mch5
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Mar 9, 2012
- Messages
- 319
- Points
- 28
Disclaimer #1: If you are biased or tech-pobic/AI-pobic, this is not for you!
Though the story is an original and fully from my own mind, I've used AI (LLM) profoundly, as my editor, copyrighter, and (mostly) as my English-language enhancer. The AI also allowed me to somewhat bypass my disability and write more then my physics allows me. It wasn't a quick or easy, but I thought my AI the general style I was aiming for. It's not yet even close to perfect, but I think it's a very good start,
Disclaimer #2: Trigger Alert! This is a very dark fantasy, situated in my imaginary TDGrid universe. Any relation to reality should NEVER exist! This story goes as dark as it gets! It includes elements of Sexual abuse, rape, physical And mental torture, sadism, entrapment, insex (in a way), de-humanization, and more!
I will appreciate your thought.
Hopefully, You'll like it, and I will be motivated to post the rest of it here.
Enjoy! 🙂
********************************************************************************
Some newcomers, after the first phase, had emerged broken yet clinging to survival. They adapted quickly, absorbing rules and behaviors as if it gave their suffering meaning. For them, obedience became a strategy.
J882, however, wasn’t one of them.
As N717 explained the ground rules, the ranks, and the hierarchy of the TDGrid, J882 wasn’t entirely there. Her eyes blinked slowly, unfocused. Her mouth slightly open, as if still trying to breathe through invisible restraints. Her arms remained locked above her head, elbows bent backward as if holding something invisible just beneath the table. Her trembling fingers curled instinctively, twitching against the underside of the table's edge, unaware of how long they had been frozen in that same tortured pose atop the once-cold, now body-warmed surface.
She was in shock.
Phase One had almost ended her. She had barely endured it, and now her mind lagged behind, still trapped in that sequence of sensations and invasive laughter. She couldn’t process the meaning of "relevance" or grasp why anything being said mattered. She only heard fragments from N717’s monotone voice, like words bubbling up from underwater:
“Obedience ensures structure. Hierarchy prevents chaos,” N717 droned, tapping idly on her tablet. “No one remembers how it started. A private project, maybe. Maybe black-budget military. Doesn’t matter. The system works. We all answer to it.” J882 heard, but didn’t understand. Or maybe she refused to.
The truth was simple: those who adapted suffered less. N717 just explained this, but J882, lost in her sorrow, didn’t notice her delay was sealing her fate.
Still restrained on the table, she began to cry. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Her body was too dry, her spirit too wrung. Just quiet streams of saline down her cheeks as the rules kept being read aloud.
N717 noticed J882's burst of emotions, and was annoyed. Her tone shifted from bored to something darker. "Not listening, hon'? Remember rule number 2? 'No negative emotional display allowed!'" she hissed, her voice like a sweet toxin. Then she leaned in, close enough for J882 to feel the faint exhale against her ear. "Or maybe... you do enjoy this, don't you?" Her gloved index finger, cool and deliberate, traced a path, slowly, uncomfortably slowly, along J882’s flank. From just under the right breast, where the skin was still tender and twitching, down to the bare mound where pubic hair once grew. It tickled...
J882 definitely didn’t enjoy any of it. But she just couldn't stop crying.
N717’s patience was running out. "Okay, hon’, let’s begin phase two, shall we?" she said with an icy grin, turning toward the nearby monitors that continued to display the restrained, sweat-slicked form of J882, trembling, exposed, and very ticklish body.
J882 was breathing fast, her chest rising in shallow bursts. She was unsure how to respond, words were beyond her now. Her wide, pleading eyes screamed what her mouth could not: please not again, please no more, please, please, please...
"G34, replace the bag. No need for endurance support, remove oxygen. G37, prepare for Mushroom insertion."
But before N717 could finish her list of orders, a short, involuntary stream of urine escaped J882, splattering against the table beneath her. N717 paused, tilting her head in mock surprise. "Oh come on, hun'?!"
Without the urine collection tube of the Mushroom, the liquid spread across the lower part of the table. N717 exhaled sharply, irritated. "G36, clean her up. G37, cancel the Mushroom. As soon as she’s clean: roots of her thighs, Level 5.". She didn’t look back as she snapped the final order: "Destroy her."
