fingers clawed uselessly at his own ribs, pressing on his flesh, desperate to excavate the unbearable sensation burrowing deep inside his bones. "STOP! PLEASE! I'LL... DIE... DO ANYTHING!" The words tore from him between ragged suffocating gasps that offered no relief. His laughter was pure animalistic terror – a high-pitched keening that scraped Carrie’s eardrums and triggered empathy for him. How did such a young handsome guy end up here, like this?
Lena finally lowered the fork. The humming ceased. Silas collapsed bonelessly onto the floor, chest heaving in desperate, shuddering gulps. He lay trembling, utterly spent, eyes glazed and unfocused. Lena walked forward, her footsteps echoing sharply in the sudden silence. She nudged his shoulder with the toe of her boot. "Get up," she commanded, her voice flat and devoid of pity. Silas whimpered, curling tighter into himself. Lena nudged harder. "Now." With agonizing slowness, trembling violently, Silas pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He couldn't lift his head. Lena grasped his hair, yanking him upright. "Walk," she ordered, shoving him towards the door. He stumbled forward, legs buckling, barely managing to stay upright as Lena propelled him out of the frame.
Robinson tapped her tablet. The screen went dark, plunging the camera room into gloom. She turned slowly, her gaze pinning Carrie to the chair. "You understand the fork?" she asked. Carrie flinched. She understood suffering. She understood annihilation. She shook her head affirmative.
Robinson sighed, a faintly theatrical sound. "The mapping machine," she began, stepping closer, her polished heels clicking sharply on the tile. "It collects terabytes of data. Pressure points. Nerve clusters. Reaction thresholds. The precise frequency of vibration that makes this nerve bundle scream." She tapped Carrie's inner thigh lightly. Carrie leg jerked. "All that exquisite agony," Robinson continued, her eyes gleaming, "is distilled into software. Then downloaded," she gestured towards the now-blank screen, "into a specific tuning fork. Programmed for him. Or for you. For anyone whose neural map we possess."
Carrie stared down at her lap, trembling. The phantom vibrations still hummed along her ribs. "It delivers," Robinson's voice dropped to a chilling whisper, "pure, merciless tickling. Not playful. Not gentle. Suffering distilled merciless unmatched tickling. As you witnessed." She paused, letting the memory of Silas's silent scream hang in the air. "The intensity," she leaned down, her breath cool on Carrie's ear, "is calibrated to bypass conscious resistance. It triggers autonomic responses – hysterical laughter, breathlessness, convulsions. It exploits mapped vulnerabilities with surgical precision."
Carrie felt cold seep into her bones. This wasn't just torture; it was industrialized agony. Weaponized tickling. Her own map existed inside one of those forks. The thought was paralyzing. Ms Robinson then explained to her that once she leaves the Manor, she is forbidden to tell anyone about Glenhaven Happiness Manor. That they'd be watching her, and the person watching her would possess a tuning fork mapped for Carrie's body. “They work from as far as 100 feet away, so you'd never even see the person as you're flopping around laughing like a fool in public.” She also implied to Carrie that she wouldn't want 4k video released on the internet of her naked and suffering, would she? Orgasming? How would her friends, family, neighbors react to seeing those? Carrie understood. She could never say anything ... at all.
Daniel’s hand clamped onto her shoulder, startling her. "Come on," he grunted, steering her out of the camera cave. The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed like angry insects. Carrie stumbled, legs still aching deep inside. Each step echoed Robinson’s words: programmed for him. Or for you. The phantom vibrations lingered along her ribs, a cruel reminder. Daniel didn't speak. His silence felt heavier than words. He marched her past closed doors, past the faint scent of disinfectant masking something else, something metallic and sour. Carrie kept her eyes down, watching her feet shuffle on the polished floor. Distilled suffering. The phrase echoed.
He deposited her back in her room. The door hissed shut behind him, locking with a soft click. Alone. She traced a faint scratch on the metal bedframe, focusing on its solidity. Pure, merciless tickling. She shivered.
The door hissed open. Lena stood there, holding a tray. No expression. "Dinner." She placed it on the small desk: a generous portion of roast chicken glazed golden-brown, steaming green beans tossed with almonds, creamy mashed potatoes, a small crusty roll, and a slice of chocolate cake. The aroma was rich, comforting, utterly incongruous. Lena left without a word. Carrie stared. It looked like a meal from home. Before. Tentatively, she picked up the fork. The chicken was tender, juicy, perfectly seasoned. The potatoes were smooth and buttery. The green beans snapped crisp. It wasn't just sustenance; it was good. She ate ravenously, scraping the plate clean, licking gravy from her fork. The chocolate cake was dense, rich, decadent. It tasted like stolen comfort. It tasted like… normalcy. A dangerous illusion, perhaps, but her body, starved for kindness as much as calories, greedily accepted it.
Exhaustion hit her like a collapsing wall. She barely managed to crawl under the blanket. The taste of chocolate lingered on her tongue. The phantom vibrations on her ribs faded. The deep ache in her thighs pulsed softly. Her mind, overwhelmed and fractured, couldn't grapple with forks or maps or Robinson’s predatory gleam. It could only grasp the simple, profound relief of a full stomach and the promise of oblivion. Sleep pulled her under swiftly, a deep, dreamless void. No nightmares. Just heavy, silent darkness. Outside her door, unseen, the Manor hummed its own quiet tune.
Morning light crept across the ceiling tiles. Carrie woke slowly, blinking. The gnawing emptiness was gone, replaced by a dull, persistent ache everywhere. Her mind felt fuzzy, thick. Breakfast arrived silently through the slot in her door – oatmeal, fruit, toast. She ate mechanically, tasting nothing. The silence pressed in. No footsteps outside. No summons. The Manor felt suspended. She paced the small room, tracing the cold metal bedframe, the smooth wall panels. The phantom tickle along her ribs flared faintly. She stopped pacing, breathing shallowly. Pure, merciless tickling. She sat on the bed, staring at her hands. Hours crawled. Lunch arrived – a sandwich, soup. She ate slowly this time, listening intently. Only the faint hum of the ventilation. Where was everyone? Where was Daniel? Lena? Robinson? The isolation felt heavy. Was this part of it? Waiting? Dreading? She curled up on the bed, recalling Silas’s laughing screams and how he could do nothing about it. Is that what is in store for her today?
Dinner time approached. The light outside her small window deepened into twilight grey. Carrie stood by the door, ear pressed to the cold metal. Nothing. Then, footsteps. Sharp, precise, echoing faintly down the corridor. Stopping outside her door. The lock disengaged with a soft thunk. Carrie scrambled back. The door hissed open. Dr. Rita Robinson stood framed in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the fluorescent hallway light. She wore a crisp, dark suit, her red hair immaculate. Her expression was unreadable, professional. "Carrie," she stated, her voice cool and clear. "Come with me." No explanation. No preamble. Just a command.
Carrie’s breath hitched. Her legs felt leaden. She forced herself forward, stepping out of the room. Robinson didn't touch her. She simply turned and began walking down the corridor. Carrie followed, her feet whispering on the polished floor. They turned a corner, then another, moving deeper into the Manor’s sterile heart. Robinson stopped abruptly before a nondescript grey door Carrie didn’t recognize. Without turning, Robinson pulled a long strip of thick, soft black silk from her pocket. "Hold still," she instructed calmly. Carrie froze. Robinson stepped behind her. The silk settled cool and soft over Carrie’s eyes, plunging her world into absolute darkness. Robinson tied it securely, firmly, but not painfully, at the back of her head. Carrie’s other senses sharpened instantly: the faint scent of Robinson’s expensive perfume, the cool air on her skin, the distant hum of machinery, the sound of Robinson’s heels clicking on the tile as she took Carrie’s elbow gently but firmly. "This way," Robinson murmured, guiding her forward. Carrie stumbled slightly, disoriented by the sudden blindness, guided only by the pressure on her arm and the echoing footsteps.
They walked a long time, taking many turns it seemed. Where were they going? What waited in the dark? The phantom vibrations danced along her ribs again, stronger now. She swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She heard a door open – a soft pneumatic hiss, different from her own room’s door. Robinson guided her forward. They stepped forward together. Carrie felt a subtle shift in the air – warmer, softer. The door hissed closed behind them. Ms Robinson removed Carrie's blindfold.
Robinson looked at her. "Carrie," she stated. "I want you to babysit Silas for me." Carrie blinked, stunned. Babysit? Robinson continued smoothly, "For four hours. We all have things to tend to – Daniel is calibrating equipment, Lena is finalizing reports, I have administrative duties." She paused, her gaze flicking to the closed door on the other side of the room, "He's in there. I just want you to make sure he doesn't try to get away." The instruction felt absurd, almost cruel. Why this? Why now? Why her?
