ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 18
“BRITT ROBERTSON!! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!!”
She doesn’t flinch, hoping that a non-response will deflect any attention that may be directed towards her, knowing full well there is very little chance now of that happening. Caught right in the middle of a packed Los Angeles sidewalk, American actress Britt Robertson is nonetheless plucked from right out of the crowd, her urban camouflage of a tank top, tights, and purple Converse sneakers unable to hide her from the vigilant eyes of those most determined. It had become second nature for her these days, a rising star thrust into the spotlight after every movie premiere, having to deal constantly with the novelty of her sighting to those only having seen her behind a screen. However, as time went on, she had reluctantly succumbed to the prospect of an awkward selfie with an overly friendly tourist, her grimace or forced smile soon plastered all over social media for those to judge.
But today, it seemed that just wasn’t going to be enough.
“Miss Robertson wait! I just need one more signature!”
Oh dear Lord, she’s one of them!! she exclaims in the back of her mind, picking up pace to that of a near jog in hopes of escaping that most unyielding of fanatics. Trust her: the only thing worse than being confused with a post-liposuction Jennifer Lawrence was The Completionist, a small subsection of overzealous fans clamoring to fill their shrines with mementos from their favorite stars, from simple autographs to more…intimate acquisitions (she can’t help but recall scissor-wielding nut bags almost taking off Jake Gyllenhaal’s ear for a simple lock of hair). Knowing that the moment she gives up they will never stop pursuing her, she resolves to escape this crazed woman at any cost. Past a large white van, a jerk to her left lands her in a small alleyway sandwiched between a boutique dog groomer and a Chinese restaurant. However, her heart nearly drops to the floor as, turning around, she is struck with the realization that it is a dead end with no way out. She can hear the frantic cries of the deranged woman coming towards her, sifting through her mind just what she could do to avoid giving her everything she want. It must have been through divine intervention that, passing a small door left slightly ajar, she is yanked tersely into its interior, swiftly shutting her in just as the crazed woman rounds the corner.
Unfortunately, this would be one coincidence she would trade for a crazed fan any day.
“MMMMMMMMRPHHH!!” she grunts forcefully into a thick white cloth placed atop her mouth and nose. “RRRRRRRRRRRMMPHHHHHH!! NNNNNNNNNNNNMPHHHHHHHH” A single assailant has taken ahold of the distraught starlet, her shrieking cries falling on deaf ears just barely audible within the darkened space. Arms pinned against her sides, she has no other choice but to kick wildly her legs into open air, feeling herself slowly carried back further into these unknown surroundings without any hope for escape. Curiosity finally takes hold of her as she thrusts her sights backward, catching glimpse of what seems to be her intended destination: a plastic lawn chair, set precariously under a single spotlight that shrouds the surrounding space in near darkness.
The unknown figure thrusts her atop the chair, keeping the cloth over her mouth as he pins her to its surface. Reaching below her, he reveals a thick leather cuff, its interior lined with soft fuzzy padding and a thick belt on its exterior. Grasping her by the left arm, he wraps the bond around her dainty wrist and, in one swift motion, pulls it tight around her extremity. She can only witness in helpless horror the same being done to her other wrist, locked strictly into place as her bulging muscles give her no hope. Even in her physical prime, she can only wriggle underneath his grasp, the weight of his body spread across hers rendering every struggle pitifully useless. By the time he reaches her ankles, binding them at the end of the chair with yet another hidden pair of restraints, she has just the might to spit the cloth from her lips.
“What the hell are you doing?!” she shouts at the unknown figure, feeling the last cinch of bondage around her left ankle. “Let me go right now! Who do you think you’re dealing with?!” He turns around, a ravenous look in his eye shaking the distraught starlet down to her very core. Taken aback by such a wanton expression across his newly revealed face, she can only watch as he rises himself from his perch, her lower lip trembling in anticipation as he begins to speak.
“Oh, none other but the vivacious and beautiful Britt Robertson, am I right?” he asks, noting the look of fear scrawled across her face as he begins to lean forward, placing his face right in front of hers. “Because that’s exactly who I have been dispatched to deal with young lady: you see, it seems little Miss America’s Sweetheart, pure-as-can-be has attracted the attention of some gossip columns around Tinseltown here, grasping at straws trying to come up with juicy gossip that will knock you square off your throne. Well, let’s just say short of incurring a libel lawsuit, they have hired yours truly to get that information straight from the horse’s mouth.” She is dumbfounded, never once believing that even in the bloodthirsty business of Hollywood, someone would go this far to dig up dirt on her. Nonetheless, she had to find any way out, and the only way she felt how was to just play along.
“Please, don’t hurt me!” she squeaks out, the fear of her situation having taken full hold of her. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’m sure I can give you the same to just let me go.”