***
An asian woman in her 30s, wearing white robs, entered the room where J883 was strapped to a table.
J883 followed her with narrowed eyes, every movement deliberate, controlled. Her voice cut the silence like a blade. "What now? More tickling?" she spat, her Russian accent thick with disdain. "I've already told you everything. How exactly are you planning to reprogram me?", the word stretched out with mocking slowness, like venom dripping from her tongue.
The woman said nothing at first. She set down a metal tray with quiet precision, not looking at J883. Her movements were surgical.
Then, coldly, she spoke: "B912. That’s my designation." Her voice had no warmth, only function. "I’m not here to ask questions. I’m here to install instruments."
She turned to Lena and added, "Stay still. This part doesn’t hurt. It never does."
From the tray, B912 picked up a semi-metallic triangular device. Its center was slightly raised—like half of the Mushroom device, forming a soft, rounded bulge. Along each of its two wide sides, three disturbingly thin, jointed arms extended, six in total. The upper four arched like curious fingers reaching from above; the lower two curled slightly underneath, poised like legs of a metallic insect waiting to scurry.
It was sleek, clinical, and deeply alien. Not quite mechanical, not quite organic. Just watching it shift slightly in B912’s hands, adjusting to some preset rhythm, was enough to make most subjects flinch. It was quite obvious to J883 where that is going to be placed.
"Fuok', you do not need zis... I am loyal! Let me go, I vill be good!" she pleaded, her voice cracking despite the accent.
B912 ignored her. She was not here to negotiate or even acknowledge. Her task was clinical—installation only.
As the device was lowered and pressed gently over J883’s mound, the bulge nestled between her labia. A faint suction triggered the moment it touched skin, a near-silent microsecond of vacuum, and the device shifted slightly deeper, aligning itself with chilling precision.
B912, still silent, methodically bent the six arms into position, folding them into the creases at the very roots of J883’s thighs. The two lower arms settled beneath her, angled upward; the four upper arms curled downward from above. Each thin limb found its target with unnerving accuracy, resting directly on her most sensitive, most ticklish spots.
The device remained inert. But a small green light pulsed slowly on its smooth, reflective surface.
J883 let out a short chuckle, sharp and dry. There was no smile, no amusement. Just a spark of defiance flickering through a body that already knew too much, and knew it was about to endure far worse.
"Come on, moya lyubimaya... maybe I go pee first, da? Not to make big mess again, eh?"
B912 pulled a tablet from one of her robe's deep side pockets. It was slightly too large, and her awkward tugging made her shift visibly, the fabric pulling taut in odd directions. The motion subtly displaced her robe, momentarily parting it and revealing smooth, bare skin beneath, she wore nothing underneath. The exposure was brief, accidental, and completely unacknowledged by B912, who simply tapped on the screen with mechanical focus.
The three screens flickered, now showing a live feed of J882’s restrained body. A woman, probably a technician, was carefully cleaning her exposed sex, expression unreadable. The image was clinical, detached, yet deeply violating in its implications. J882 was sobbing, no longer just weeping, but desperately crying, her face twisted in anguish.
J883’s heart sank at the sight. She shifted her gaze to the left-most screen, which showed J882's horrified face, and her stretched, helpless armpits.
But she showed nothing. Not a tremble, not a twitch. Just silence. That was her shield now. She knew there was nothing she can do for her.
Another woman in white robes entered the room. She was Black, with long, curly hair that framed her calm yet unreadable face.
"Hello, J883. I am X401," she said evenly, her voice measured and precise. "Your first treatment will begin shortly. We’re simply waiting for J882 to begin hers." She smiled, a rehearsed, lifeless gesture, the kind meant to imitate kindness without ever truly touching it.
"Vy? She is good lady, innocent! Let her go. You vant to reprogram someone? Use me instead. Break m-"
"Yeah, yeah, murderously innocent..." X401 cut her off mid-sentence without even turning her head. Her eyes were on the monitor. "Hmm... here we go," she murmured as J882's cleaning finished and the technician stepped away.
