LisaLisaJam
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Oct 14, 2023
- Messages
- 330
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- 63
PART 3
She slid the drawer halfway shut. The gliding sound echoed in the silence. Lena took a slow, deliberate breath, smoothing her expression into one of calm concern as she walked around the cube to face Silas. His green eyes locked onto hers instantly, wide with a mixture of desperate hope and deep-seated fear. She forced a reassuring half-smile. "There is something," she began, her voice carefully modulated to sound helpful and slightly perplexed. "A control panel of sorts in the drawers. It's... complicated. Advanced. It'll take me some time to understand how it works." She gestured vaguely. "Don't worry, I'll figure it out." Her gaze, seemingly by its own volition, drifted downwards again, lingering on the exposed arches of his feet, the straps holding each toe immobile. His smooth skin seemed to glow faintly in the amber light.
Silas saw her eyes drop to look lower. Panic flared within him. She’s looking at my feet again. The fear of discovery – the horror of her realizing his obvious vulnerability – was almost worse than the helplessness itself. He fought to keep his expression neutral, forcing the corners of his mouth upwards into a timid, humble smile. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with sincerity and suppressed terror. "Thank you for trying. You... you don’t know what it means to me that you’re here." He hoped the gratitude masked the frantic drumming of his heart. His pinned toes flexing involuntarily against the snug leather straps, a tiny, betraying tremor.
Lena watched the slight flex of his toes against their restraints. The involuntary movement was mesmerizing, a confirmation of his trapped sensitivity. She met his gaze again, her own light brown eyes carefully neutral. "Just stay calm," she instructed softly, the command gentle but firm. "Focus on breathing. I need to study this panel and stuff more carefully." She didn't move. Her gaze remained locked on his handsome face, studying the subtle shifts beneath his forced humility. She needed to see it –the raw flicker of terror when she named his deepest fear. "Silas, "Lena began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, smooth as velvet yet edged with deliberate curiosity. "Why do you think they’ve exposed your feet? By immobilized them so… effectively? "She paused purposely, letting the questions hang in the amber-lit silence. Her eyes didn't waver from his face, drinking in every micro-expression that crossed his face. She saw what it did to him. This confirmed how ticklish he is.
Silas’s eyes widened fractionally, the deep green pools flooding with pure, unadulterated panic. His breath hitched audibly. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles standing out sharply against the padding framing his throat. The humble facade cracked, revealing the raw dread underneath. He knew. He knew exactly what she meant, what she was circling on about. His lips parted, trembling, but no sound emerged immediately – just a faint, choked gasp. He desperately tried to compose himself, to rebuild the crumbling wall of lies. "Exposed?" he stammered, his voice cracking, thin and high with strain. His eyes darted wildly, unable to hold hers. "Immobilized? I... I don't... maybe... maybe just to show helplessness? To... to humiliate?" He stumbled over the words, each one a desperate evasion. The dreaded word – tickling – hovered in his mind, unspoken, a terrifying activity he couldn't bring himself to name. His cheeks flushed crimson, betraying his terror far more than his clumsy denials.
Lena watched, utterly thrilled. The raw panic etching itself across his handsome face – the widened green eyes, the choked gasps, the frantic denial – was utterly delicious. It confirmed everything. That exquisite fear of his, was hers to exploit. But she carefully schooled her expression into mild, detached concern. Showing her delight would shatter his fragile trust too soon. "You're probably right," she agreed calmly, her voice soothingly dismissive. "Humiliation makes sense. Don't worry about it. Let me keep searching the drawers, okay?" It took every bit of will and strength inside of her to not just run fingernails on his soles right now this moment. Being 30 years old though she'd learned patience, and she put it to use. * It won't be long Lena, be smart. * she told herself. She reached out, her touch unexpectedly gentle. Warm fingertips brushed a stray lock of soft brown hair away from his temple, tucking it carefully behind his ear. Her thumb lingered for a heartbeat on the high curve of his cheekbone, feeling the warmth moisture of his skin, the faint tremor beneath. The gesture was intimate, possessive, utterly incongruous in the sterile chamber. She offered a reassuring nod, then turned smoothly and walked back towards the drawers.
Silas sagged minutely against the padded confines of the cube, a shaky breath escaping him. Relief warred with dread. Had she believed his lie? Her calm acceptance felt like a reprieve, however fragile. He focused on breathing, on stillness, on the cool air brushing his vulnerable soles. Just stay calm. Don't attract attention. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, willing the frantic tremor in his pinned toes to cease. Lena slid the first drawer fully open again, the LED light bathing her face in a soft glow. Her fingers hovered over the pills – the pearl-white promise of ruthless freedom, the candy-pink key to exquisite torment. The heat in her belly flared, sharp and undeniable.