“Oh, I don’t want your money honey,” he assures her, watching as her mouth drops open in shock. “Because I told them: I would do this for free any day, my little pumpkin. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to begin my interrogation.” That very word sent a shiver down her spine, a torrent of horrid outcomes flooding through her mind, trying to figure out what exactly he has in mind. Her eyes grow wide as dinner plates, watching as the deranged madman makes his way towards her helplessly bound feet. Grasping the tips of her shoelaces, he begins slowly tugging them loose, falling precariously to the sides as though her last vestige of defense was so paltry.
“You wouldn’t happen to be ticklish, now would you?” he asks, watching her face turn white in sheer terror, not knowing just how her most dreadful weakness could be thrust upon her front and center. It all makes sense to her now: in her helpless position, she has no choice but to watch in agony as her hyper ticklish feet are tickled by this deranged figure, a torture like no other. Time after dreadful time, as his clumsy fingers pull away at her laces, does he gently caress the tops of her shoes, such subtle sensation enough to make her jerk in ticklish anticipation, biting her lip to suppress any unforeseen laughter that may inexplicably spring forth. Tossing her shoes behind him, he unveils a pair of ripe socked feet, her toes curling inside of them in sheer anticipation.
“Oh, isn’t this lovely?” he notes, motioning his wriggling fingers into the soles of her helpless socked feet. Caressing the soft thin material, he can feel the wrinkles within her soles reverberate under his fingers, tracing over them like ridges on a chip.
“Ppppppppppppfhfhfhfhfhfhfh!” she sputters, her cheeks turning red from the pressure behind her tightly pursed lips, hoping to rob him of any satisfaction from such a pathetic effort. Little could she imagine that, the more she resisted his ticklish touch, the more the sadistic man would seek to dismantle her resistance, peeling it right from under her until there was nothing left. Her last shred of dignity aside, she succumbs to breathless giggles, bending her head forward in pathetic attempt at hiding her toothy grin.
“Now that’s no fun, is it?” he asks her, digging his nails through the soft cotton into her heels.
“Hahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” her unrestrained cackles ring forth, a short cry at the end showing just how desperate she is gradually becoming. Tears slowly building in the sides of her eyes, the force of her reactions alone are enough to satiate the figure’s hunger for her desperation, but seemingly not enough to prevent him from grasping the tips of her socks. She tries to beg him, plead for mercy, even barter for her release, but nothing she could have done would have prevented the inevitable as, tugging them off from the very tips of her toes, he reveals a perfectly shaped pair of size six feet, a deep shade of purple varnish adorning her plump toes.
“You seem to be incapable of making this easier on yourself, isn’t that right Ms. Robertson?” he taunts her, watching the fear in her eyes shift to righteous indignation, knowing she is falling right into the palms of his hands. “If only you could resist more, then I might actually start enjoying myself.”
“LET ME GO YOU PERVERT!!” she barks at her captor, knowing full well just how little power she has left, but not knowing just what else to do.
“Oh, that’s what I’m talking about!” he exclaims, finding joy in the spunk his little captive has found in her. “Now, let’s see how much you have left in you.” Taking his fingertips, placing them right atop the tender soles of her bare feet, he begins skittering them across her exposed flesh, throwing her into a maelstrom of ticklish horrors.
“Naaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa!!” she cackles, throwing her head back with such force the chair nearly topples backwards. “Nohohohohoho wait! Waiheheheheheheeeeeeeeeeeeeet!” She can feel nothing but the horrid sensations of unbridled forced mirth, writhing in ticklish agony as he descends down to the pads of her tender heels, digging his nails into them without a care in the world.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she squeals at the tops of her lungs, mouth agape in desperate attempt to cope with such sensations. Flailing about in desperate form, she is rendered all but meek as he ascends straight into her toes, sending her into shrieks of silent screams. What little grasp she has in the world is slowly slipping through her grasp, a combination of overstimulation and lightheadedness from such an onslaught as she is slowly losing breath. Feeling weak, she begins to stop struggling letting his nimble fingers floss their way in between her toes, sending yet another wave of horrid sensations into her quivering psyche. However, just as she feels she is about to lose consciousness, he ceases his torments.
“I don’t suppose you’re still refusing to divulge all your secrets, are you?” he asks her, looking through her disheveled blonde hair matted over her face. “Because I sure hope you are, for that will give me so much more time to get acquainted.” He leaves her for but a moment, too brief for her to do anything but quickly question the very purpose of her suffering. Had she preemptively known the extent of her torments even up to this point, she may have given up just enough personal information for a viral apology of some kind. However, now that she is fully aware of just how much he enjoys her suffering, she feels that not even spilling her guts to him would alleviate her suffering. It is only then she sees a large mirror placed adjacent to her, allowing her to get a glimpse of her dainty feet reddened from her torments. Just as she is about to call out for help, her captor returns, a devious grin scrawled across her face.