On the screens, as one woman moved away from J882's hips, another stepped in and positioned her hands deliberately over the roots of J882’s thighs. She paused, taking a slow, steadying breath—there was always that moment of hesitation before the cruelty began. Then her fingers came alive: fast, precise, and unnervingly methodical.
Her perfectly trimmed nails grazed the skin lightly, barely scratching the surface, but just enough to make the pale skin twitch and the underlying muscles flinch as if trying to escape. The soft, freshly shaven flesh offered no protection. Instead, the hypersensitive nerve endings lit up like a grid of raw signals, instantly overloaded. J882’s entire lower body convulsed, her thighs trembling against the restraints. The laughter that followed wasn’t shaped by joy, it was an uncontrolled detonation of nerves, a violent reflex from helpless sensory overload. It came out jagged, breathless, fractured into high-pitched squeals and gasping hiccups.
"Eee-a-h... Heheheeehe... Na-ee-a-h... Hehehehe-kk... Eee-ee-h... Heheehehee-k-... E-eePlee... Hehehheeeh..."
J882 exploded.
Her face twisted into an obscene, almost joyous mask, her mouth gaping wide in a rictus of laughter, the corners stretched as if sculpted into delight. But her eyes betrayed everything. They were clamped shut, wet with despair, shaking beneath the lids. Her brow trembled, knotted tight in agony. Every muscle in her face was screaming.
It was a grotesque lie, one stitched by nerves, not emotion.
The laughter was real. Wild. Terrifying. It rolled out in bursts and stutters, growing higher in pitch with every second, punctuated by choking gasps and breathless squeals. It wasn’t joy. It was a system failure. A body trying to process something unprocessable.
She looked, on the outside, like a woman at the peak of hysterical ecstasy. But inside, she was shattering. That sound, so infectious, so human, was a betrayal of the agony clawing through her brain.
It was the laughter of someone being erased.
The technician wiggled her fingers with practiced, unwavering precision—each movement like a surgeon’s incision, but meant not to cut, only to unmake. Her perfectly measured strokes struck the same hypersensitive nerve clusters over and over again, as if hypnotized by the cruelty of it. It was like a psychopath stabbing the same spot repeatedly, except there was no blood, no pain, only laughter. Cold, merciless, full-body laughter.
"Eeee... Hheehehehehe... k.. Eeeec-.... Hehehehhee-k.... y-Eeec... Hehehe-h-he... Eee-e... Hehhehee-e-ch-a... Eee-k... k-Heheheh... E-eec... Heheheheeh-k..."
J882 laughed so hard, her whole body shuddered with each burst. It had only just begun, and already she couldn’t get enough air. Her chest hitched in short, desperate gasps between the explosions of manic sound. Her throat rasped from the strain, but her body refused to stop. The laughter was an uncontrollable seizure, wild, raw, echoing like a scream wearing a party mask.
Her lungs burned. Her stomach spasmed. She was in full-blown panic, trapped inside her own body as it betrayed her. And yet, no one cared.
No one paused the torture. No one eased the pressure. The fingers just kept stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, soft and maddening. A precise madness masquerading as joy, carving into her mind one giggle at a time.
The J882's skin beneath G37's nails rippled with each pass, muscles twitching with a mind of their own, trying and failing to retreat. The fingers never changed pace, never wavered, like mechanical instruments driven by obsession. Her touch was no longer simply calibrated, it was weaponized. It didn’t just bypass reason, it erased it.
In a burst of rage, J883 screamed, "Bastards! You're killing her! Stop dis!" Her voice cracked with fury and helplessness, eyes locked on the screens as if dragged there by force. She strained violently against her restraints, her large frame flexing with all the strength it could muster. Every muscle rippled beneath soft flesh, the table creaking and groaning under her weight with each desperate thrash. But it was useless. Like J882, she couldn’t move an inch. Not to help. Not to look away.
"She needs to enjoy this properly. J501, flanks, level 5. Make her feel it," X401 said, her tone calm but laced with an almost surgical cruelty, as if giving routine instructions for a vivisection.