Was this some kind of psychological torture for Carrie to endure? Robinson watched Carrie’s confusion with interest. "Simply sit, stand, whatever," she added, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Be present. Ensure he remains here. That’s all." She turned towards the door. "This entrance door will lock when I leave. It will be four hours," she repeated crisply. "Then Lena will come collect you." The door hissed open, then closed softly behind her. Carrie was alone in the room.
The room was simple: a low couch facing the door Silas was behind, a single overhead light casting a warm pool on the carpet. Silence pressed in. Carrie hesitated, then slowly sank onto the couch facing the closed door he was said to be behind. Her eyes fixed on the plain wood surface. She listened intently, straining to hear any sound from beyond it – a shuffle, a sigh, a sob. Anything. Fifteen minutes crawled by. Nothing. Not a rustle, not a breath. Thirty minutes passed. The silence became a tangible thing, thick and unnerving. Had Robinson lied? Was Silas even in there? Or was he unconscious? Broken beyond movement from yesterday's tuning fork tickling? Carrie’s own phantom tickle fluttered nervously against her ribs. She couldn't just sit here. Not knowing.
Carrie got up cautiously. Her bare feet made no sound on the soft carpet as she walked towards the door. She stopped inches from it, her hand hovering near the knob. What if he attacked her? What if he was hysterical? What if he wasn't there at all? She took a slow breath, her voice emerging barely above a whisper, hesitant and scratchy from disuse. "Hello? My name is Carrie." She paused, listening. Only silence answered. She swallowed, trying again, slightly louder. "Hello? Silas? Are you… are you okay?" The silence stretched, heavy and complete. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, frustration mingling with her dread. "Can you hear me?" Her fingers closed around the cold metal knob. It turned smoothly, silently. She pushed the door inward just a crack. Warm air, smelling faintly of antiseptic and leather, drifted out. Carrie peered through the gap.
Silas lay spread-eagled in the exact center of the room, stark naked. He was bound, utterly immobilized, to a horizontal X-shaped padded table. Because the table was horizontal, Silas laid there looking up at the ceiling. Thick black straps secured his ankles, wide apart, onto the part of the table his legs were on. Similar straps cinched tightly above each knee. His wrists were fastened backwards over his head to the part of the X his arms rested on, pulling his arms taut exposing his armpits completely. Another strap crossed his throat, not fully tight enough to choke him, but definitely sinched enough to pin his head firmly to the padded surface, making him unable lift his head at all.
Carrie pushed the door wider and stepped inside, her own breath catching from the sight of him. The room was otherwise bare, painted with black walls and study black wooden desk off to the side, with a tall comfortable padded chair with arm rests and head rest. Her first thoughts were that the desk sure seemed to be placed in the perfect position for sitting and observing the X frame. The soft warm overhead lighting showcased Silas's body.
She thought back to what Ms Robinson said 30 minutes ago before she left. She had said, "If you desire to learn more about Silas, there's an instructions booklet in the desk." Carrie frowned. An instructions booklet? Like he was a complicated appliance? It sounded absurdly clinical, reducing a person to troubleshooting steps and operational parameters. Yet, morbid curiosity nudged her towards the desk. She slid open the top drawer. Inside lay a thick, bound manual titled "Subject Silas: Behavioral Profile & Response Protocols." Carrie hesitated, fingertips brushing the cool cover. It felt wrong, like peeking at someone's medical records crossed with an appliance manual.
She flipped it open to a laminated page titled "Tickle Response Matrix." Charts mapped nerve clusters along his ribs, feet, and inner thighs with frequency thresholds listed in Hertz. A footnote read: "Optimal laughter-to-breathlessness ratio achieved at 42Hz on Plantar Zone 3." Carrie shuddered, recalling Lena's humming fork. Further sections detailed "Surrender Triggers" ("Apply sustained fingernail scratches to inner lower hollows during armpit stimulation") and "Post-Stimulation Recovery" ("Allow 15 minutes vocal cord rest before re-engagement"). The cold precision made her stomach flutter. This wasn't just observation; it was engineered ticklish suffering.
Silas groaned softly, his eyelids fluttering open. Carrie hesitated, then approached the X-frame cautiously. "Silas?" she whispered. His eyes focused on her, surprisingly clear. A weak, almost defiant smile touched his lips. "Babysitter?" he rasped, his voice hoarse but steady. "Didn't expect... you." He shifted slightly against the restraints, testing them, but there was no panic in his movements. He was used to bondage. Carrie scanned his body—no bruises, no tremors, no sign of the brutal convulsions she'd witnessed yesterday. His skin looked flushed but healthy, the muscles relaxed beneath the straps. "How... how are you not wrecked?" she blurted, genuinely bewildered. "After Lena...um" she trailed off, unable to articulate the tickling horror she'd seen.
Silas replied. "Oh, that?" He rolled his shoulders as much as the straps allowed. "Tickles like hellfire during. Burns out quick after, though. They pump you full of stuff. Electrolytes, fluids... some weird cocktail." He met her gaze squarely. "Keeps you fresh. Ready for... the next time." His tone held a grim acceptance, almost professional. Carrie stared, processing this. The Manor wasn't just breaking them; it was maintaining them. Efficiently. Relentlessly. Her own phantom tickles intensified, a cold echo of his matter-of-factness.
"How old are you?" Carrie asked suddenly, the question escaping her lips before she could stop it. It felt absurdly normal in this room of straps and manuals. Silas blinked, momentarily thrown. "Twenty-one," he answered, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Why?" Carrie shrugged, the motion stiff. "Just... wondering." He studied her for a moment, the defiance in his eyes softening slightly. "And you?" he returned. "Eighteen," Carrie murmured, the number sounding impossibly small in the sterile air. A shared sliver of stolen humanity, a tiny anchor against the horror.
Silas shifted again against the padded restraints. "What about your mom and dad?" he asked suddenly, his gaze sharpening. "Where are they?" The question hit Carrie like a physical blow. Her mother’s face flashed in her mind—Zara’s dark brown hair, her light brown eyes filled with cold disapproval. "My mom," Carrie started, her voice catching. "She... she sent me here. Paid for it." The words tasted bitter. "Dad?" Silas pressed gently. Carrie shook her head. "Gone. Years ago." She talked more about her mom. "She thought I was... disrespectful. Needed fixing." A hollow laugh escaped her. "I'm fixed now, huh?"
Silas was quiet for a long moment, studying the ceiling. "Parents," he finally murmured, the word sounding foreign. "Never had any." He turned his head to look towards her. "Not like you had." Carrie frowned. "What?" Silas exhaled slowly. "According to Glenhaven’s records, I was... manufactured." Carrie blinked. "Manufactured?" Silas nodded, his expression flat. "Artificial conception. Incubated in a liquid-filled glass tank. Designed to mimic a womb, apparently." He paused, letting the clinical horror sink in. "Born from that. Raised here. Trained here." His eyes held hers. "This Manor? It’s all I’ve ever known. My cradle. My cage." Carrie stared at him, the manual’s sterile pages suddenly burning in her mind. They didn’t just modify behavior here. They grew it.
That terrible concept washed over her. "But why?" Silas gave a weary shrug against the straps. "Why build anything? To serve a purpose." His gaze drifted towards the locked door. His voice dropped to a quiet whisper. "Perhaps they need subjects who wouldn’t be missed. Who had no past to trace. Just... raw material, raw flesh, raw minds." Carrie understood the chilling efficiency now. Silas wasn’t just broken. He was built for this. The realization stole her breath. Glenhaven wasn’t just a secretive center. It was also a factory.
A flicker of something dark and unfamiliar sparked in Carrie’s mind. If he was made for this... engineered... incubated... then is it really such a bad thing? The thought slithered in, cold and sharp. Using him for what he was designed for? She glanced at the manual lying open over on the desk, its clinical diagrams suddenly seemed less horrifying, more... instructional. Her fingers twitched. Guilt crashed over her instantly, hot and sickening. She recoiled, physically stepping back from him, her cheeks flushing. What was wrong with her? She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. That wasn't her. That was Glenhaven talking. That was Robinson crawling inside her head.
The silence stretched, thick with the unspeakable thought hanging between them. Silas watched her retreat, his expression unreadable. He didn't flinch. He didn't look betrayed. He just... waited. Carrie swallowed hard, forcing her voice out. "That's... monstrous." It sounded weak, inadequate. Silas offered another faint, bleak smile. "Monstrous? Maybe. Efficient? Definitely." He shifted his gaze back to the ceiling. "They don't waste resources here. Everything has a purpose. Even me."