“I hope you didn’t miss me…” he says, holding in his left hand a black duffle bag. “…because I have ways of making stubborn girls talk, whether they want to or not...
“Oh, I’m sure you’re going to thoroughly enjoy the rest of our time together, my little princess…”
Poor oh poor little actress: Britt Robertson, having been wrenched right off the street by an unknown assailant, is now stowed away in the back of an abandoned building, bound helpless in the most compromising of positions, without a soul in the world knowing of her hellish plight but the very man inflicting it upon her. It was just her luck to fall into his clutches, a despicable figure with a penchant for ruthless tickle torture, all for the sake of having her reveal her darkest of secrets merely for some tabloid fodder. How he toys with her vulnerability, driving her further into the depths of her own personal hell at the hands of a true tickle sadist. Who knew her lowliest of appendages could be used against her as such, with every inch of her hyper ticklish bare feet rendered a canvas in which to scrawl a tickling of ungodly proportions? Trapped in an endless cycle of ticklish torments, she can only watch in distraught horror as her kidnapper enters back into the room, black duffle bag in hand, and that devious smirk across his face.
She tries to utter one syllable, one faint whisper in desperate attempt to avoid what she knows to befall her next, but not a peep falls from her quivering lips, the thought of what may be in store for her in that bag rendering her all but completely mute. She clenches her toes, but a reflex of sheer anticipation as he places the bag within inches of her captive feet. A wave of relief washes over her as he reveals a small camcorder from its contents, setting it atop a tripod just feet away to capture her confession.
“Just a little memento I picked up from my last assignment,” he cackles, clamping the video recorder atop the device, fiddling with it as its red light begin flashing. “You wouldn’t know her: a little tramp, rising pop star that got a little too big for her britches…that was until I got a hold of her. Caught her vlogging in her trailer right before her big concert: poor thing lost her voice before her big show, couldn’t even sing, and there went her career right in the blink of an eye. Anything for a paycheck, I suppose.” He looks up from his work, flashing her a grin that sent goosebumps across her person. Had it merely been a corporate goon sent to gather dirt on her, even putting her in this very same position, she would have at least been able to keep some composure. But this was completely different, for the very idea of this deranged man indulging himself in her suffering, torturing her or his own amusement, not ceasing even if she did divulge everything to his liking, was a torment she could not withstand, gradually peeling away at her psyche bit by agonizing bit…
…and he knew it.
“Best not ruin the surprise,” he dictates, reaching behind her as he unclamps a lever underneath her back, rocking the top of the lawn chair back until she lays completely flat. Reaching into his back pocket, he reveals a long leather strap, the inside lined with a layer of fuzzy padding. Pressing her head against the chair, he wraps it around her forehead, binding it with Velcro around the openings of the chair as to fully immobilize her, nothing left but the shining spotlight in her field of vision. Kneeling at her level, placing his mouth directly adjacent to her left ear, he whispers ominously to her, “Oh, I’m sure you’re going to enjoy the rest of my wares, now aren’t you?”
He whisks himself away, out of sight as she strains against her new bondage to see. She can hear him rummaging once again through his pack, the foreboding sound of countless items clacking against one another crumbling her defenses as we speak. Tears begin collecting at the sides of her eyes, preemptive given exactly the fate she knows to be coming.
“Perfect!” he exclaims, making her gasp in shock and terror, straining against her bondage just to take a fleeting peek at his reveal, only to be rendered pitifully immobile. “Oh just how many wills I’ve broken with this thing, you will never know!” She is fuming, trembling every muscle she has in her predicament, a mixture of fear and exhaustion the catalyst. Just as she is about to crack, opening her mouth to tell him to stop, to give him but a taste of what he has been after, she hears a whirring the likes of which sounds so familiar, yet so foreign. It is then, as she presses her teeth against her bottom lip, that she discovers the source of the sound: an electric toothbrush, descending upon the soles of her feet, without even a modicum of mercy for her to grasp onto.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” She lets out an almighty wail, her own ears ringing from such force. Jerking uncontrollably, feet flailing to the best of their ability, she can do nothing but feel every tiny bristle scrape against the tender flesh of her freshly pedicured soles.
“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEASEEEEEEEEE!!” Clenching her fists until her knuckles turn white is all she can do to alleviate her suffering, her eyes alternating from tightly clamped to wide as saucers as yet another horrid spot is discovered.