A third woman stepped out from the shadows. She was naked, her body slender and pale, with an odd fragility to her that immediately set her apart from the others. She didn’t carry the clinical stillness of the technicians, something in her gait was hesitant, almost amateurish. Her smile twitched at the corners as if holding back laughter of her own.
She walked around to J883’s left side and began the treatment without ceremony. Her fingers ran in fast, chaotic motions along J883’s flank, from the bottom of the lowest rib down to the hip bone. It wasn’t graceful. It was frantic. Both hands moved with a desperation that seemed disconnected from intention, as if her body remembered a script recently burned into her nerves.
J501 was no professional. Her hands trembled slightly, and her touch was imprecise—but relentless. She had only recently been broken and reprogrammed herself. The compulsion to tickle was freshly wired into her, and it radiated through her every movement. She didn’t just tickle, she reenacted.
Her giggles slipped out in little bursts, not mocking but reactive, as if she still felt the echoes of what she was doing. Each pass over J883’s hypersensitive side made her fingers flinch with mirrored memory, like a phantom itch she couldn’t escape. Her smile twitched, eyes glassy, caught in the feedback loop of torture and its residue.
And still, she tickled. Not out of cruelty, but because she had been taught there was no alternative.
"Fouk' h... come on! Hah... Shtop! ha-hh..." J883 giggled, her voice betraying the flickers of involuntary reaction. It vasn’t as bad as before, she knew that, but she would never admit it. "Dis no fun... Ah-Ah..." Her big belly jolted with each reflexive spasm. "Let hA-er go, ple-sh... Ha..."
And just if reading her mind, X401 ordered "Thigh roots!".
B912 tapped her tablet. The small green LED on the device covering J883's labia blinked once, then turned solid red. A soft mechanical hum followed as the six thin arms sprang to life, moving with chilling precision. They began tickling her thigh roots at high speed, methodical, exact, inescapable. Each arm traced perfectly along the same hypersensitive creases, brushing over the tender nerves again and again like a scalpel made of silk. It was the kind of tickling that didn’t vary or hesitate, like being stabbed with invisible feathers, again and again, until reason gave way to chaos.
J883 exploded in a burst of uncontrollable laughter, "AaaHaHa... Ek-No-Hahahaha... eik-Hahahah... eiik-Staaaa-Hahahaha... Heik-Hahaha...!" Her voice cracked and pitched like a derailed engine, each syllable laced with desperation and disbelief. It was unbearable. Her large belly convulsed with violent tremors, jiggling and jumping beneath each wave of stimulus. Her full H38 breasts bounced with each involuntary spasm, nipples visibly tightening from the overwhelming flood of nervous system chaos.
"This is will take to much time! B219, yes, you, Use the Pitbrush, no mercy!" X401 ordered while watching J883 laughing out of control.
B219 put down the tablet and picked up a bizarre-looking device, part electric toothbrush, part toilet brush, all malice. Its bristles buzzed with high-frequency vibration, visibly trembling with restrained energy.
She positioned herself beside J883’s right armpit. With one hand, she gently but firmly pushed aside the heavy curve of the breast. With the other, she lowered the Pitbrush until it touched skin.
The vibrating bristles traced slow, deliberate paths up and down the exposed hollow, each pass leaving behind a trail of prickling overstimulation. The brush was far too soft to cause pain, but the effect was cruelly effective, every microsecond of contact felt like a hundred icy feathers dancing in unison.
B219 made no effort to spare a spot. She painted the entire armpit in trembling torment, each stroke smooth, unwavering, exhaustive.
And J883, she shook. She screamed through laughter, wild and animalistic, her voice shredded into high-pitched howls. Her body thrashed, betrayed by spasms she could no longer control. And most of all, she broke.
She was in perfect hell, trapped in a storm of overwhelming sensation, laughing like a demon, while her soul watched in horror. Across the screens, J882, the only and most precious person in the world to her, was being dragged into madness, her body twitching, her face distorted in a parody of joy. And J883 couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t help. Just laugh.