She flipped the folio page with deliberate slowness. A new diagram dominated the creamy paper: a single, bright red pill rendered in vivid detail beside text etched in stark, clinical precision. Her breath hitched. The words weren't just clinical; they were a visceral road map to ecstasy: "Catalyst-R: Synaptic Reward Alignment. Upon ingestion, auditory cortex pathways directly modulate the dopamine reward centers. Peak activation correlates precisely with intensity and duration of Subject's laughter. Each audible expression of helpless mirth triggers proportional neural reward cascades in the Curator. Suffering = Pleasure. Amplitude = Intensity. Duration = Sustained Climax." Simplified explanation: The more he laughs, the harder he suffers… the harder YOU cum. Repeatedly. * A choked gasp escaped Lena's lips. The description alone sent a violent jolt of pure, molten need through her core, clenching low and deep. Her knuckles whitened on the folio's edge. *Orgasms. Plural? Synced according to his suffering laughter. A wave of dizzying heat washed over her, her skin prickling. Any lingering hesitation evaporated. She needed this. Needed to hear him perform a scream-laugh. Needed to feel that impossible pleasure described on the page, rip through her.
Silas’s timid voice pierced the thick silence, strained with hope and dread. "Did… did you just discover something? "His words trembled, barely audible above the frantic drumming of Lena’s own pulse in her ears. The tremor in his voice betrayed him. Lena’s gaze upon the pearl-white pill nestled beside the crimson Catalyst-R tablet, her breath shallow. Why else would she have stumbled upon that hidden door? Why else would Silas be locked in this fantastically helpless position? Fate has led her here. This was supposed to happen. Her breathing had become heavy, ragged, each inhale stoking the fire low in her belly. The drawer’s LED light reflected the crimson pill like a promise. She’d been chosen for this. She is the Curator. The title resonated deep within her bones. The thought solidified with visceral certainty: she was meant to witness his laughter, to draw it out, to feed on it. Her fingertip brushed the smooth surface of the Catalyst-R tablet.
Lena slowly responded, masking the storm within her. Her lips parted. Her voice, when it came, was low, controlled, devoid of warmth. "Yes," she stated flatly. The syllable hung in the air, heavy and final. "I think I might be starting to figure this all out." She paused. "I need more time." The command was implicit, absolute. Her tone sharpened, clipped and dismissive. "Can you not bother me please?" Silas recoiled as if slapped. His eyes widened, the green depths flooding with fresh panic at her sudden coldness. "S-sorry," he stammered, his voice cracking, instantly contrite. "I... I won't. Just... please hurry?" The plea was a desperate whisper.
Lena didn't acknowledge him any further for now. Her focus was absolute. She slid the drawer open wider, the LED light illuminating the folio's crisp pages. Her fingers traced the description of the red pill again, lingering over the words*Suffering = Pleasure*. A shiver ran down her spine. Then, deliberately, she called out, her voice deceptively casual, almost conversational, aimed at the cube behind her. "Silas?" She didn't turn her body. "This setup... it strikes me as odd. Why expose your feet? Specifically?" She paused, letting the question sink into the sterile air, she could just imagine the expression on his face. "It seems... overly focused. Wouldn't it make more sense," she continued, her tone thoughtful, analytical, "if only your head was sticking out? For interrogation? Or general confinement? But, displaying your feet seems... strangely specific, don't you think?"
Silas remained completely silent. Her question wasn't a question; it was a trap, tightening around him with terrifying precision. He understood. The cold dread pooling in his stomach crystallized into absolute certainty. She knew. She knew everything. His eyes squeezed shut, trying futilely to block out the image of her fingers dancing on his helplessly pinned soles. Tickling wasn't a just a possibility anymore; it was an inevitability. The only variables were how long she'd draw it out, how intense she'd make it, and whether any shred of mercy remained beneath the predatory calm in her voice. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps against the padded collar.
Lena slid the drawer fully open. Nestled beside the pills lay a sleek, cylindrical device about the length of her forearm, crafted from brushed grey alloy. Its ergonomic rubber handle felt cool and yielding against her palm. The folio's next page sprang to life: Sonic-Aura Stimulator: Non-contact Precision Application. Diagrams pulsed with light, showing electromagnetic fields emanating from the device's tip, coalescing into shimmering, barely visible tendrils. Text scrolled: Hold emitter tip at optimal distance from target dermis. Programmed micro-impacts mimic rapid fingertip tapping at variable intensities (Levels 1-10). Sensation: Intense sonic vibration inducing localized nerve excitation. Perceived assort, electrified prickles concentrated on epidermal layers. In simple terms, it would tickle someone easily, horribly, nonstop, extremely effectively! Her thumb found a ridged dial embedded within the handle. She rotated it slowly and pushed the power button. A soft hum emanated from the emitter tip, growing louder as she dialed up the intensity. The LED indicator glowed blue at Level3. The page in the folio described how to whoever it was used on, it would feel like dozens of tiny, invisible spiders skittering frantically across her nerve endings. Effective indeed!