“IIIIIIIIIII’MMMMM BEEEEEGGING YOUHUHUHUHUHUUUUUU!!” she pleas, her desperation growing with each passing moment, the dastardly device resting atop her heels serving as a break if she ever had one. However, all that is finished the moment it begins scaling up the sides of her feet, that untouched surface that never gets the attention it deserves yet is laid bare front and center now.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOOOOO!!” she bellows forth, her lungs burning with the intensity of forced laughter emanating from her strained gullet. Losing her grasp on the world, she stared up at the bright light, pleading for some divine intervention as though that was her only hope left, knowing still it would never come. All that was left for him to exploit was the inevitable, for the moment he ascends to the tops of her toes, he extracts a silent shriek of pure terror beyond all reason.
“That a girl,” he mutters to himself, pinning her left foot underneath his arm as he drags the mechanism across each and every digit, looking on in silent delight as she is slowly but surely rendered into a pitiful heap. Going into uncontrollable convulsions, her flailing toes are useless in avoiding her torments, as the dreaded device ravages every square inch of their hyper ticklish surface with absolute ease. Wrenching against her restraints, throwing her chest high up into the air, she hasn’t a choice but to feel every sensation, the robbery of her sight making that readily apparent. It is only thirty minutes later, after the last shred of defiance is stripped away from her, that she resigns herself to give in, much to his utmost pleasure.
“Now we’re ready to talk.”
He takes the camera, positioning it right next to her face, a vacancy in her eyes having been robbed of every ounce of energy left in her. Over the next hour, she would dictate every little thing he asked her about, divulging everything from bank records to online account passwords, phone access points, right down to her elementary school ID, not one detail left unveiled. Accessing her accounts from his own laptop, he was able to download every scrap of her personal life she could possibly imagine, with private photos and conversations shared with her most intimate of loved ones being uploaded to a private server right in front of her eyes. But, even this could not compare to the most painful stage of the interrogation, for the last half of the hour was spent divulging her darkest of secrets, those she hadn’t dared share with anyone for fear of them uprooting her finely crafted career. Everything from her infrequent affairs, to her sexual escapades, right down to the most unrefined methods used to land prominent roles was laid bare. She even made some up that were too horrid to be true when accused of holding back, but it didn’t matter anymore: all that was left was for her to escape her torments one way or the other. By the time it was all over, and her assailant was packing up his computer, she had finally thought herself finished with the ordeal.
“I don’t believe you.” The words fell from his lips so cold, so quick, ringing through her ears like they had earthshattering consequences. Disbelief was an understatement for this moment, lost in the reality of what she had known to be the outcome all along. The moment she tries to plead, grasping for one word to change his mind, she is struck by a foreign sensation: a large hairbrush, its bristles lined with small plastic nibs, ravaging the sole of her left foot, the shrieks of a desperate woman renewed with vigor.
What she had to endure in the ensuing hour proved the most unbearable moments of her life: over and over, her tenderized feet are ravaged by these hellish devices only a true sadist could discover. Her toes, flailing to and fro as they are afflicted with colorful pipe cleaners, flossing their way into the most delicate of flesh, get the worst of it over these torturously long moments. Flossing devices, those he could have found lying in her bathroom, proved most effective in extracting the most primal of sounds from her strained gullet, buzzing their way into her tender soles with surgical accuracy. But, the denouement of the night came in the form of a two-for-one deal: scraping a large comb into the heel of her left foot, the crazed madman would roast the bottom of the other with a small electric hairdryer, bringing it to an unbearable state until scraping ice atop its sensitized surface, a torture that only intensified the tickling that would soon follow. Over and over he did this to no end, with a fountain of tears raining down atop the solid concrete floor, her hair matting itself against her forehead.
Finally, chest heaving, drenched in sweat and tears, the poor starlet was finally left to rest.
“Oh, you are just far too much Ms. Robertson,” he assures her, turning off the camera, having all the information he had sought. “If only any of this would help you.” She turns to him, faintly mouthing a question she hasn’t the energy to vocalize.
“I hope you didn’t think I’d be letting you go after all this, now did you?” his devious smile returns, sending her mind once again into a tailspin. “You see, I’m privy to a worldwide community to tickle enthusiasts just like myself who, let’s say, value authenticity over everything else. I’m sure they’d pay through the nose to get their hands on this and any other footage we produce together, even having the chance to participate themselves. Oh, we’re not that cruel young lady: you’ll soon be returned to your old life, give or take a few months and a couple hundred of hours of raw footage. And don’t think you’ll be forgotten by your fans: what’s more sympathetic than a kidnapped starlet coming back from such a harrowing ordeal? You’ll have your whole life ahead of you, Miss Robertson.”
She watches him go one last time, bringing back a small damp cloth in his left hand. Too tired to even bat an eyelash, she lays motionless, only waiting for her fate knowing it is only to last a few months. As the rag is placed over her face, slowly falling out of consciousness, she wonders if what he is saying is true, and that she only has to endure to have the acting career she has always wanted.