It was a symphony of madness, an orchestra of laughter without music, just the twisted duet of J883 and J882. Their voices overlapped, bounced, and pierced through the room like dueling instruments, one frantic and desperate, the other on the brink of collapse. There was no harmony, only hysteria. A score written in shrieks and gasps, conducted by torment.
"Eee..k... Hhe..hhk...hh... Eeec... hh-hch-hh-t-t... Ee-k... heh-hk-t-t-t... h-Eeee... k-hh-he-hk-t-t..."
J882's laughter had mutated into something monstrous, no longer rhythmic. It stuttered in breathless, high-pitched clicks, like a broken music box forcing out its final, warped notes. Her body jerked helplessly, her hips twitching against the restraints, every nerve a live wire. Her skin was flushed a deep, feverish red, blushed from neck to thighs, as if her entire torso had been set alight with embarrassment, exhaustion, and heat. The color only added to the surreal horror, she looked almost aroused, almost glowing—yet it was the fire of overexertion, of a body pushed far past its limits while the mind dangled on the edge of blackout.
I'm going to die. I can't breathe! Please! Somebody! Please! her mind screamed, but no sound escaped her mouth now except that horrible, automatic laughter.
I'm going to die! And I'm laughing! Laughing like a puppet... Laughing while dying!
The muscles around her lips pulled into an obscene grin, stretched wide and glistening with saliva, her thighs glimmering with sweat and something else—betrayal. Her clit throbbed, exposed and helpless, caught in the chaotic rhythm between unbearable stimulation and twisted arousal. She didn't want it. She hated it.
But her body didn't care. Her mind was fading, her thoughts fracturing into flashes of shame and terror, and all the while, she laughed. Like it was her last function.
J882 was hardly breathing. Her heart pounded frantically, trying to force blood to her brain, but there was no oxygen in that blood. Her chest rose in short, empty bursts as her body fought a losing battle against suffocation. She slowly started to drift away, vision flickering, consciousness slipping like water through her fingers.
And then the video feed stopped.
J883, still laughing uncontrollably, tried to process what she’d just seen, but her mind was a whirlwind of sensation. Was J882 dead? Did she faint? Was her precious daughter gone?
She had no way of knowing. Not now. Not while her body was still convulsing with laughter. Not while her brain screamed for clarity and breath. If only she could even think clearly...
Her own laughter, at that exact moment, twisted violently. Something inside her snapped, not a bone, but something deeper. Something old, solid, and barbaric. The giant spy, forged to endure pain and brutality, melted into jelly.
Her laughter began to change, decaying into something broken. The wild cackles faded into hissing, creaking sounds, like an old castle door being opened and closed over and over again. No rhythm. No breath. Just leaking sound and the echoes of madness.
A stream of urine escaped, warm and silent, pooling beneath her. There was no device to catch it. No effort to hide it. No one cared, not even the cruel machine that still tickled her to oblivion, unbothered by the collapse it had just caused.
She was collapsing. A monument brought down by tickles and trauma. A relic unraveling beneath waves of engineered hysteria.
"Now we are getting somewhere," said X401, her voice almost purring with clinical satisfaction as she watched J883's trembling belly begin to soften—not from relief, but because she was barely breathing. Her massive chest strained for air, each breath shallower than the last. Her body, deep red and soaked, was too depleted to keep up the violent spasms. The laughter didn’t stop, it simply shrank, crackling into thin, suffocating wisps. The spasms slowed, not from mercy, but from sheer exhaustion. The machine still tickled. No one intervened.
*****
J882’s last moments of consciousness weren’t something she could comprehend. Her mind was dissolving, piece by piece, leaving behind only flickers. Her face was blank, a slack mask occasionally tugged into ghostly fractions of 'smiles', as if her nerves were mimicking a memory they barely recalled. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stayed fixed on her own softly trembling belly. It rhythmically rose and fell like a dying volcano, rumbling gently, as if begging to erupt, but lacking the force or pressure to ever truly explode. Only the tremors remained. Her belly was still laughing, without her.
N717 smiled—a slow, eerie curl of her lips that suggested far too much delight. Her gloved fingers hovered for a second, then descended, toying with J882’s left nipple. She tickled it, featherlight, more a caress than a touch. It twitched slightly, stiffening just a little, more from the cold than arousal, but N717 didn't care.
She leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of J882’s ear, her breath warm and venomously intimate.
"And that’s, hon’... how we make you happy," she whispered, each word dripping with artificial affection, like a lover’s lie spoken in a torture chamber.
Then she giggled. Softly. A sound that didn’t belong in that room, and yet made everything worse.
She then stood up and ordered "All Stop, release restraints...".
J882 didn't hear the rest of the order. She wasn't even there anymore—no thoughts, no resistance, just the faint echo of something that used to be a person. Her body, on autopilot, gave one last tremble through the belly, and a final ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. Her eyes glazed, and darkness engulfed her.
Unfortunately for her, she was still alive.
****************
See you, in chapter 4 🙂
Though the story is an original and fully from my own mind, I've used AI (LLM) profoundly, as my editor, copyrighter, and (mostly) as my English-language enhancer. The AI also allowed me to somewhat bypass my disability and write more then my physics allows me. It wasn't a quick or easy, but I thought my AI the general style I was aiming for. It's not yet even close to perfect, but I think it's a very good start,
Disclaimer #2: Trigger Alert! This is a very dark fantasy, situated in my imaginary TDGrid universe. Any relation to reality should NEVER exist! This story goes as dark as it gets! It includes elements of Sexual abuse, rape, physical And mental torture, sadism, entrapment, insex (in a way), de-humanization, and more!
I will appreciate your thought.
Hopefully, You'll like it, and I will be motivated to post the rest of it here.
Enjoy! 🙂
********************************************************************************
Some newcomers, after the first phase, had emerged broken yet clinging to survival. They adapted quickly, absorbing rules and behaviors as if it gave their suffering meaning. For them, obedience became a strategy.
J882, however, wasn’t one of them.
As N717 explained the ground rules, the ranks, and the hierarchy of the TDGrid, J882 wasn’t entirely there. Her eyes blinked slowly, unfocused. Her mouth slightly open, as if still trying to breathe through invisible restraints. Her arms remained locked above her head, elbows bent backward as if holding something invisible just beneath the table. Her trembling fingers curled instinctively, twitching against the underside of the table's edge, unaware of how long they had been frozen in that same tortured pose atop the once-cold, now body-warmed surface.
She was in shock.
Phase One had almost ended her. She had barely endured it, and now her mind lagged behind, still trapped in that sequence of sensations and invasive laughter. She couldn’t process the meaning of "relevance" or grasp why anything being said mattered. She only heard fragments from N717’s monotone voice, like words bubbling up from underwater:
“Obedience ensures structure. Hierarchy prevents chaos,” N717 droned, tapping idly on her tablet. “No one remembers how it started. A private project, maybe. Maybe black-budget military. Doesn’t matter. The system works. We all answer to it.” J882 heard, but didn’t understand. Or maybe she refused to.
The truth was simple: those who adapted suffered less. N717 just explained this, but J882, lost in her sorrow, didn’t notice her delay was sealing her fate.
Still restrained on the table, she began to cry. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Her body was too dry, her spirit too wrung. Just quiet streams of saline down her cheeks as the rules kept being read aloud.
N717 noticed J882's burst of emotions, and was annoyed. Her tone shifted from bored to something darker. "Not listening, hon'? Remember rule number 2? 'No negative emotional display allowed!'" she hissed, her voice like a sweet toxin. Then she leaned in, close enough for J882 to feel the faint exhale against her ear. "Or maybe... you do enjoy this, don't you?" Her gloved index finger, cool and deliberate, traced a path, slowly, uncomfortably slowly, along J882’s flank. From just under the right breast, where the skin was still tender and twitching, down to the bare mound where pubic hair once grew. It tickled...
J882 definitely didn’t enjoy any of it. But she just couldn't stop crying.
N717’s patience was running out. "Okay, hon’, let’s begin phase two, shall we?" she said with an icy grin, turning toward the nearby monitors that continued to display the restrained, sweat-slicked form of J882, trembling, exposed, and very ticklish body.