"You never answered my last question, Silas," Lena stated calmly, lifting the device. She kept her back to him, her focus seemingly on adjusting the dial. She had turned it on. It hummed very softly; she nudged it down to Level 1. She surreptitiously aimed the emitter at her own palm from a few inches away, very slowly moving it closer, being careful so that it wouldn't tickle her hand too much. And once it was a little over two inches away, instantly, her fingers involuntarily curled inward as a sharp, electric giggle bubbled up in her throat before she choked it back. The sensation was intensely focused and utterly unstoppable—like being traced by a hundred tiny vibrating feathers simultaneously.
And this is only Level 1? Lena’s mind raced. My god, there are ten levels on the dial. That could not be endured by anyone! The sheer impossibility of enduring Level 10—especially paired with Silas’s soon to be amplified sensitivity—sent a fresh wave of heat surging through her core. OH how embarrassing, was she wet down there? Her skin flushed deeply as arousal pooled low and insistent. And this is what Silas will feel? What I just felt? That thought alone tightened her breathing, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her confidence grew. "I asked you why you think they would expose your feet?" Lena called out, her voice sharpening, slicing through the sterile air like a blade. She didn't turn. Her fingers tightened possessively around the stimulator's grip. "Why would they not have your feet safe and secure inside the box?" The question wasn't curious; it was an accusation. Her tone dripped with impatient authority, more dominant than before, demanding an answer she already knew. "Silas? Answer me."
Silas flinched visibly. The question was a knife twisting deeper into his dread. He knew the truth was useless now. "I... I don't know!" he cried out, panic fraying the edges of his voice. His pinned toes curled reflexively against the straps, a useless gesture of terror. "Perhaps... perhaps it's a mistake? A flaw in the design? "The lie tasted like ash. His eyes squeezed shut again, bracing for the inevitable. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He could hear a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanating from Lena's position near the drawers. What was it? What was she doing? Each unanswered second felt like an eternity spent on the precipice. "Did... did you find something else?" he stammered, desperation clawing at his throat. He strained against the padded collar, trying uselessly to twist his head far enough to see her behind the cube. "What is that noise? That humming? "His voice cracked on the last word, pure terror laid bare. The sound was alien, unsettling, and it seemed to originate exactly where Lena stood. His mind conjured horrors – buzzing instruments, whirring blades, things designed to inflict unbearable sensation. His breathing hitched, ragged and shallow.
"I'm still figuring this all out," Lena replied, her voice unnervingly calm. She didn't glance up. Her slender fingers with their lengthy manicured fingernails moved with deliberate precision, plucking a candy-pink pill from its bowl. Its smooth surface felt cool against her palm. She turned smoothly, her movement rather silent on thesterile floor as she walked around the cube's edge. She stopped directly in front of Silas, her light brown eyes locking onto his wide, terrified green ones. "Whoever did this to you must care about you," Lena stated, her tone soft, almost maternal. She held the pink pill up directly before his face, her thumb and forefinger pinching it gently. The small tablet seemed to glow under the chamber's amber light. "Those instructions over there, "she nodded vaguely towards the folio, "say this pill will help you a lot. Calm your nerves, most likely. A sedative." Her gaze softened with manufactured sympathy. "You must be thirsty too. There are water bottles in the drawer. Small ones." She paused, letting her fabricated reassurance hang in the air. "It'll help both of us get through this, I think. Truly." Her expression radiated nothing but gentle concern, a perfect mask hiding the electric anticipation crackling beneath her skin.
Silas stared at the pill, a tiny pink promise. Lena’s explanation felt plausible. His throat was parched, his nerves frayed beyond endurance. The sheer terror of immobility, the dread of what Lena might do… perhaps this would soothe it? Offer oblivion? Or was it something else? His eyes flickered between Lena’s reassuring face and the innocuous tablet. The conflict was paralyzing. Relief beckoned, seductive and warm. Yet a primal instinct screamed*danger*. His pinned toes curled helplessly against their straps. "Sedative?" he rasped, his voice thick with doubt. "Are...are you sure?" Lena nodded slowly, her gaze unwavering, radiating calm authority. "Why would I lie, Silas," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing balm. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, her breath a faint warmth near his cheek. "Think how much easier it will be for you until we can get you out. The fear… the helplessness… it'll melt away. Just take it. For both our sakes. Trust me." She offered to go grab a bottle of water. Silas watched her face – the gentle curve of her thick lips, the soft concern in her light brown eyes. The desperate need for relief was winning over, yet still some concern remained. But Lena’s calm certainty, the promise of oblivion from his suffocating terror… it tipped the scales. His face relaxed, the frantic tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. A shaky sigh escaped him. "Okay," he breathed, the word thick with fragile hope. "Okay. Please hurry." His green eyes held hers, pleading silently.
Lena scurried around the cube’s edge, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic drum. Reality crashed over her: she was mere moments away from witnessing divine torment unfold. The pink pill wasn't a sedative; it was the key to amplifying Silas’s exquisite vulnerability tenfold, turning his soft skin into an even more hypersensitive canvas. Suffering without pain, she reasoned fiercely, her internal justification swift and thrilling. No bruises, no blood, just pure, helpless laughter wrung from his beautiful lungs and throat. The butterflies in her stomach weren't nerves; they were electric anticipation, a delicious flutter that tightened her core and sent heat radiating through her limbs. She grabbed a small water bottle, her fingers trembling slightly with suppressed excitement.