The End
She doesn’t flinch, hoping that a non-response will deflect any attention that may be directed towards her, knowing full well there is very little chance now of that happening. Caught right in the middle of a packed Los Angeles sidewalk, American actress Britt Robertson is nonetheless plucked from right out of the crowd, her urban camouflage of a tank top, tights, and purple Converse sneakers unable to hide her from the vigilant eyes of those most determined. It had become second nature for her these days, a rising star thrust into the spotlight after every movie premiere, having to deal constantly with the novelty of her sighting to those only having seen her behind a screen. However, as time went on, she had reluctantly succumbed to the prospect of an awkward selfie with an overly friendly tourist, her grimace or forced smile soon plastered all over social media for those to judge.
But today, it seemed that just wasn’t going to be enough.
“Miss Robertson wait! I just need one more signature!”
Oh dear Lord, she’s one of them!! she exclaims in the back of her mind, picking up pace to that of a near jog in hopes of escaping that most unyielding of fanatics. Trust her: the only thing worse than being confused with a post-liposuction Jennifer Lawrence was The Completionist, a small subsection of overzealous fans clamoring to fill their shrines with mementos from their favorite stars, from simple autographs to more…intimate acquisitions (she can’t help but recall scissor-wielding nut bags almost taking off Jake Gyllenhaal’s ear for a simple lock of hair). Knowing that the moment she gives up they will never stop pursuing her, she resolves to escape this crazed woman at any cost. Past a large white van, a jerk to her left lands her in a small alleyway sandwiched between a boutique dog groomer and a Chinese restaurant. However, her heart nearly drops to the floor as, turning around, she is struck with the realization that it is a dead end with no way out. She can hear the frantic cries of the deranged woman coming towards her, sifting through her mind just what she could do to avoid giving her everything she want. It must have been through divine intervention that, passing a small door left slightly ajar, she is yanked tersely into its interior, swiftly shutting her in just as the crazed woman rounds the corner.
Unfortunately, this would be one coincidence she would trade for a crazed fan any day.
“MMMMMMMMRPHHH!!” she grunts forcefully into a thick white cloth placed atop her mouth and nose. “RRRRRRRRRRRMMPHHHHHH!! NNNNNNNNNNNNMPHHHHHHHH” A single assailant has taken ahold of the distraught starlet, her shrieking cries falling on deaf ears just barely audible within the darkened space. Arms pinned against her sides, she has no other choice but to kick wildly her legs into open air, feeling herself slowly carried back further into these unknown surroundings without any hope for escape. Curiosity finally takes hold of her as she thrusts her sights backward, catching glimpse of what seems to be her intended destination: a plastic lawn chair, set precariously under a single spotlight that shrouds the surrounding space in near darkness.
The unknown figure thrusts her atop the chair, keeping the cloth over her mouth as he pins her to its surface. Reaching below her, he reveals a thick leather cuff, its interior lined with soft fuzzy padding and a thick belt on its exterior. Grasping her by the left arm, he wraps the bond around her dainty wrist and, in one swift motion, pulls it tight around her extremity. She can only witness in helpless horror the same being done to her other wrist, locked strictly into place as her bulging muscles give her no hope. Even in her physical prime, she can only wriggle underneath his grasp, the weight of his body spread across hers rendering every struggle pitifully useless. By the time he reaches her ankles, binding them at the end of the chair with yet another hidden pair of restraints, she has just the might to spit the cloth from her lips.
“What the hell are you doing?!” she shouts at the unknown figure, feeling the last cinch of bondage around her left ankle. “Let me go right now! Who do you think you’re dealing with?!” He turns around, a ravenous look in his eye shaking the distraught starlet down to her very core. Taken aback by such a wanton expression across his newly revealed face, she can only watch as he rises himself from his perch, her lower lip trembling in anticipation as he begins to speak.
“Oh, none other but the vivacious and beautiful Britt Robertson, am I right?” he asks, noting the look of fear scrawled across her face as he begins to lean forward, placing his face right in front of hers. “Because that’s exactly who I have been dispatched to deal with young lady: you see, it seems little Miss America’s Sweetheart, pure-as-can-be has attracted the attention of some gossip columns around Tinseltown here, grasping at straws trying to come up with juicy gossip that will knock you square off your throne. Well, let’s just say short of incurring a libel lawsuit, they have hired yours truly to get that information straight from the horse’s mouth.” She is dumbfounded, never once believing that even in the bloodthirsty business of Hollywood, someone would go this far to dig up dirt on her. Nonetheless, she had to find any way out, and the only way she felt how was to just play along.
“Please, don’t hurt me!” she squeaks out, the fear of her situation having taken full hold of her. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’m sure I can give you the same to just let me go.”