The desk stood a deliberate fifteen feet away from Silas’s immobilized feet. Whenever Carrie retreated to it, leaning against its frame, she vanished completely from his limited field of view. The thick black collar strap encircling his neck wasn't merely restraining; it was anchoring his head firmly to the padded surface behind him. His chin couldn't lift, his gaze couldn't wander upwards. All he could see was the ceiling directly above him, the padded surface beneath his head, and perhaps, at the very edge of his peripheral vision, the straps securing his wrists. The space near the desk? Utterly blind to him. It was a calculated isolation, forcing him to rely solely on sound when Carrie wasn't standing directly beside his restrained form.
Carrie left him and walked over and leaned against the desk, but still facing towards him. Her eyes, almost against her will, drifted down to his feet, and the straps binding his ankles, his bare heels pinned immobile against the padded surface. His feet were definitely slender, high-arched, and vulnerable. Her own phantom tickles flared, a hot, itchy wave crawling up her soles. She caught herself staring at his feet, for too long. Her gaze snapped back up. "Purpose?" she echoed from over at the desk, her voice tight. "What... what did you mean? What is your purpose?" The question felt dangerous, charged with the dark thoughts she'd just recoiled from.
Silas directed his eyes down. His eyes couldn't track her position; his own chest blocked the view. He couldn't see where her gaze had lingered moments before. "They train us," he rasped, his voice carrying easily in the quiet room. "Condition us. Like... refining instruments." He paused, his head shifting back to center, staring straight up. "To be sensitive. To react predictably. To break... efficiently." His tone was flat, devoid of self-pity. "For clients. Private sessions. Demonstrations. Testing new protocols." He took a shallow breath. "Like Lena’s tuning fork. They calibrate it on us first."
Carrie shuddered, the image of Silas convulsing under Lena’s humming device flashing vividly behind her eyes. Her own hypersensitive skin prickled. "Clients?" she whispered, horrified. "People pay to... to do that?" Silas gave a minute nod, the only movement the strap allowed. "Yes. Discreetly. Very expensive. Very... specific tastes." He tilted his head again, this time to the right. His eyes strained downwards, catching the edge of his own shoulder, the top curve of his pectoral muscle, but nothing beyond. He couldn't see Carrie’s reaction. "Sometimes," he added, his voice dropping lower, "they observe. Through cameras. Like Robinson made you watch." Carrie remembered Robinson’s predatory satisfaction. The realization hit her: Silas wasn't just built for torture; he was built as torture for profit too. A consumable tool for suffering.
"How long..." Carrie swallowed, forcing her voice steady as she pushed off the desk and took a hesitant step closer, drawn despite herself. "...has Lena been here? Doing this?" Silas’s eyes tracked her movement as she reappeared beside his head. "Lena?" A flicker crossed his face, something almost like grim amusement. "About three years now. Seems longer." He paused, gathering breath. "Met her... quite randomly, actually."
Carrie leaned in slightly, intrigued despite the horror.
"They'd strapped me inside a solid black box," Silas began, his voice low and raspy against the restraint collar. "Only my head stuck out the top, and my bare feet..." He paused, shifting slightly against the straps. "...sticking straight out the front, pinned immobile." Carrie’s gaze instinctively flicked down towards his ankles again. "They'd parked the whole contraption high up on this mountain trail," he continued. "Very remote. But there was this... door. Hidden? Not really. Just a latch anyone could flip. The whole setup screamed 'experiment': see what some random hiker would do if they stumbled upon helpless feet sticking out of a box."
Carrie imagined it: the stark black cube, Silas’s vulnerable feet protruding like an invitation. Her own soles tingled. "Lena found you?" she breathed. Silas gave a grim chuckle. "Yep. Heard the door open and close, she came through the heavy curtain in the doorway and saw me. It took her about 30 minutes but she made her decision, that she wanted to make me laugh. Lena says about a week later Ms Robinson contacted her, and offered her this job." He paused. "Seems Lena's 'natural impulse' was exactly what Glenhaven wanted."
Carrie stared at him from the desk area, horrified fascination warring within her. The manual's clinical detachment suddenly felt like a chilling prophecy. "And... she just... stayed? To do this?" Silas nodded. "Found her calling. Thrives on it. The precision. The control. Breaking someone down... scientifically, but mostly emotionally." His eyes met Carrie's, bleak and knowing. "I assume like she has already done to you?" The memory of Lena's flogging, the tickle boots, the masturbating climax, flooded back – cold, sharp humiliation. Carrie flinched, her gaze dropping involuntarily back to Silas's pinned feet. The vulnerability there echoed her own past torment.
To distract herself, and him, Carrie walked back and flipped open the manual again, her fingers tracing the cold, laminated pages. She pretended to listen intently as Silas continued talking about Lena's training methods – the systematic desensitization, the escalation protocols – but her focus was pulled deeper into the text. She turned a page, then another, skimming sections titled "Subject Resistance Profiles" and "Optimal Restraint Configurations." Silas kept talking, his voice a low rasp filling the room, unaware her attention had shifted. He couldn't see her hunched figure leaning over the desk, couldn't see her fingers tracing the diagrams. He could only hear the rustle of pages and assume she was still listening.
Then Carrie froze. Her eyes locked onto a subsection: "Subject Silas: Paradoxical Response Profile & Craving Mechanisms." The clinical language was chilling. It detailed Silas's documented hypersensitivity, mapped meticulously across his soles, arches, toes, inner thighs, waist, ribs, and underarms. But then it shifted: *"Subject exhibits paradoxical vocalizations and physiological responses consistent with deep-seated craving for intense stimulation. Despite protestations and ticklish distress, biometric markers (elevated heart rate, pupil dilation, endorphin surge) indicate profound engagement and enjoyment during stimulation. Note: Subject consistently denies any positive association post-session, suggesting deep psychological compartmentalization.
The words burned. Carrie stared at Silas's restrained form. Were his words full of defiance, or invitation? The way he shifted subtly against the straps... was it testing escape, or presenting his targets? Her own ticklishness came to mind, mingling with a sudden intrusive heat pooling low in her belly. The manual’s detached analysis transformed Silas right before her eyes. He wasn't just enduring torture; he was craving it. He was daring people to do it (according to the instruction book). The thought slithered around her mind, insistent and darkly compelling: He wants it. He needs it. He’s built for it. Her gaze drifted back to his slender, high-arched feet, pinned immobile. The straps weren't just restraints; they were a scientific offering. Her fingertips tingled. She imagined gliding her nails lightly into the sensitive arch, feeling his involuntary flinch, hearing the first choked gasps that weren't just ticklish suffering... but need. The desire to touch, to test the manual's outlandish claim, to try and see if he really likes it, became an ache inside her. Silas continued talking about Lena's humming tuning fork, completely unaware of the storm brewing fifteen feet away.
Silas’s voice filled the quiet room, discussing Lena’s calibration techniques. "She’d start low," he rasped, staring at the ceiling, "barely a buzz against the sole. Then notch it up incrementally, mapping the exact frequency where..." He trailed off, perhaps sensing her silence. "Carrie? You still listening?" His tone held a hint of curiosity, maybe even a challenge?
Carrie stayed in the comfortable chair, but lifted her gaze from the manual. "Silas," she began, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her fingers. "This... this thing. Your 'Behavioral Profile'." She placed her trembling hands onto the desktop to stabilize them. "It says something... insane." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look his direction, even though their eyes could not meet. "Right here. It claims... it claims you have a 'paradoxical response profile'. That despite everything you scream out, everything you seem to hate... your body reacts positively. Elevated heart rate, pupil dilation, endorphin surges... during the tickling." Her voice rose slightly, incredulous. "It says you crave it. That deep down... you like it."
Silas’s froze. The flicker of defiance vanished, replaced by utter stillness. His breath hitched audibly against the throat strap. "That is absolute un-truth," he replied. It's torture to me when I'm tickled. Carrie left the desk. She walked towards him, stopping beside the padded table where his head was anchored. Silas turned his face as much as the strap allowed, straining to see her face hovering near his shoulder. "Please," he rasped, his voice suddenly thick with a raw curiosity Carrie hadn't heard before. "Let me prove it to you. Tell me. Carrie, describe to me... exactly how you feel when you're getting tickled?"