Her gaze snapped towards the sole piece of furniture – a sturdy, minimalist chair tucked against the sterile wall. Its sleek lines and plush black leather cushions screamed luxury amidst the clinical surroundings. Lena seized its armrest, dragging it across the smooth floor with a soft scrape that echoed sharply in Silas’s heightened terror. She positioned it directly facing him, settling onto the supple leather with deliberate grace. The cushion molded instantly other athletic frame, cool leather against her blue jean thighs, providing perfect stability. From here, she could lean forward effortlessly, her fingers mere inches from his soft soles. Once again, she held up the smooth pink pill, and also the water bottle. Soon, she promised herself silently, the word a silent caress against her own frantic thoughts. "Alright Silas, "Lena began, her voice smooth, practiced calm. She leaned forward slightly in the chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her. "First, take a nice drink of water. Swallow it slowly. Don't make a mess." She held the small bottle poised near his lips. As Silas willingly took in the refreshing cool water Lena added, "Then…you'll just let the pill dissolve right on your tongue. It will absorb faster that way." Her eyes, wide with manufactured sincerity, locked onto his panicked green ones. "It'll be over before you know it. Just… relaxation. Okay?" The lie tasted sweet, metallic.
Silas obeyed instantly, thirst overriding caution. He gulped eagerly, the water spilling slightly down his chin onto the padded collar as Lena clumsily tilted the bottle. A hot flush of shame washed over him. He was utterly helpless – unable to hold the bottle himself, unable to wipe his own chin, forced to accept aid like an infant. His eyes squeezed shut, not just from the spill, but from the profound humiliation of dependency. The vulnerability felt deeper, sharper than the straps holding his toes. His throat worked as he swallowed the last drops, the coolness a stark contrast to the burning embarrassment heating his cheeks and ears. He kept his eyes closed, unable to meet her gaze. Lena watched the water trickle down his chin with detached fascination. "Good boy," she murmured, her voice velvet-soft yet laced with an undercurrent of absolute command. She withdrew the bottle slowly, setting it aside on the sterile floor with deliberate quietness. Her gaze pinned him. "Now, Silas," she instructed, her tone low and hypnotic, "open your mouth for me." Her eyes held his, unwavering. "Wider now. That's it." She leaned forward slightly, the leather chair sighing softly beneath her. Her fingers, still holding the tiny pink pill, hovered near his lips. "Extend your tongue. Just a little bit." The command was gentle, intimate, yet brooked no refusal. It felt like a violation, a forced intimacy far deeper than physical exposure. His jaw trembled as he obeyed, pushing his tongue out timidly, presenting it to her.
Her thumb and forefinger descended. The cool, smooth surface of the pill touched the center of his tongue. Lena held it there for a fraction of a second, ensuring it adhered, her eyes locked onto his face, studying every micro-expression – the faint widening of his nostrils, the flicker of apprehension in his wide green eyes, the involuntary tightening of his jaw muscles. She withdrew her fingers slowly, leaving the pill dissolving instantly on his moist tongue. Silas closed his mouth. A faintly sweet, chalky taste spread through his mouth. He instinctively tried to swallow, but Lena's sharp command froze him: "No. Let it dissolve. All of it." Her gaze was predatory, unblinking, dissecting him. Silas obeyed, forcing himself to keep his tongue still. The seconds stretched. He felt nothing but the strange sweetness coating his throat. Relief began to bloom tentatively in his face. Maybe Lena*was* telling the truth? Maybe this was just a sedative? The crushing dread eased slightly. His body relaxed minutely against the padded restraints inside the cube. A shaky sigh escaped him, almost a whimper of gratitude. He managed a weak, hopeful smile directed at Lena, his eyes searching hers for confirmation of his fragile relief. "Th-thank you," he stammered, the words thick with emotion. "It... it tastes okay." His pinned toes uncurled slightly.
Then it began. A whisper across the skin. Not pain. Not pressure. A sudden, startling hypersensitivity. The sterile air flowing from a vent high above brushed the exposed skin of his neck. Where moments ago it was not noticeable, now it felt like a thousand spider legs skittering across his flesh. His eyes widened in utter disbelief. His breath hitched sharply. His head jerked instinctively away from the phantom touch, straining against the padded collar. Every hair follicle seemed to scream. The soft padding pressing against his shoulders, his torso, even his legs still encased with in the box – it all suddenly registered as intensely, unbearably*ticklish*. His skin felt electrified, hyper-aware. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as an extensive choked gasp escaped him. His eyes darted frantically around the chamber, searching for the source of this impossible sensation, landing finally, with dawning horror, on Lena’s serene face.
(From the author) To be continued (I think) if you truly want more and think it's a worthwhile story.
What do you like so far about Lena?
What do you like about Silas?