“Oh, I don’t want your money honey,” he assures her, watching as her mouth drops open in shock. “Because I told them: I would do this for free any day, my little pumpkin. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to begin my interrogation.” That very word sent a shiver down her spine, a torrent of horrid outcomes flooding through her mind, trying to figure out what exactly he has in mind. Her eyes grow wide as dinner plates, watching as the deranged madman makes his way towards her helplessly bound feet. Grasping the tips of her shoelaces, he begins slowly tugging them loose, falling precariously to the sides as though her last vestige of defense was so paltry.
“You wouldn’t happen to be ticklish, now would you?” he asks, watching her face turn white in sheer terror, not knowing just how her most dreadful weakness could be thrust upon her front and center. It all makes sense to her now: in her helpless position, she has no choice but to watch in agony as her hyper ticklish feet are tickled by this deranged figure, a torture like no other. Time after dreadful time, as his clumsy fingers pull away at her laces, does he gently caress the tops of her shoes, such subtle sensation enough to make her jerk in ticklish anticipation, biting her lip to suppress any unforeseen laughter that may inexplicably spring forth. Tossing her shoes behind him, he unveils a pair of ripe socked feet, her toes curling inside of them in sheer anticipation.
“Oh, isn’t this lovely?” he notes, motioning his wriggling fingers into the soles of her helpless socked feet. Caressing the soft thin material, he can feel the wrinkles within her soles reverberate under his fingers, tracing over them like ridges on a chip.
“Ppppppppppppfhfhfhfhfhfhfh!” she sputters, her cheeks turning red from the pressure behind her tightly pursed lips, hoping to rob him of any satisfaction from such a pathetic effort. Little could she imagine that, the more she resisted his ticklish touch, the more the sadistic man would seek to dismantle her resistance, peeling it right from under her until there was nothing left. Her last shred of dignity aside, she succumbs to breathless giggles, bending her head forward in pathetic attempt at hiding her toothy grin.
“Now that’s no fun, is it?” he asks her, digging his nails through the soft cotton into her heels.
“Hahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” her unrestrained cackles ring forth, a short cry at the end showing just how desperate she is gradually becoming. Tears slowly building in the sides of her eyes, the force of her reactions alone are enough to satiate the figure’s hunger for her desperation, but seemingly not enough to prevent him from grasping the tips of her socks. She tries to beg him, plead for mercy, even barter for her release, but nothing she could have done would have prevented the inevitable as, tugging them off from the very tips of her toes, he reveals a perfectly shaped pair of size six feet, a deep shade of purple varnish adorning her plump toes.
“You seem to be incapable of making this easier on yourself, isn’t that right Ms. Robertson?” he taunts her, watching the fear in her eyes shift to righteous indignation, knowing she is falling right into the palms of his hands. “If only you could resist more, then I might actually start enjoying myself.”
“LET ME GO YOU PERVERT!!” she barks at her captor, knowing full well just how little power she has left, but not knowing just what else to do.
“Oh, that’s what I’m talking about!” he exclaims, finding joy in the spunk his little captive has found in her. “Now, let’s see how much you have left in you.” Taking his fingertips, placing them right atop the tender soles of her bare feet, he begins skittering them across her exposed flesh, throwing her into a maelstrom of ticklish horrors.
“Naaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa!!” she cackles, throwing her head back with such force the chair nearly topples backwards. “Nohohohohoho wait! Waiheheheheheheeeeeeeeeeeeeet!” She can feel nothing but the horrid sensations of unbridled forced mirth, writhing in ticklish agony as he descends down to the pads of her tender heels, digging his nails into them without a care in the world.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she squeals at the tops of her lungs, mouth agape in desperate attempt to cope with such sensations. Flailing about in desperate form, she is rendered all but meek as he ascends straight into her toes, sending her into shrieks of silent screams. What little grasp she has in the world is slowly slipping through her grasp, a combination of overstimulation and lightheadedness from such an onslaught as she is slowly losing breath. Feeling weak, she begins to stop struggling letting his nimble fingers floss their way in between her toes, sending yet another wave of horrid sensations into her quivering psyche. However, just as she feels she is about to lose consciousness, he ceases his torments.
“I don’t suppose you’re still refusing to divulge all your secrets, are you?” he asks her, looking through her disheveled blonde hair matted over her face. “Because I sure hope you are, for that will give me so much more time to get acquainted.” He leaves her for but a moment, too brief for her to do anything but quickly question the very purpose of her suffering. Had she preemptively known the extent of her torments even up to this point, she may have given up just enough personal information for a viral apology of some kind. However, now that she is fully aware of just how much he enjoys her suffering, she feels that not even spilling her guts to him would alleviate her suffering. It is only then she sees a large mirror placed adjacent to her, allowing her to get a glimpse of her dainty feet reddened from her torments. Just as she is about to call out for help, her captor returns, a devious grin scrawled across her face.