Carrie blinked. The question felt invasive, intimate in a way she didn't expect. She looked down at his restrained form, her gaze tracing the lines of his ribs, the vulnerable dip of his waist, the smooth skin of his inner thighs exposed by the straps. Her own ticklish memories flared hotly across her soles and ribs. She took a breath, the sterile air suddenly thick. "It's... electric shocks," she began, her voice low and surprisingly steady. "Like tiny lightning bolts hitting every nerve ending. It triggers pure panic – spastic, uncontrollable panic. My muscles jerk, I thrash, but it's useless." She paused, her green eyes distant, reliving the sensation. "It forces me to smile. To laugh. But it's not joy. I don't want to laugh or smile during it. That only gives the tickler what they crave. It's agony masked as happiness. It reduces me... strips me down... to just a piece of reacting, laughing flesh." Her cheeks flushed crimson. "Humiliating. Deeply, utterly embarrassing. Like every shred of dignity is ripped away." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "And the worst part? The absolute loss of control. Over my body, my reactions, my thoughts... my entire life vanishes in that moment. There's nothing but the tickling and the desperate, impossible need for it to stop."
As she spoke, detailing each layer of her torment, Carrie’s gaze drifted at times to his body. It settled on Silas’s bare feet, pinned immobile at the foot of the table. The high arches, the slender toes, the vulnerable soles. The clinical words from the manual – paradoxical response, craving mechanisms – echoed in her mind. A startling, dark impulse surged. He wants to know how my ticklishness feels? The thought was sharp, intrusive. I could show him. Right now. Make him feel every single thing I just described. Her fingers twitched at her sides. She imagined her nails tracing the delicate arch of his sole, feather-light at first, then digging in. Imagined the choked gasp that wouldn't be just surprise, but the start of that electric panic she knew so well. Imagined his restrained body jerking against the straps, his forced laughter bubbling up – laughter he didn't want, just like hers. The desire to inflict that helplessness, that raw, stripped-bare humiliation upon him, to see if the manual was right and if his body would betray him with need, coiled hot and tight in her stomach. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It felt... inevitable.
Silas remained utterly still, absorbing her confession. The raw vulnerability in her words hung thick in the air. "Electric shocks," he echoed softly, his voice raspy against the strap. "Pure panic. Laughter you don't want... dignity ripped away." He paused, his head shifting slightly against the padding. "That's exactly it. That is how I feel when being tickled. It's not something that I crave."
Carrie sighed, a sharp exhale that lifted her bangs. She pretended to understand, to accept his denial. Part of her did believe him – the raw fear in his voice, the description mirroring her own torment. Yet, another part, fueled by the manual's cold logic and the strange heat pooling low in her belly, rejected Silas words. It didn't fit the narrative of the prickling excitement building inside her, the sudden, fierce urge to test him. He must be lying, the intrusive thought insisted. The manual has biometric data. It's scientific. He's conditioned to deny it, so it's still ok to do it.
Tickling? In Carrie's past it had been harmless. Silly. A few quick, giggly "gitchee goos" on her mom's ribs when she was little, making Zara shriek and swat her away. Playful pokes at friends' sides during sleepovers, laughter erupting instantly, stopping just as quickly. Never had she pinned someone down. Never had she deliberately sought out their most sensitive spots, mapped their vulnerabilities like Lena or Robinson did. Never had she truly planned to overwhelm someone, to push them past laughter into that breathless desperate panic she knew so well. The idea of inflicting that level of suffering intentionally, felt alien, monstrous... yet undeniably fascinating at this very moment.
Carrie stepped back from Silas’s immobilized form. Her gaze flickered towards the desk. "I... I need to understand," she murmured, her voice thick with a strange mixture of justification and unease. "This manual. Your profile. It’s... detailed." She avoided his eyes and started her way over to the desk. "I’m going to read it more. Just to make sure." She hesitated, the next words tasting metallic. "To collect all the data I can... while I’m here." She then added, "Lena will be here in about three hours to take me away. Ms Robinson told me that earlier." Carrie started to pre-think what she might accomplish in this room, during the next three hours.
She glanced back at Silas, pinned and unable to move. He had just been requesting not to be tickled. The clinical words – paradoxical response, craving mechanisms – suddenly took on a new meaning to her, due to the raw fear of being tickled that he had just described to her. The urge to touch his soft skin, to test the claims the manual made, coiled tighter within her, fueled more now by his palpable terror. She reached the desk, her fingers trembled, not with fear, but with a dark burgeoning anticipation. She pulled the manual towards her, her eyes scanning the chillingly precise text. Silas laid there, waiting.
Carrie flipped pages mechanically, her mind only half-processing the diagrams of nerve clusters and frequency thresholds. Then she froze. A section titled "Pharmacological Enhancement Agents" leapt out. Nestled between descriptions of topical sensitizing gels were entries for small pills: Pink, Red... and White. She leaned closer. "Agent White: Empathic Inhibitor," the text declared. "For use when Operator hesitation compromises protocol efficiency. Within seconds of ingestion, Agent White induces a transient, targeted neurochemical cascade suppressing prefrontal cortex activity associated with empathy, pity, guilt, and moral inhibitions. Duration: 60 minutes. Effects: Facilitates un-impeded execution of designated interrogation procedures." Carrie re-read it. Impossible. A pill that could erase a guilty conscience? That could silence the screaming voice inside her screaming wrong, wrong, wrong? Her gaze drifted back to Silas’s restrained feet and body. The recent memories of her tickled body intensified, merging with the heat pooling low in her belly. The desire to inflict tickling, to know what it feels like, became a physical ache. Sixty minutes of freedom, from doubt. The thought was terrifyingly seductive. She reasoned that it wouldn't be her fault because the pill would have made it happen.
"Carrie?" Silas’s voice cut through her daze. "Well ... find anything amazing over there?" He couldn't see her face, couldn't see her empathy dissolving under the weight of the manual’s cold logic and her own burgeoning dark curiosity. The White pill wasn't just a pill; it was permission. A key to unlock her own inhibitions. Her fingers traced the description again. Suppressing prefrontal cortex activity... She pictured Lena’s predatory satisfaction, Robinson’s detached precision. Could she become that? Just for an hour? To silence the guilt and finally know the truth of Silas’s paradoxical cravings? Or at the very least experience what it's like to force a very handsome 21 year old guy to laugh way beyond hysterics? Her gaze lifted from the page, locking onto the built-in pull-out drawers beneath the desk's ledge. Logic screamed caution regarding taking some pill she knows nothing about. But the stunning image of her nails tracing Silas’s arches, her already imagined sounds of his choked, involuntary laughter, drowned out her caution. The drawer slid open silently. Inside, nestled in foam, were tiny vials: Pink, Red... and White. Her hand moved as if detached, closing around a single, innocuous white pill. It felt cold, impossibly heavy.
Silas heard the soft click of the drawer closing. "Carrie?" His voice was higher now, laced with panic. "Talk to me! What are you doing?" Carrie stared at the small white oval in her palm. It looked harmless. Sixty minutes. Freedom from the screaming guilt, freedom to explore the dark fascination coiling within her, freedom to test the manual’s claim without the burden of conscience. To see if Silas truly craved what he claimed to hate. She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, picturing his vulnerable feet, his restrained ribs, immovable armpits, and more places the manual said he was hypersensitive. The image was sharp, vivid, compelling. She set the white pill quietly on the desk.
Her gaze snagged on the manual again, still open to the page detailing the White pill. Below it, a flash of crimson text caught her eye: "Agent Red: Sensory Amplifier & Empathic Transfer Inhibitor." Carrie leaned closer, she didn't quite understand what those words could mean. "For Operators requiring enhanced reward feedback during intense protocols," it read. "Within seconds of ingestion, Agent Red induces a potent neurochemical cascade amplifying visual, auditory, and sensory perception specifically related to subject suffering and laughter. More significantly, Agent Red triggers intense, recurring orgasms in the Operator during sessions. The intensity, frequency, and satisfaction of these orgasms are directly proportional to the perceived intensity of the subject's ticklish suffering and involuntary laughter. Duration: 60 minutes." Carrie blinked. Impossible.
A pill that could make her orgasm... just from watching Silas laugh hysterically? From tickling him? The clinical detachment of the description clashed violently with the visceral image it conjured: Silas writhing, screaming with laughter, while she shuddered in waves of ecstasy fueled by his agony. The sheer, monstrous efficiency and logical clarity of it stole her breath. The White pill promised liberation from guilt. The Red pill promised... heaps of pleasure. Deep, dark, consuming pleasure derived directly from his suffering. Her hands and fingers trembled now. The White pill felt cold and heavy. The Red pill... it promised heat. A terrifying, seductive heat. Her gaze darted back to Silas, pinned and frightened. His terror was palpable to her now. The manual claimed he craved being tickled hard. Agent Red promised she would love it. The drawer slid open again with a soft sigh. Her fingers closed around a single, innocuous crimson red pill. It felt warm, inviting. She set the red pill next to the white pill on the desk.