Ladies, are you going to go hiking soon into the remote wilderness? Searching for doors? LOL
She slid the drawer halfway shut. The gliding sound echoed in the silence. Lena took a slow, deliberate breath, smoothing her expression into one of calm concern as she walked around the cube to face Silas. His green eyes locked onto hers instantly, wide with a mixture of desperate hope and deep-seated fear. She forced a reassuring half-smile. "There is something," she began, her voice carefully modulated to sound helpful and slightly perplexed. "A control panel of sorts in the drawers. It's... complicated. Advanced. It'll take me some time to understand how it works." She gestured vaguely. "Don't worry, I'll figure it out." Her gaze, seemingly by its own volition, drifted downwards again, lingering on the exposed arches of his feet, the straps holding each toe immobile. His smooth skin seemed to glow faintly in the amber light.
Silas saw her eyes drop to look lower. Panic flared within him. She’s looking at my feet again. The fear of discovery – the horror of her realizing his obvious vulnerability – was almost worse than the helplessness itself. He fought to keep his expression neutral, forcing the corners of his mouth upwards into a timid, humble smile. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with sincerity and suppressed terror. "Thank you for trying. You... you don’t know what it means to me that you’re here." He hoped the gratitude masked the frantic drumming of his heart. His pinned toes flexing involuntarily against the snug leather straps, a tiny, betraying tremor.
Lena watched the slight flex of his toes against their restraints. The involuntary movement was mesmerizing, a confirmation of his trapped sensitivity. She met his gaze again, her own light brown eyes carefully neutral. "Just stay calm," she instructed softly, the command gentle but firm. "Focus on breathing. I need to study this panel and stuff more carefully." She didn't move. Her gaze remained locked on his handsome face, studying the subtle shifts beneath his forced humility. She needed to see it –the raw flicker of terror when she named his deepest fear. "Silas, "Lena began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, smooth as velvet yet edged with deliberate curiosity. "Why do you think they’ve exposed your feet? By immobilized them so… effectively? "She paused purposely, letting the questions hang in the amber-lit silence. Her eyes didn't waver from his face, drinking in every micro-expression that crossed his face. She saw what it did to him. This confirmed how ticklish he is.
Silas’s eyes widened fractionally, the deep green pools flooding with pure, unadulterated panic. His breath hitched audibly. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles standing out sharply against the padding framing his throat. The humble facade cracked, revealing the raw dread underneath. He knew. He knew exactly what she meant, what she was circling on about. His lips parted, trembling, but no sound emerged immediately – just a faint, choked gasp. He desperately tried to compose himself, to rebuild the crumbling wall of lies. "Exposed?" he stammered, his voice cracking, thin and high with strain. His eyes darted wildly, unable to hold hers. "Immobilized? I... I don't... maybe... maybe just to show helplessness? To... to humiliate?" He stumbled over the words, each one a desperate evasion. The dreaded word – tickling – hovered in his mind, unspoken, a terrifying activity he couldn't bring himself to name. His cheeks flushed crimson, betraying his terror far more than his clumsy denials.
Lena watched, utterly thrilled. The raw panic etching itself across his handsome face – the widened green eyes, the choked gasps, the frantic denial – was utterly delicious. It confirmed everything. That exquisite fear of his, was hers to exploit. But she carefully schooled her expression into mild, detached concern. Showing her delight would shatter his fragile trust too soon. "You're probably right," she agreed calmly, her voice soothingly dismissive. "Humiliation makes sense. Don't worry about it. Let me keep searching the drawers, okay?" It took every bit of will and strength inside of her to not just run fingernails on his soles right now this moment. Being 30 years old though she'd learned patience, and she put it to use. * It won't be long Lena, be smart. * she told herself. She reached out, her touch unexpectedly gentle. Warm fingertips brushed a stray lock of soft brown hair away from his temple, tucking it carefully behind his ear. Her thumb lingered for a heartbeat on the high curve of his cheekbone, feeling the warmth moisture of his skin, the faint tremor beneath. The gesture was intimate, possessive, utterly incongruous in the sterile chamber. She offered a reassuring nod, then turned smoothly and walked back towards the drawers.
Silas sagged minutely against the padded confines of the cube, a shaky breath escaping him. Relief warred with dread. Had she believed his lie? Her calm acceptance felt like a reprieve, however fragile. He focused on breathing, on stillness, on the cool air brushing his vulnerable soles. Just stay calm. Don't attract attention. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, willing the frantic tremor in his pinned toes to cease. Lena slid the first drawer fully open again, the LED light bathing her face in a soft glow. Her fingers hovered over the pills – the pearl-white promise of ruthless freedom, the candy-pink key to exquisite torment. The heat in her belly flared, sharp and undeniable.