“I hope you didn’t miss me…” he says, holding in his left hand a black duffle bag. “…because I have ways of making stubborn girls talk, whether they want to or not...
“Oh, I’m sure you’re going to thoroughly enjoy the rest of our time together, my little princess…”
Poor oh poor little actress: Britt Robertson, having been wrenched right off the street by an unknown assailant, is now stowed away in the back of an abandoned building, bound helpless in the most compromising of positions, without a soul in the world knowing of her hellish plight but the very man inflicting it upon her. It was just her luck to fall into his clutches, a despicable figure with a penchant for ruthless tickle torture, all for the sake of having her reveal her darkest of secrets merely for some tabloid fodder. How he toys with her vulnerability, driving her further into the depths of her own personal hell at the hands of a true tickle sadist. Who knew her lowliest of appendages could be used against her as such, with every inch of her hyper ticklish bare feet rendered a canvas in which to scrawl a tickling of ungodly proportions? Trapped in an endless cycle of ticklish torments, she can only watch in distraught horror as her kidnapper enters back into the room, black duffle bag in hand, and that devious smirk across his face.
She tries to utter one syllable, one faint whisper in desperate attempt to avoid what she knows to befall her next, but not a peep falls from her quivering lips, the thought of what may be in store for her in that bag rendering her all but completely mute. She clenches her toes, but a reflex of sheer anticipation as he places the bag within inches of her captive feet. A wave of relief washes over her as he reveals a small camcorder from its contents, setting it atop a tripod just feet away to capture her confession.
“Just a little memento I picked up from my last assignment,” he cackles, clamping the video recorder atop the device, fiddling with it as its red light begin flashing. “You wouldn’t know her: a little tramp, rising pop star that got a little too big for her britches…that was until I got a hold of her. Caught her vlogging in her trailer right before her big concert: poor thing lost her voice before her big show, couldn’t even sing, and there went her career right in the blink of an eye. Anything for a paycheck, I suppose.” He looks up from his work, flashing her a grin that sent goosebumps across her person. Had it merely been a corporate goon sent to gather dirt on her, even putting her in this very same position, she would have at least been able to keep some composure. But this was completely different, for the very idea of this deranged man indulging himself in her suffering, torturing her or his own amusement, not ceasing even if she did divulge everything to his liking, was a torment she could not withstand, gradually peeling away at her psyche bit by agonizing bit…
…and he knew it.
“Best not ruin the surprise,” he dictates, reaching behind her as he unclamps a lever underneath her back, rocking the top of the lawn chair back until she lays completely flat. Reaching into his back pocket, he reveals a long leather strap, the inside lined with a layer of fuzzy padding. Pressing her head against the chair, he wraps it around her forehead, binding it with Velcro around the openings of the chair as to fully immobilize her, nothing left but the shining spotlight in her field of vision. Kneeling at her level, placing his mouth directly adjacent to her left ear, he whispers ominously to her, “Oh, I’m sure you’re going to enjoy the rest of my wares, now aren’t you?”
He whisks himself away, out of sight as she strains against her new bondage to see. She can hear him rummaging once again through his pack, the foreboding sound of countless items clacking against one another crumbling her defenses as we speak. Tears begin collecting at the sides of her eyes, preemptive given exactly the fate she knows to be coming.
“Perfect!” he exclaims, making her gasp in shock and terror, straining against her bondage just to take a fleeting peek at his reveal, only to be rendered pitifully immobile. “Oh just how many wills I’ve broken with this thing, you will never know!” She is fuming, trembling every muscle she has in her predicament, a mixture of fear and exhaustion the catalyst. Just as she is about to crack, opening her mouth to tell him to stop, to give him but a taste of what he has been after, she hears a whirring the likes of which sounds so familiar, yet so foreign. It is then, as she presses her teeth against her bottom lip, that she discovers the source of the sound: an electric toothbrush, descending upon the soles of her feet, without even a modicum of mercy for her to grasp onto.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” She lets out an almighty wail, her own ears ringing from such force. Jerking uncontrollably, feet flailing to the best of their ability, she can do nothing but feel every tiny bristle scrape against the tender flesh of her freshly pedicured soles.
“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEASEEEEEEEEE!!” Clenching her fists until her knuckles turn white is all she can do to alleviate her suffering, her eyes alternating from tightly clamped to wide as saucers as yet another horrid spot is discovered.