Silas heard the faint rustle, the soft click. His voice cracked, strained against the collar. "Carrie? Please... talk to me. I know what you're reading. I know that book. I know how it works." He took a ragged breath. "It's designed... to talk you into it. To make it seem logical, necessary. Like you're just... collecting data." He paused, the silence thick with desperation. "Three years ago... Lena. She was just like you. Struggling. Unsure. Horrified. She flipped through that same manual. It talked her into it too. Slowly. Insidiously. Made her think... maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe that I really wanted it." His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "There are pills... I know. Pink, Red, White. Please... Carrie... please... don't take them."
Carrie stared at the pills. White for freedom from guilt. Red for pleasure. Silas continued, his voice trembling but urgent. "Look... if... if you want to... gently... tickle me... I'll allow it. I'd be okay with it. After everything Lena's done... everything Robinson does... a short, playful tickle? I wouldn't like it... but I could handle it. If you wanted to... experiment... just... gently." He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. "But please... I'm begging you... do not take any of those pills. Please."
His honesty hit Carrie like a physical blow. He knew. He understood the manual's manipulative power. He knew about the pills. He wasn't denying his terror; he was admitting it, pleading against the chemical shortcuts that would obliterate her empathy and amplify her sadism. He was offering himself – his vulnerable, hypersensitive body – to her curiosity, without chemical coercion. A short, gentle experiment. Permission granted freely, amidst his palpable fear. Carrie looked down at the pills – the innocent-looking keys to monstrous doors. The promise of guilt-free cruelty and ecstatic torment. Then she looked at Silas, immobilized, terrified, yet offering her a fragile thread of trust. Her fingers hovered over the pills. The manual lay open, its clinical words screaming paradoxical craving. Silas's raw plea echoed louder: Please tickle.
Carrie stepped away from the desk, moved towards Silas. He tracked her approach, his eyes wide, pupils dilated with fear. She stopped beside the padded table, near his pinned head. Her gaze traveled down his restrained form – the vulnerable ribs, the exposed waist, the smooth skin of his inner thighs, finally settling on his slender feet, soles exposed and utterly defenseless. Her urge to touch, to know, was still there, a persistent hum beneath her skin, but now it was tempered by the terrifying clarity of Silas’s honesty.
"I didn't take the pills," Carrie stated, her voice surprisingly firm despite the tremor beneath. Silas exhaled sharply, a ragged sound of relief. "But..." She hesitated; her gaze fixed on his underarms. "I need to understand. The manual... you. I need to know if..." She swallowed hard. "Can I... touch you? Just... a little bit, lightly? To see?" Her request hung in the air, heavy with implication. She wasn't demanding torture; she was asking for permission to test a hypothesis, to bridge the gap between clinical text and terrified flesh.
Silas stared at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Fear warred with a strange resignation. After a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, he gave the tiniest nod against the padding. "Okay," he whispered, his voice thick. "Okay. Just... gently, please." He closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself. Carrie’s hand trembled as she reached out. Her fingertips, cool and tentative, brushed the side of his slender, fit belly – a spot the manual marked as one of his most hypersensitive zones. Silas’s entire body jerked against the straps. A sharp, choked gasp escaped him, followed by an involuntary giggle. Carrie snatched her hand back as if burned, staring at the hint of possible laughter written across his face. She liked what she saw ... very much.
His reaction from that one short touch subsided. "See?" he rasped, his voice raw. "Not... fun." Carrie nodded mutely, the clinical words paradoxical response in her mind. His permission echoed: "You can tickle me." She thought back to his exact words: "If you want to... gently... tickle me... I'll allow it." Carrie stared at the manual lying on the desk. Section 4.7: "Induced Solicitation Behaviors." It detailed how highly conditioned subjects, despite conscious terror, develop subconscious mechanisms to invite stimulation. Phrases like "please stop," delivered with specific vocal tremors, could trigger Operator action. Offering limited permission—"just gently"—was listed as a common solicitation tactic, designed to initiate contact that could certainly escalate. The manual stated coldly: These solicitations are manifestations of the core craving mechanism. Granting the request, even gently, reinforces the neurological pathway linking solicitation with reward. Carrie’s gaze snapped back to Silas’s exposed armpits. Was his permission... a trick? A desperate, subconscious plea for me to tickle him a lot more?
Silas watched her stillness, the dawning horror on her face. "Carrie?" His voice cracked. "I meant... just gently. To prove... it's not..." He trailed off, seeing her expression harden. The manual’s logic slammed into place: He asked for it. Even if he screams, his body craves this. The urge to touch him surged back, hotter and sharper than before, fueled by this terrifying possibility that he was knowingly asking to be tickled much more. Her fingers flexed. Carrie leaned forward, her breath catching. Silas saw her intent reflected in her wide, conflicted eyes. "WAIT!" he yelled, panic shredding his voice, just as her hands plunged towards his pinned arms. Her fingertips slid deep into the hollows of his exposed armpits, a hand in each pit.
For exactly five seconds—Carrie counted meticulously in her head, clinging to his plea for gentleness—her fingernails danced. It wasn't Lena's relentless drill, nor Robinson's clinical precision. It was a frantic, exploratory scritching, light but impossibly invasive in that hypersensitive zone. Silas's reaction was instantaneous and volcanic. His entire body convulsed against the straps like a hooked fish, a raw, explosive burst of laughter erupting from him—not joyful, but a desperate, shrieking release. The sound itself was pure agonized hysteria, echoing off the sterile walls.
Carrie snatched her hands back at the count of five, trembling. Silas gasped and adjusted his arms best he could within the restraints. The sound still vibrated in her ears—his terrifying, involuntary eruption. She stared at her own hands as if they belonged to someone else. Five seconds. Gentle. And he'd sounded utterly destroyed. A treacherous exhilaration sparked in her. He'd laughed. Uncontrollably. Exactly like the manual predicted. The craving mechanism felt terrifyingly real. His denial seemed suddenly flimsy. She was almost sure now that he wanted to be tickled intensely, that he craved it, needed it.
Silas sucked in ragged breaths, his eyes squeezed shut. "See?" he rasped. "It tickles me terribly. And I can't do anything to stop it." He trembled. Carrie nodded slowly, her gaze drifting from his face back to those smooth hairless underarms. The manual’s words screamed louder: Solicitation. Craving. Five seconds of gentle tickling had unlocked something primal in Carrie. The urge wasn't gone; it was amplified, honed. It whispered: He asked for gentle... but what if he needs more? What if he wants more? Her fingers tingled, longing to touch his skin, feel the vibration of his helpless laughter.
"Wait," Carrie said abruptly, her voice tight. "Just... wait a second." She turned quickly away from Silas’s bewildered stare. "I need to check one more thing in the book." She walked briskly to the desk, her heart pounding against her ribs. The two pills lay beside the open manual: White – freedom from doubt; Red – pleasure from his suffering. Silas’s desperate plea echoed: Do not take them. But Carrie reasoned that she needed clarity. The pills weren't for cruelty; they were tools for a better understanding. Scientific aids, it was the right thing to do, she convinced herself. Without hesitation she grabbed the White pill and the Red pill. She placed them both on her tongue. They dissolved quickly – one cold and chalky, the other strangely warm and sweet. Her entire body trembled at the anticipation of what this was about to feel like. She was ... aroused.
Turning immediately, Carrie walked back to stand beside Silas’s head. He looked up, his brown eyes wide with dawning horror. He saw her face – the face that had seemed kind, almost playful the entire 30 or so minutes he had known her. But something was shifting. The softness around her eyes hardened. A detached curiosity replaced her earlier conflict. The familiar lines of her expression smoothed into something more focused, almost serene. The empathy that had flickered moments before was vanishing quickly, right before his eyes. The guilt silencing white pill was working fast, and he knew it.
Silas saw the change. "Carrie?" His voice was a thin thread of panic. "What did you...?" He couldn't finish. The Red pill also started to ignite, but Silas didn't know she had taken that one too. Carrie felt a sudden, startling clarity. The room seemed sharper. The sound of Silas’s rapid breathing became distinct, almost musical. Her gaze locked onto his exposed underarms, the smooth skin seemed to pulse with vulnerability. A low, visceral hum started deep within her. "I need to understand," Carrie stated, her voice calm, clinical. "The manual requires verification." Her hands rose, fingers poised like scalpels above his defenseless pits. Silas strained futilely against the straps, a choked whimper escaping him. "Carrie, please! Don't—"
Her fingertips descended. Not frantic, not gentle. Purposeful. Deep, slow fingertip taps and scritches fully into the armpit hollows. Silas’s body arched violently. A guttural bark of laughter ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. Carrie noted, fascinated. The laugh wasn’t just noise; it was a physical vibration she could feel in her own chest. The Red pill transformed his agony into very nice feelings inside her. Every choked gasp, every involuntary spasm, resonated through her. A small wave of pure, electric pleasure surged up her spine, unexpected. She gasped because of it, her fingers faltering for a split second. The sensation was wonderful. It pooled low in her belly, a subtle warmness spreading outward. Silas seized the momentary respite from her fingers, gulping air, tears streaming down his temples. "Stop... please... it hurts...it tickle hurts."