She flipped the folio page with deliberate slowness. A new diagram dominated the creamy paper: a single, bright red pill rendered in vivid detail beside text etched in stark, clinical precision. Her breath hitched. The words weren't just clinical; they were a visceral road map to ecstasy: "Catalyst-R: Synaptic Reward Alignment. Upon ingestion, auditory cortex pathways directly modulate the dopamine reward centers. Peak activation correlates precisely with intensity and duration of Subject's laughter. Each audible expression of helpless mirth triggers proportional neural reward cascades in the Curator. Suffering = Pleasure. Amplitude = Intensity. Duration = Sustained Climax." Simplified explanation: The more he laughs, the harder he suffers… the harder YOU cum. Repeatedly. * A choked gasp escaped Lena's lips. The description alone sent a violent jolt of pure, molten need through her core, clenching low and deep. Her knuckles whitened on the folio's edge. *Orgasms. Plural? Synced according to his suffering laughter. A wave of dizzying heat washed over her, her skin prickling. Any lingering hesitation evaporated. She needed this. Needed to hear him perform a scream-laugh. Needed to feel that impossible pleasure described on the page, rip through her.
Silas’s timid voice pierced the thick silence, strained with hope and dread. "Did… did you just discover something? "His words trembled, barely audible above the frantic drumming of Lena’s own pulse in her ears. The tremor in his voice betrayed him. Lena’s gaze upon the pearl-white pill nestled beside the crimson Catalyst-R tablet, her breath shallow. Why else would she have stumbled upon that hidden door? Why else would Silas be locked in this fantastically helpless position? Fate has led her here. This was supposed to happen. Her breathing had become heavy, ragged, each inhale stoking the fire low in her belly. The drawer’s LED light reflected the crimson pill like a promise. She’d been chosen for this. She is the Curator. The title resonated deep within her bones. The thought solidified with visceral certainty: she was meant to witness his laughter, to draw it out, to feed on it. Her fingertip brushed the smooth surface of the Catalyst-R tablet.
Lena slowly responded, masking the storm within her. Her lips parted. Her voice, when it came, was low, controlled, devoid of warmth. "Yes," she stated flatly. The syllable hung in the air, heavy and final. "I think I might be starting to figure this all out." She paused. "I need more time." The command was implicit, absolute. Her tone sharpened, clipped and dismissive. "Can you not bother me please?" Silas recoiled as if slapped. His eyes widened, the green depths flooding with fresh panic at her sudden coldness. "S-sorry," he stammered, his voice cracking, instantly contrite. "I... I won't. Just... please hurry?" The plea was a desperate whisper.
Lena didn't acknowledge him any further for now. Her focus was absolute. She slid the drawer open wider, the LED light illuminating the folio's crisp pages. Her fingers traced the description of the red pill again, lingering over the words*Suffering = Pleasure*. A shiver ran down her spine. Then, deliberately, she called out, her voice deceptively casual, almost conversational, aimed at the cube behind her. "Silas?" She didn't turn her body. "This setup... it strikes me as odd. Why expose your feet? Specifically?" She paused, letting the question sink into the sterile air, she could just imagine the expression on his face. "It seems... overly focused. Wouldn't it make more sense," she continued, her tone thoughtful, analytical, "if only your head was sticking out? For interrogation? Or general confinement? But, displaying your feet seems... strangely specific, don't you think?"
Silas remained completely silent. Her question wasn't a question; it was a trap, tightening around him with terrifying precision. He understood. The cold dread pooling in his stomach crystallized into absolute certainty. She knew. She knew everything. His eyes squeezed shut, trying futilely to block out the image of her fingers dancing on his helplessly pinned soles. Tickling wasn't a just a possibility anymore; it was an inevitability. The only variables were how long she'd draw it out, how intense she'd make it, and whether any shred of mercy remained beneath the predatory calm in her voice. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps against the padded collar.
Lena slid the drawer fully open. Nestled beside the pills lay a sleek, cylindrical device about the length of her forearm, crafted from brushed grey alloy. Its ergonomic rubber handle felt cool and yielding against her palm. The folio's next page sprang to life: Sonic-Aura Stimulator: Non-contact Precision Application. Diagrams pulsed with light, showing electromagnetic fields emanating from the device's tip, coalescing into shimmering, barely visible tendrils. Text scrolled: Hold emitter tip at optimal distance from target dermis. Programmed micro-impacts mimic rapid fingertip tapping at variable intensities (Levels 1-10). Sensation: Intense sonic vibration inducing localized nerve excitation. Perceived assort, electrified prickles concentrated on epidermal layers. In simple terms, it would tickle someone easily, horribly, nonstop, extremely effectively! Her thumb found a ridged dial embedded within the handle. She rotated it slowly and pushed the power button. A soft hum emanated from the emitter tip, growing louder as she dialed up the intensity. The LED indicator glowed blue at Level3. The page in the folio described how to whoever it was used on, it would feel like dozens of tiny, invisible spiders skittering frantically across her nerve endings. Effective indeed!