“IIIIIIIIIII’MMMMM BEEEEEGGING YOUHUHUHUHUHUUUUUU!!” she pleas, her desperation growing with each passing moment, the dastardly device resting atop her heels serving as a break if she ever had one. However, all that is finished the moment it begins scaling up the sides of her feet, that untouched surface that never gets the attention it deserves yet is laid bare front and center now.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOOOOO!!” she bellows forth, her lungs burning with the intensity of forced laughter emanating from her strained gullet. Losing her grasp on the world, she stared up at the bright light, pleading for some divine intervention as though that was her only hope left, knowing still it would never come. All that was left for him to exploit was the inevitable, for the moment he ascends to the tops of her toes, he extracts a silent shriek of pure terror beyond all reason.
“That a girl,” he mutters to himself, pinning her left foot underneath his arm as he drags the mechanism across each and every digit, looking on in silent delight as she is slowly but surely rendered into a pitiful heap. Going into uncontrollable convulsions, her flailing toes are useless in avoiding her torments, as the dreaded device ravages every square inch of their hyper ticklish surface with absolute ease. Wrenching against her restraints, throwing her chest high up into the air, she hasn’t a choice but to feel every sensation, the robbery of her sight making that readily apparent. It is only thirty minutes later, after the last shred of defiance is stripped away from her, that she resigns herself to give in, much to his utmost pleasure.
“Now we’re ready to talk.”
He takes the camera, positioning it right next to her face, a vacancy in her eyes having been robbed of every ounce of energy left in her. Over the next hour, she would dictate every little thing he asked her about, divulging everything from bank records to online account passwords, phone access points, right down to her elementary school ID, not one detail left unveiled. Accessing her accounts from his own laptop, he was able to download every scrap of her personal life she could possibly imagine, with private photos and conversations shared with her most intimate of loved ones being uploaded to a private server right in front of her eyes. But, even this could not compare to the most painful stage of the interrogation, for the last half of the hour was spent divulging her darkest of secrets, those she hadn’t dared share with anyone for fear of them uprooting her finely crafted career. Everything from her infrequent affairs, to her sexual escapades, right down to the most unrefined methods used to land prominent roles was laid bare. She even made some up that were too horrid to be true when accused of holding back, but it didn’t matter anymore: all that was left was for her to escape her torments one way or the other. By the time it was all over, and her assailant was packing up his computer, she had finally thought herself finished with the ordeal.
“I don’t believe you.” The words fell from his lips so cold, so quick, ringing through her ears like they had earthshattering consequences. Disbelief was an understatement for this moment, lost in the reality of what she had known to be the outcome all along. The moment she tries to plead, grasping for one word to change his mind, she is struck by a foreign sensation: a large hairbrush, its bristles lined with small plastic nibs, ravaging the sole of her left foot, the shrieks of a desperate woman renewed with vigor.
What she had to endure in the ensuing hour proved the most unbearable moments of her life: over and over, her tenderized feet are ravaged by these hellish devices only a true sadist could discover. Her toes, flailing to and fro as they are afflicted with colorful pipe cleaners, flossing their way into the most delicate of flesh, get the worst of it over these torturously long moments. Flossing devices, those he could have found lying in her bathroom, proved most effective in extracting the most primal of sounds from her strained gullet, buzzing their way into her tender soles with surgical accuracy. But, the denouement of the night came in the form of a two-for-one deal: scraping a large comb into the heel of her left foot, the crazed madman would roast the bottom of the other with a small electric hairdryer, bringing it to an unbearable state until scraping ice atop its sensitized surface, a torture that only intensified the tickling that would soon follow. Over and over he did this to no end, with a fountain of tears raining down atop the solid concrete floor, her hair matting itself against her forehead.
Finally, chest heaving, drenched in sweat and tears, the poor starlet was finally left to rest.
“Oh, you are just far too much Ms. Robertson,” he assures her, turning off the camera, having all the information he had sought. “If only any of this would help you.” She turns to him, faintly mouthing a question she hasn’t the energy to vocalize.
“I hope you didn’t think I’d be letting you go after all this, now did you?” his devious smile returns, sending her mind once again into a tailspin. “You see, I’m privy to a worldwide community to tickle enthusiasts just like myself who, let’s say, value authenticity over everything else. I’m sure they’d pay through the nose to get their hands on this and any other footage we produce together, even having the chance to participate themselves. Oh, we’re not that cruel young lady: you’ll soon be returned to your old life, give or take a few months and a couple hundred of hours of raw footage. And don’t think you’ll be forgotten by your fans: what’s more sympathetic than a kidnapped starlet coming back from such a harrowing ordeal? You’ll have your whole life ahead of you, Miss Robertson.”
She watches him go one last time, bringing back a small damp cloth in his left hand. Too tired to even bat an eyelash, she lays motionless, only waiting for her fate knowing it is only to last a few months. As the rag is placed over her face, slowly falling out of consciousness, she wonders if what he is saying is true, and that she only has to endure to have the acting career she has always wanted.
The End