J882 was breathing fast, her chest rising in shallow bursts. She was unsure how to respond, words were beyond her now. Her wide, pleading eyes screamed what her mouth could not: please not again, please no more, please, please, please...
"G34, replace the bag. No need for endurance support, remove oxygen. G37, prepare for Mushroom insertion."
But before N717 could finish her list of orders, a short, involuntary stream of urine escaped J882, splattering against the table beneath her. N717 paused, tilting her head in mock surprise. "Oh come on, hun'?!"
Without the urine collection tube of the Mushroom, the liquid spread across the lower part of the table. N717 exhaled sharply, irritated. "G36, clean her up. G37, cancel the Mushroom. As soon as she’s clean: roots of her thighs, Level 5.". She didn’t look back as she snapped the final order: "Destroy her."
***
An asian woman in her 30s, wearing white robs, entered the room where J883 was strapped to a table.
J883 followed her with narrowed eyes, every movement deliberate, controlled. Her voice cut the silence like a blade. "What now? More tickling?" she spat, her Russian accent thick with disdain. "I've already told you everything. How exactly are you planning to reprogram me?", the word stretched out with mocking slowness, like venom dripping from her tongue.
The woman said nothing at first. She set down a metal tray with quiet precision, not looking at J883. Her movements were surgical.
Then, coldly, she spoke: "B912. That’s my designation." Her voice had no warmth, only function. "I’m not here to ask questions. I’m here to install instruments."
She turned to Lena and added, "Stay still. This part doesn’t hurt. It never does."
From the tray, B912 picked up a semi-metallic triangular device. Its center was slightly raised—like half of the Mushroom device, forming a soft, rounded bulge. Along each of its two wide sides, three disturbingly thin, jointed arms extended, six in total. The upper four arched like curious fingers reaching from above; the lower two curled slightly underneath, poised like legs of a metallic insect waiting to scurry.
It was sleek, clinical, and deeply alien. Not quite mechanical, not quite organic. Just watching it shift slightly in B912’s hands, adjusting to some preset rhythm, was enough to make most subjects flinch. It was quite obvious to J883 where that is going to be placed.
"Fuok', you do not need zis... I am loyal! Let me go, I vill be good!" she pleaded, her voice cracking despite the accent.
B912 ignored her. She was not here to negotiate or even acknowledge. Her task was clinical—installation only.
As the device was lowered and pressed gently over J883’s mound, the bulge nestled between her labia. A faint suction triggered the moment it touched skin, a near-silent microsecond of vacuum, and the device shifted slightly deeper, aligning itself with chilling precision.
B912, still silent, methodically bent the six arms into position, folding them into the creases at the very roots of J883’s thighs. The two lower arms settled beneath her, angled upward; the four upper arms curled downward from above. Each thin limb found its target with unnerving accuracy, resting directly on her most sensitive, most ticklish spots.
The device remained inert. But a small green light pulsed slowly on its smooth, reflective surface.
J883 let out a short chuckle, sharp and dry. There was no smile, no amusement. Just a spark of defiance flickering through a body that already knew too much, and knew it was about to endure far worse.
"Come on, moya lyubimaya... maybe I go pee first, da? Not to make big mess again, eh?"
B912 pulled a tablet from one of her robe's deep side pockets. It was slightly too large, and her awkward tugging made her shift visibly, the fabric pulling taut in odd directions. The motion subtly displaced her robe, momentarily parting it and revealing smooth, bare skin beneath, she wore nothing underneath. The exposure was brief, accidental, and completely unacknowledged by B912, who simply tapped on the screen with mechanical focus.
The three screens flickered, now showing a live feed of J882’s restrained body. A woman, probably a technician, was carefully cleaning her exposed sex, expression unreadable. The image was clinical, detached, yet deeply violating in its implications. J882 was sobbing, no longer just weeping, but desperately crying, her face twisted in anguish.
J883’s heart sank at the sight. She shifted her gaze to the left-most screen, which showed J882's horrified face, and her stretched, helpless armpits.
But she showed nothing. Not a tremble, not a twitch. Just silence. That was her shield now. She knew there was nothing she can do for her.