His plea was noticed by Carrie. The White pill ensured though, that it registered only as data—a predictable vocalization listed in Section 4.7. Solicitation. The sensation was overwhelming—pure, chemical exultation flooding her veins. The silly green robe suddenly felt suffocating, a barrier between her skin and the raw energy crackling in the room. Inhibitions melted away completely. Without breaking her rhythmic scratching, Carrie yanked at the robe’s tie. It fell open. She shrugged it off impatiently, letting the fabric slide down her arms and puddle on the floor at her feet. Nakedness wasn’t vulnerability; it was liberation. Silas’s tear-blurred eyes widened further, taking in her slender form. Carrie felt no shame, only a thrilling exposure. The air kissed her skin, heightening every sensation. Her arousal was evident, a slick heat between her thighs that mirrored the pulsing warmth radiating from her core. She stood tall beside him, utterly exposed, utterly in control. "Better," she breathed, the word thick with satisfaction. Her lack of empathy and lack of mercy was in full swing, but now it was fused with a potent, predatory awareness of her own power and pleasure.
Carrie quickly moved behind his head, her bare belly pressing close to the crown of his skull because the X-shaped bondage table allowed her to walk right up close. She leaned over him, her long black hair falling like a curtain around his face. Her hands plunged back into the hollows of his armpits, fingers instantly dancing, randomly scribbling her fingernails deep into the soft, hypersensitive skin simultaneously. Looking straight down, Carrie watched Silas’s face contort directly below her. His eyes squeezed shut, tears overflowing and tracking down his temples into his hair. His mouth stretched wide in a silent scream that dissolved into frantic, breathless giggles that shook his entire restrained frame. His neck muscles corded as he tried desperately to twist his head. She kept tickling without any mercy, fascinated by the raw, involuntary spasms playing across his features—the flaring nostrils, the trembling lips, the sheer panic etched into every line. The Red pill translated his agony into waves of intense pleasure that washed through Carrie, centering low in her belly, a throbbing reward to the frantic movements of her fingers.
"Does it tickle?" Carrie asked calmly, clinically, her voice devoid of malice but thick with sarcasm. Her fingers never slowed their frantic dance. Silas couldn’t form words, only managing choked gasps between bursts of hysterical laughter. His face was crimson, slick with tears and sweat. "The manual suggests you crave this stimulation," she continued, observing the violent tremors wracking his body. "I think it is correct. Your mind and body crave this." He shook his head violently against her stomach, a muffled, desperate "Nnngh!" escaping him. Carrie tilted her head, analyzing the denial. "Interesting," she murmured. "The physiological response—accelerated breathing, involuntary laughter, muscle spasms—indicates extreme ticklish distress. Yet, the manual claims these are also pathways to paradoxical reward." She switched her attacking hands to the outer lower sides of his underarms, drawing closer to his ribs, her nails digging gently into the tender flesh. Silas shrieked, a high-pitched sound of pure torment. Carrie gasped softly herself as another, stronger surge of pleasure radiated from her core, tightening her muscles deliciously. "Oh yes," she breathed, her own voice trembling slightly with the intensity of her own sensations. "The correlation is... real. You need to laugh more please, she said sarcastically."
Silas finally managed a strangled word amidst the laughter. "H-hurts!" he gasped. Carrie paused her fingers for a split second, though she kept them buried deep in his pits. His body instantly sagged against the restraints, gulping air, trembling uncontrollably. She studied his tear-streaked face, the utter exhaustion and terror in his eyes. "Hurts?" she repeated, her tone detached. "Or tickles?" She saw the confusion war with panic in his expression. "The manual differentiates," she explained coolly. "Tickling induces laughter and seeks escape. Pain induces withdrawal and seeks cessation. Your response profile strongly indicates this is tickling." Before he could formulate a reply, she had walked around to the other side, walked right up to his groin and penis area, her fingers resumed their tickling, on his sides, ribs and belly, bouncing from each one of them to the other randomly. Silas’s body arched violently, his scream a breathless, silent laughter, his eyes rolling back slightly. Carrie watched, utterly absorbed, riding the crest of her own chemically-enhanced ecstasy as his suffering amplified it tenfold. The manual was proving remarkably accurate.
Her gaze locked onto his face as she tickled, her ears taking in the audible suffering. His laughter escalated into frantic, sobbing shrieks, punctuated by desperate gasps for air that never seemed to fully reach his lungs. Tears streamed freely, mixing with sweat on his crimson skin. His neck muscles strained impossibly against the collar, veins standing out like cords. Carrie’s eyes narrowed, a cruel intensity settling over her features. Her brows lowered, knitting together in focused sadism. Empathy was a distant memory; the White pill ensured it, and the intoxicating feedback loop of the Red pill mattered most. Her fingers now dug deep into the soft flesh above his hip bone, eliciting a particularly sharp, wet-sounding giggle that bordered on a scream. She felt the corresponding surge within her own body – a tightening coil of pure pleasure winding tighter and tighter low in her belly. His escalating laughter and suffering were fuel, stoking the fire inside her.
The coil snapped. Carrie gasped sharply as her first orgasm ripped through her with shocking violence. It wasn't gentle or warm; it was a white-hot explosion of pure sensation that radiated from her core outwards, seizing her muscles. Her knees buckled instantly, unable to support her weight against the sudden, overwhelming wave. She crumpled sideways, landing softly on her knees on the floor, her fingers instinctively pulling away from Silas’s skin. For a few precious seconds, Silas gasped in ragged, shuddering breaths. Carrie lay stunned on the floor, trembling in the middle of a very long orgasm, waves of aftershock pulsing through her. The chaotic symphony of his desperate, fading giggles filled her ears, mingling with her own ragged panting. His suffering-soaked laughter had directly triggered her own peak – a wonderful connection forged by the Red pill.
Slowly, Carrie pushed herself up onto her knees. She didn't immediately rise. Instead, she knelt beside the bondage table, her naked body gleaming with a light sheen of sweat in the sterile light. She tilted her head back, breathing deeply, feeling the lingering tremors of pleasure mixed with the electric anticipation of more. Her gaze drifted lazily upwards to Silas’s spread legs and cock. He was a wreck – crimson, tear-streaked, slick with sweat, his chest heaving as he gulped air. A slow unkind smile spread across Carrie’s lips. "That," she breathed, her voice thick with satisfaction, "was... incredible." She deliberately let her gaze roam slowly over his vulnerable body, lingering on his exposed armpits, ribs, and belly. "I understand so much better now."
Silas whimpered, a thin, desperate sound. "Please... Carrie..." he choked out, his voice shredded. "No more... can't... breathe... Remember gentle?"
Carrie chuckled softly, a low, dangerous sound. She finally rose fully to her feet, standing tall. "No more?" she echoed, feigning surprise. She leaned over him slightly, her long black hair brushing his pelvis area. "But Silas, we’re just getting started. That little... interruption... was merely the beginning." She traced a single, cool fingertip lightly down his trembling side, stopping just above his hipbone. He flinched violently. "I think," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper thick with sarcasm, "you need to laugh some more. A lot more. And soon." She withdrew her finger slowly, letting the threat hang heavy in the air.
Panic flared anew in Silas’s eyes. "Don't!" he begged, his voice cracking. "Please... I can't... it hurts... it tickles too much!" He strained futilely against the straps. "I'll... I'll do anything! I'm helpless to your tickling, there's nothing I can do to stop you!"
Definitely the wrong thing to say to Carrie in the moment. Carrie’s smile widened, sharp and cold as shattered glass. She stood motionless, letting the silence stretch thin while Silas trembled beneath her gaze. His choked sobs and ragged breaths were a symphony feeding the warmth pooling low in her belly—a direct, visceral connection forged by the Red pill. Every gasp was a spark; every tear-streaked shudder fanned the embers of her arousal. She felt powerful, untouchable, riding the high of his suffering. And the icing on top? He was so handsome! She'd like to own him that's for sure.