"You never answered my last question, Silas," Lena stated calmly, lifting the device. She kept her back to him, her focus seemingly on adjusting the dial. She had turned it on. It hummed very softly; she nudged it down to Level 1. She surreptitiously aimed the emitter at her own palm from a few inches away, very slowly moving it closer, being careful so that it wouldn't tickle her hand too much. And once it was a little over two inches away, instantly, her fingers involuntarily curled inward as a sharp, electric giggle bubbled up in her throat before she choked it back. The sensation was intensely focused and utterly unstoppable—like being traced by a hundred tiny vibrating feathers simultaneously.
And this is only Level 1? Lena’s mind raced. My god, there are ten levels on the dial. That could not be endured by anyone! The sheer impossibility of enduring Level 10—especially paired with Silas’s soon to be amplified sensitivity—sent a fresh wave of heat surging through her core. OH how embarrassing, was she wet down there? Her skin flushed deeply as arousal pooled low and insistent. And this is what Silas will feel? What I just felt? That thought alone tightened her breathing, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her confidence grew. "I asked you why you think they would expose your feet?" Lena called out, her voice sharpening, slicing through the sterile air like a blade. She didn't turn. Her fingers tightened possessively around the stimulator's grip. "Why would they not have your feet safe and secure inside the box?" The question wasn't curious; it was an accusation. Her tone dripped with impatient authority, more dominant than before, demanding an answer she already knew. "Silas? Answer me."
Silas flinched visibly. The question was a knife twisting deeper into his dread. He knew the truth was useless now. "I... I don't know!" he cried out, panic fraying the edges of his voice. His pinned toes curled reflexively against the straps, a useless gesture of terror. "Perhaps... perhaps it's a mistake? A flaw in the design? "The lie tasted like ash. His eyes squeezed shut again, bracing for the inevitable. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He could hear a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanating from Lena's position near the drawers. What was it? What was she doing? Each unanswered second felt like an eternity spent on the precipice. "Did... did you find something else?" he stammered, desperation clawing at his throat. He strained against the padded collar, trying uselessly to twist his head far enough to see her behind the cube. "What is that noise? That humming? "His voice cracked on the last word, pure terror laid bare. The sound was alien, unsettling, and it seemed to originate exactly where Lena stood. His mind conjured horrors – buzzing instruments, whirring blades, things designed to inflict unbearable sensation. His breathing hitched, ragged and shallow.
"I'm still figuring this all out," Lena replied, her voice unnervingly calm. She didn't glance up. Her slender fingers with their lengthy manicured fingernails moved with deliberate precision, plucking a candy-pink pill from its bowl. Its smooth surface felt cool against her palm. She turned smoothly, her movement rather silent on thesterile floor as she walked around the cube's edge. She stopped directly in front of Silas, her light brown eyes locking onto his wide, terrified green ones. "Whoever did this to you must care about you," Lena stated, her tone soft, almost maternal. She held the pink pill up directly before his face, her thumb and forefinger pinching it gently. The small tablet seemed to glow under the chamber's amber light. "Those instructions over there, "she nodded vaguely towards the folio, "say this pill will help you a lot. Calm your nerves, most likely. A sedative." Her gaze softened with manufactured sympathy. "You must be thirsty too. There are water bottles in the drawer. Small ones." She paused, letting her fabricated reassurance hang in the air. "It'll help both of us get through this, I think. Truly." Her expression radiated nothing but gentle concern, a perfect mask hiding the electric anticipation crackling beneath her skin.
Silas stared at the pill, a tiny pink promise. Lena’s explanation felt plausible. His throat was parched, his nerves frayed beyond endurance. The sheer terror of immobility, the dread of what Lena might do… perhaps this would soothe it? Offer oblivion? Or was it something else? His eyes flickered between Lena’s reassuring face and the innocuous tablet. The conflict was paralyzing. Relief beckoned, seductive and warm. Yet a primal instinct screamed*danger*. His pinned toes curled helplessly against their straps. "Sedative?" he rasped, his voice thick with doubt. "Are...are you sure?" Lena nodded slowly, her gaze unwavering, radiating calm authority. "Why would I lie, Silas," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing balm. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, her breath a faint warmth near his cheek. "Think how much easier it will be for you until we can get you out. The fear… the helplessness… it'll melt away. Just take it. For both our sakes. Trust me." She offered to go grab a bottle of water. Silas watched her face – the gentle curve of her thick lips, the soft concern in her light brown eyes. The desperate need for relief was winning over, yet still some concern remained. But Lena’s calm certainty, the promise of oblivion from his suffocating terror… it tipped the scales. His face relaxed, the frantic tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. A shaky sigh escaped him. "Okay," he breathed, the word thick with fragile hope. "Okay. Please hurry." His green eyes held hers, pleading silently.
Lena scurried around the cube’s edge, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic drum. Reality crashed over her: she was mere moments away from witnessing divine torment unfold. The pink pill wasn't a sedative; it was the key to amplifying Silas’s exquisite vulnerability tenfold, turning his soft skin into an even more hypersensitive canvas. Suffering without pain, she reasoned fiercely, her internal justification swift and thrilling. No bruises, no blood, just pure, helpless laughter wrung from his beautiful lungs and throat. The butterflies in her stomach weren't nerves; they were electric anticipation, a delicious flutter that tightened her core and sent heat radiating through her limbs. She grabbed a small water bottle, her fingers trembling slightly with suppressed excitement.