"You sound so... broken," she murmured, tilting her head. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to dive back into his soft, vulnerable skin. "It’s beautiful, really. That laughter. That desperate, begging sound." Silas flinched as if struck. "Please," he rasped, voice raw. "I can’t—it’s too much. It hurts." Carrie leaned in, her breath ghosting over his ear. "Hurts? Or tickles? Because the manual says those giggles mean you need it." She traced a single nail lightly down his ribs. He jerked, a whimper escaping him. "See? Your body knows the truth doesn't it."
She straightened, savoring the fear in his eyes. "I’ll give you a choice, Silas. A little game." Her tone was honey-sweet, laced with venom. "Beg me to tickle you. Beg me properly. Say ‘Please tickle me more, Carrie.’" His eyes widened in horror. "N-no! I can’t—" "If you refuse," she cut in, voice hardening, "I’ll start with your feet. I might even search for a tuning fork. Imagine that vibration... right on your soles." She paused, letting the image sink in. "And I won’t stop. Not when you scream. Not when you beg. Not even when you wet yourself." In fact, have you ever had the tuning fork focused directly at your cock? she asked.
Silas froze, terror locking his muscles. Carrie watched, fascinated, as a tear slid down his temple. The Red pill thrummed inside her, craving his surrender. "Tick-tock," she whispered. "Beg... or suffer." He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. Then, in a voice shredded to ribbons: "P-please... tickle me more, Carrie." She laughed—a low, dark sound. "Louder." "PLEASE TICKLE ME MORE!" he screamed, the words tearing from his throat. "Louder Silas!" He gasped for breath in which to say it, "PLEASE TICKLE ME SO MUCH MORE!" he screamed. "PLEASE PLEASE DO IT!"
Carrie’s hands shot out, she crossed her hands over at the wrists so that her right hand tickled the inner thigh on the left side, and her left hand tickled the inner thigh on the right. Her fingers plunged firmly into the muscles at the very top of his inner thighs, squeezing ticklish flesh between thumb and fingers. His body convulsed, laughter erupting in frantic, sobbing unknown bursts of crazy laughter. She drank in the sound, the pleasure cresting inside her almost immediately. "Good boy," she yelled in a shaky voice. "Now... let’s see how long you can laugh." His screams were hysterical, breathless shrieks— more fuel for her fire.
She shifted her focus upward, fingers scrambling over his hip bones, digging into the soft indentations just below the ridge. Her nails scribbled rapid, vicious circles against the hypersensitive skin where thigh met torso. Silas bucked wildly against his restraints; his laughter choked with tears and snot. Sweat slicked his entire body, gleaming under the harsh lights. Carrie felt her own perspiration dripping down her temples, mingling with the tears of intense pleasure welling in her eyes. The air thickened with the scent of exertion and desperation. Every gasp he fought for became a ragged symphony feeding the coil tightening low in her belly.
Her hands danced higher, fingers spidering across his trembling abdomen, tracing the ridges of his ribs before plunging back down to the tender hollows of his hips. She alternated between deep, kneading squeezes and feather-light, skittering scratches—merciless, unpredictable. Silas’s laughter became a continuous high-pitched wail, punctuated by desperate gulps for air. His face was a mask of crimson agony, tears streaming. Carrie leaned closer, her own breath ragged, her vision blurring slightly as the red pill’s amplification surged. The connection between his suffering and her pleasure was visceral, electric. She felt every spasm, every choked giggle resonate through her own nerves, building incredible sexual pressure, quickly.
The climax hit Carrie like a collapsing star. It wasn’t a wave, but a singularity—an implosion of pure sensation that tore through her core with violent, mathematical precision. Her muscles seized, locking her in place above him. A sound escaped her—not a cry, but a low, guttural groan ripped from deep within her diaphragm. Pleasure radiated outward in concentric rings, dense and overwhelming, compressing her ribs, flooding her limbs with liquid heat. Time dilated; the frantic sounds of Silas’s torment faded as her entire nervous system focused inward on the raw, geometric pulse of ecstasy. It felt less like release and more like fusion—a terrifying, exhilarating collapse where his suffering and her gratification became indistinguishable coordinates on a single plane. Her hips jerked involuntarily against the edge of the bondage table, seeking friction, grounding against this impossible intensity. Sweat slicked her skin; her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. The peak held her suspended, breathless, for what felt like eons—a perfect, agonizing equation of control and surrender.
Slowly, tremulously, the pressure began to ebb. Carrie slumped forward, her forehead pressing against Silas’s sweat-slicked chest. She gasped, dragging air into her starved lungs. The aftermath was a hollowing ache, deliciously deep, a lingering resonance humming in her bones. Her skin felt hypersensitive, alive. She could feel the rapid flutter of Silas’s pulse beneath her cheek, smell the sharp tang of his fear and exertion mingled with her own sweat. The red pill’s glow persisted, a low thrum promising more, if she wanted it. She lifted her head slowly, meeting Silas’s tear-filled, terrified eyes. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips. "Again," she whispered, her voice hoarse but thick with certainty. "We do that again."
Silas whimpered, a broken sound. "No... please... no, can't..." His voice was shredded, barely audible.
Carrie straightened slowly, her spine uncoiling like a predator rising. She stood tall beside the bondage table, sweat gleaming on her naked skin. Without breaking eye contact, she took two deliberate steps backwards, positioning herself directly at Silas's feet. She widened her arms out, fingers poised inches above his vulnerable soles. The arches were high, the skin smooth and pale despite his torment. Her gaze locked onto them, hungry. "Now," she announced, her voice low, stern, and thick with anticipation. "The dessert." Her body hummed, aching for the next wave of pleasure his suffering would ignite. Her mind burned with the need to hear his laughter fracture completely.
Silas trembled, his head lolling weakly. Faint, almost undetectable words spilled from his trembling lips: "...too much...hurts...stop...begging..." Yet, beneath the terror, a hysterical smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, a grotesque counterpoint to the tears still streaming down his temples. "You're teasing me again, Silas," Carrie murmured, her voice chillingly calm. "That smile? That begging? Textbook solicitation. You know this is what you were made for. Deep down, you crave this intensity. Deny it all you want, but your body sings the truth." She leaned forward slightly, her shadow falling over his feet. "You are my property right now. I appreciate the beautiful suffering you give me, but remember your purpose. Show respect."
"No!" he gasped, finding a sliver of desperate defiance. "It's torture! Pure torture! I don't crave it! I hate it! Please believe—" Carrie cut him off, her voice sharpening. "Your protests are disrespectful noise. You were created for this. To be tickled. To suffer beautifully. To make people like me feel incredible." Her fingers flexed, hovering centimeters above his skin. "Now, show proper respect. Or I will make this even worse for you." Silas stopped talking, his protest dying in a choked sob. He squeezed his eyes shut, his body rigid with terrified anticipation. Respect meant silence, until spoken to.
Both of Carrie's hands descended simultaneously. Not tentative, not frantic. Firm, deliberate, possessive. Her fingertips danced and tapped into the sensitive arches, thumbs curled around and holding onto the tops of his feet, nails lightly scraping the tender skin on his soles.
Silas's body exploded. A sound ripped from his throat – part shriek, part hysterical giggle, wholly agonized. His legs jerked violently against the knee and ankle restraints, muscles corded. His back arched impossibly off the table. Tears flooded anew. Carrie watched, mesmerized, as his entire frame convulsed in uncontrollable tremors. The vibrations traveled up her arms, igniting the familiar, electric warmth low in her belly. She accelerated her finger taps onto the hypersensitive arches. His laughter breathless wet gasps, punctuated by desperate whimpers. "See?" Carrie breathed, her own voice trembling with building internal pleasure. "Singing like you should be. You should always be like this Silas." Her fingers began to scribble intricately, maddening patterns across his entire soles, relentless and precise. The symphony of his torment fed the fire inside her, promising another devastating peak soon. She leaned into it, determined to push him – and herself – far beyond his last breaking point.
Carrie noted him attempting to protest and beg. "Respect, Silas," she commanded, her voice chillingly calm despite the exertion, as her fingernails scribbled dizzyingly fast on the balls of his feet, and just under his toes. "You're my property. You exist to be tickled. To suffer beautifully. To make me feel..." She paused, a shudder running through her as another wave of pleasure crested up. "...incredible! Appreciate your purpose!" Now her nails scratched at the tender skin below his toes. He screamed, a raw, tearing sound of strange laughter. Carrie felt the corresponding surge within her own core, sharp and demanding.
"I...hate...it I'm ticklish!" Silas gasped out between convulsive giggles, the defiance weak but present. "I confess! It's in the drawer by the couch!" Her attack intensified instantly, fingers spidering rapidly across every inch of sole and instep, nails scraping with furious precision. "You were created ... for this." To anchor her assault, she slid her thumbs firmly up to the tops of his feet, pressing down on the bony ridges to pin them flat. This locked his feet immobile as her other fingers scribbled maddening into his hypersensitive arches and insteps. Silas bucked wildly against the ankle restraints, his laughter wet gasps that sounded like drowning. Tears streamed unchecked, on his crimson face. Yet that hysterical smile remained—a grotesque mask of agony and something else Carrie refused to name. What did he mean when he said the drawer by the couch?
"Appreciate your ticklish purpose," Carrie commanded, her voice raw with exertion and the red pill’s thrumming pleasure. She leaned forward closer. "You suffer so beautifully. You make me powerful. Respect that." Silas’s response was a garbled mess: "...please...stop...hurts...tickles...dieing..." The words were lost beneath convulsive giggles but Carrie caught the edge of desperation. She snarled, as her 3rd orgasm neared.
Silas’s screamed in pure ticklish agony. Her fingers punished his soles with sadistic fury, each scratch a calculated strike designed to shatter him completely. The manual was right: his body sang even as his mind screamed denial. Carrie drank it in—the tremors in his thighs, the choked pleas woven into laughter, the tears soaking the table. She owned every shudder, every gasp. And the climax building inside her was finally here.
It didn't crest; it hovered. A terrifying, exquisite suspension seized her. Pleasure crystallized into a razor-sharp edge, holding her trembling above Silas’s tortured feet. Time stretched thin. Her fingers kept moving—scratching, digging—but mechanically, driven by instinct. Her entire awareness narrowed to that impossible peak, a pressure so intense it felt like her bones might splinter. Sweat stung her eyes. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink. Only feel the agonizing, perfect tension coiling tighter, tighter.
Then it shattered. Not a release, but an explosion. A guttural scream tore from Carrie’s throat—raw, primal, echoing Silas’s own torment. Her body convulsed violently, hips bucking against empty air. Tears streamed freely, hot and unchecked, mingling with the sweat on her cheeks. Her face contorted, a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Her fingers clawed deeper into Silas’s soles, anchoring her as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashed through her. It wasn't joy; it was annihilation. It lasted an eternity—a roaring cascade of sensation that drowned out Silas’s frantic laughter, the sterile room, everything but the raw, pulsing connection between his suffering and her rapture. She rode it, savored it, letting the tremors wrack her until she slumped forward, gasping, forehead pressed against his thigh.
Strength evaporated. Carrie’s hands slid limply off Silas’s slick feet. Her knees gave way completely. She crumpled sideways onto the floor. For a moment, she simply lay there, panting, trembling, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her muscles like electrical currents. Silas was a shuddering wreck. His laughter taking the form of frantic gulps of air and wet, choking sobs. His entire body trembled uncontrollably, muscles twitching beneath sweat-slicked skin. Tears streamed down his temples, pooling on the padded table beneath his head. His chest heaved. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. Beautiful. Utterly broken.
Carrie pushed herself up weakly, back into the corner of the room. The wall offered support against her trembling spine. She slumped, legs splayed out before her, utterly spent. Her gaze, heavy-lidded but intensely focused, remained fixed on Silas. Every tremor, every shuddering gasp, every tear-streaked twitch was a masterpiece. He whimpered, a sound like a wounded animal, his head lolling weakly. "N-no... please... no more..." he rasped, voice shredded beyond recognition. Carrie watched his cock, still rigid and straining against his belly, twitching slightly with each ragged breath. Hypersensitive. Primed. Proof that the manual was right. He deserved this. Every second. He’d lied. He’d denied the craving written in his very biology. Built for this. Owned by this. Owned by her.
Her own body hummed with exhaustion and lingering aftershocks. Sweat dripped steadily from her chin, tracing paths down her neck, over her collarbone, and onto her breasts. She needed some calm. Her hand drifted down between her thighs. Her fingers slid gently over her slick, hypersensitive clit. Not frantic, not demanding release – just soothing circles, a grounding pressure against the electric buzz still singing in her nerves. Each slow stroke eased the trembling deep within her muscles, allowing her to observe Silas with detached, predatory clarity.
His convulsions were subsiding into simple tremors now, punctuated by involuntary giggles that bubbled up despite his obvious exhaustion. His eyes were slowly opening and closing, tears still leaking. His hips jerked sporadically, his cock bobbing against his stomach. Textbook solicitation, she thought, he's asking for more. Textbook craving. Carrie’s fingers slowed on her clit, her breathing deepening as she studied him. He wasn’t like, insane now, was he? No, not yet. Lena had broken him harder than this before; he’d recover. But this... this state of broken ecstasy, this beautiful suffering he was experiencing... it was hers. She’d done this. She’d unlocked him and obliterated him. The corner of her mouth lifted in a faint satisfied curve. He was hers to torment. Hers to make sing. And he would sing again for her too, if she had any say in it. She fell asleep with exhaustion.
Some minutes later Carrie’s eyes slowly opened, sticky with sleep. She was still slumped against the corner, legs splayed awkwardly. How long had she been asleep? Minutes? An hour? A thin line of drool cooled on her chin. The air hung heavy with the sharp tang of sweat and exertion—hers and Silas’s. Silence. Not absolute, but thick. The frantic symphony of screams and laughter had ceased, replaced by Silas’s shallow, ragged breathing. He lay still on the table, eyes closed, chest barely rising. Sweat glistened on his skin, drying now. Lena might be arriving any minute. The thought pierced her lethargy. Carrie pushed herself up slowly. Her robe, the soft lite green silk, lay crumpled on the floor. She picked it up, shaking it out, her gaze never leaving Silas. His vulnerability was mesmerizing—the tear tracks, the slight tremble in his lips, the way his hands still twitched faintly against the restraints. Proof. Evidence. She slid her arms into the robe, tying the sash.
The white pill must have worn off because Carrie felt small, unwelcome pinpricks of empathy as she looked at Silas. Not the overwhelming flood she’d felt when she first walked into this room—just fleeting moments where his trembling lips or the raw, weeping skin beneath his restraints made her stomach tighten, a little. She recalled how effortlessly the pill had silenced those feelings earlier, how cleanly it had severed her mercy. Amazing, really. It hadn’t just dulled her conscience; it had transformed her into something predatory. She didn’t regret the tickling, not for a second—Silas was built for this, after all—but she was impressed with it. That little white tablet had unlocked a door inside her, and what waited behind it… was nice. Very nice. A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips as she tightened her robe’s sash.
Carrie slipped out of the room, closing the heavy soundproofed door softly behind her. She was now back in the original room Ms Robinson dropped her off at. She sank onto the deep velvet couch, the cushions sighing softly. Waiting. For Lena? For Robinson? She wasn’t sure. Her gaze drifted absently around the dimly lit room. Then she remembered Silas’s frantic, gasping words amidst the tickling: "It's in the drawer by the couch!" He’d been hysterical, desperate, probably lying… but her eyes scanned the room anyway. And there it was: a small, elegant mahogany end table beside the couch arm. Two drawers. Her pulse quickened slightly. Why not look? What harm could it do?
She leaned forward, pulling open the top drawer. It slid smoothly, silently. Inside, nestled on dark velvet lining, lay a gleaming silver tuning fork tickler device. It wasn’t large—perhaps eight inches long—but exquisitely crafted. The stem was thick and smooth, the prongs perfectly symmetrical and tapering to fine points. Carrie’s breath caught. Exactly like the one Lena had used on Silas earlier, the one that had elicited those primal, animalistic screams. She picked it up. It felt heavier than it looked, solid. She traced a fingertip along one prong, imagining the unbearable vibration against Silas’s soles, his ribs, the soft skin of his inner thighs. A phantom echo of pleasure tingled low in her belly, amplified by Agent Red’s lingering chemical glow. She pictured Lena’s expert, sadistic hands wielding it. Could she do that? Could she push Silas even beyond what she’d just achieved? The thought sent a wonderful shiver of anticipation down her spine.
The sharp, distinct beep-beep-beep of the electronic keypad being punched on the corridor side of the heavy door sliced through the silence. Lena! Carrie’s head snapped up. Panic, momentarily eclipsed the arousal. She couldn’t be caught with this. Not yet. Moving with frantic speed, she dropped the fork back onto the velvet. It landed with a soft thump. She slammed the drawer shut, the satisfying click echoing loudly in the sudden stillness. Heart pounding against her ribs, she spun on her heel and threw herself backwards onto the deep velvet couch cushions just as the heavy lock mechanism thunked and the door slid open.
... To Be Continued in part 5