Her gaze snapped towards the sole piece of furniture – a sturdy, minimalist chair tucked against the sterile wall. Its sleek lines and plush black leather cushions screamed luxury amidst the clinical surroundings. Lena seized its armrest, dragging it across the smooth floor with a soft scrape that echoed sharply in Silas’s heightened terror. She positioned it directly facing him, settling onto the supple leather with deliberate grace. The cushion molded instantly other athletic frame, cool leather against her blue jean thighs, providing perfect stability. From here, she could lean forward effortlessly, her fingers mere inches from his soft soles. Once again, she held up the smooth pink pill, and also the water bottle. Soon, she promised herself silently, the word a silent caress against her own frantic thoughts. "Alright Silas, "Lena began, her voice smooth, practiced calm. She leaned forward slightly in the chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her. "First, take a nice drink of water. Swallow it slowly. Don't make a mess." She held the small bottle poised near his lips. As Silas willingly took in the refreshing cool water Lena added, "Then…you'll just let the pill dissolve right on your tongue. It will absorb faster that way." Her eyes, wide with manufactured sincerity, locked onto his panicked green ones. "It'll be over before you know it. Just… relaxation. Okay?" The lie tasted sweet, metallic.
Silas obeyed instantly, thirst overriding caution. He gulped eagerly, the water spilling slightly down his chin onto the padded collar as Lena clumsily tilted the bottle. A hot flush of shame washed over him. He was utterly helpless – unable to hold the bottle himself, unable to wipe his own chin, forced to accept aid like an infant. His eyes squeezed shut, not just from the spill, but from the profound humiliation of dependency. The vulnerability felt deeper, sharper than the straps holding his toes. His throat worked as he swallowed the last drops, the coolness a stark contrast to the burning embarrassment heating his cheeks and ears. He kept his eyes closed, unable to meet her gaze. Lena watched the water trickle down his chin with detached fascination. "Good boy," she murmured, her voice velvet-soft yet laced with an undercurrent of absolute command. She withdrew the bottle slowly, setting it aside on the sterile floor with deliberate quietness. Her gaze pinned him. "Now, Silas," she instructed, her tone low and hypnotic, "open your mouth for me." Her eyes held his, unwavering. "Wider now. That's it." She leaned forward slightly, the leather chair sighing softly beneath her. Her fingers, still holding the tiny pink pill, hovered near his lips. "Extend your tongue. Just a little bit." The command was gentle, intimate, yet brooked no refusal. It felt like a violation, a forced intimacy far deeper than physical exposure. His jaw trembled as he obeyed, pushing his tongue out timidly, presenting it to her.
Her thumb and forefinger descended. The cool, smooth surface of the pill touched the center of his tongue. Lena held it there for a fraction of a second, ensuring it adhered, her eyes locked onto his face, studying every micro-expression – the faint widening of his nostrils, the flicker of apprehension in his wide green eyes, the involuntary tightening of his jaw muscles. She withdrew her fingers slowly, leaving the pill dissolving instantly on his moist tongue. Silas closed his mouth. A faintly sweet, chalky taste spread through his mouth. He instinctively tried to swallow, but Lena's sharp command froze him: "No. Let it dissolve. All of it." Her gaze was predatory, unblinking, dissecting him. Silas obeyed, forcing himself to keep his tongue still. The seconds stretched. He felt nothing but the strange sweetness coating his throat. Relief began to bloom tentatively in his face. Maybe Lena*was* telling the truth? Maybe this was just a sedative? The crushing dread eased slightly. His body relaxed minutely against the padded restraints inside the cube. A shaky sigh escaped him, almost a whimper of gratitude. He managed a weak, hopeful smile directed at Lena, his eyes searching hers for confirmation of his fragile relief. "Th-thank you," he stammered, the words thick with emotion. "It... it tastes okay." His pinned toes uncurled slightly.
Then it began. A whisper across the skin. Not pain. Not pressure. A sudden, startling hypersensitivity. The sterile air flowing from a vent high above brushed the exposed skin of his neck. Where moments ago it was not noticeable, now it felt like a thousand spider legs skittering across his flesh. His eyes widened in utter disbelief. His breath hitched sharply. His head jerked instinctively away from the phantom touch, straining against the padded collar. Every hair follicle seemed to scream. The soft padding pressing against his shoulders, his torso, even his legs still encased with in the box – it all suddenly registered as intensely, unbearably*ticklish*. His skin felt electrified, hyper-aware. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as an extensive choked gasp escaped him. His eyes darted frantically around the chamber, searching for the source of this impossible sensation, landing finally, with dawning horror, on Lena’s serene face.
(From the author) To be continued (I think) if you truly want more and think it's a worthwhile story.
What do you like so far about Lena?
What do you like about Silas?
Ladies, are you going to go hiking soon into the remote wilderness? Searching for doors? LOL
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