Another woman in white robes entered the room. She was Black, with long, curly hair that framed her calm yet unreadable face.
"Hello, J883. I am X401," she said evenly, her voice measured and precise. "Your first treatment will begin shortly. We’re simply waiting for J882 to begin hers." She smiled, a rehearsed, lifeless gesture, the kind meant to imitate kindness without ever truly touching it.
"Vy? She is good lady, innocent! Let her go. You vant to reprogram someone? Use me instead. Break m-"
"Yeah, yeah, murderously innocent..." X401 cut her off mid-sentence without even turning her head. Her eyes were on the monitor. "Hmm... here we go," she murmured as J882's cleaning finished and the technician stepped away.
On the screens, as one woman moved away from J882's hips, another stepped in and positioned her hands deliberately over the roots of J882’s thighs. She paused, taking a slow, steadying breath—there was always that moment of hesitation before the cruelty began. Then her fingers came alive: fast, precise, and unnervingly methodical.
Her perfectly trimmed nails grazed the skin lightly, barely scratching the surface, but just enough to make the pale skin twitch and the underlying muscles flinch as if trying to escape. The soft, freshly shaven flesh offered no protection. Instead, the hypersensitive nerve endings lit up like a grid of raw signals, instantly overloaded. J882’s entire lower body convulsed, her thighs trembling against the restraints. The laughter that followed wasn’t shaped by joy, it was an uncontrolled detonation of nerves, a violent reflex from helpless sensory overload. It came out jagged, breathless, fractured into high-pitched squeals and gasping hiccups.
"Eee-a-h... Heheheeehe... Na-ee-a-h... Hehehehe-kk... Eee-ee-h... Heheehehee-k-... E-eePlee... Hehehheeeh..."
J882 exploded.
Her face twisted into an obscene, almost joyous mask, her mouth gaping wide in a rictus of laughter, the corners stretched as if sculpted into delight. But her eyes betrayed everything. They were clamped shut, wet with despair, shaking beneath the lids. Her brow trembled, knotted tight in agony. Every muscle in her face was screaming.
It was a grotesque lie, one stitched by nerves, not emotion.
The laughter was real. Wild. Terrifying. It rolled out in bursts and stutters, growing higher in pitch with every second, punctuated by choking gasps and breathless squeals. It wasn’t joy. It was a system failure. A body trying to process something unprocessable.
She looked, on the outside, like a woman at the peak of hysterical ecstasy. But inside, she was shattering. That sound, so infectious, so human, was a betrayal of the agony clawing through her brain.
It was the laughter of someone being erased.
The technician wiggled her fingers with practiced, unwavering precision—each movement like a surgeon’s incision, but meant not to cut, only to unmake. Her perfectly measured strokes struck the same hypersensitive nerve clusters over and over again, as if hypnotized by the cruelty of it. It was like a psychopath stabbing the same spot repeatedly, except there was no blood, no pain, only laughter. Cold, merciless, full-body laughter.
"Eeee... Hheehehehehe... k.. Eeeec-.... Hehehehhee-k.... y-Eeec... Hehehe-h-he... Eee-e... Hehhehee-e-ch-a... Eee-k... k-Heheheh... E-eec... Heheheheeh-k..."
J882 laughed so hard, her whole body shuddered with each burst. It had only just begun, and already she couldn’t get enough air. Her chest hitched in short, desperate gasps between the explosions of manic sound. Her throat rasped from the strain, but her body refused to stop. The laughter was an uncontrollable seizure, wild, raw, echoing like a scream wearing a party mask.
Her lungs burned. Her stomach spasmed. She was in full-blown panic, trapped inside her own body as it betrayed her. And yet, no one cared.
No one paused the torture. No one eased the pressure. The fingers just kept stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, soft and maddening. A precise madness masquerading as joy, carving into her mind one giggle at a time.
The J882's skin beneath G37's nails rippled with each pass, muscles twitching with a mind of their own, trying and failing to retreat. The fingers never changed pace, never wavered, like mechanical instruments driven by obsession. Her touch was no longer simply calibrated, it was weaponized. It didn’t just bypass reason, it erased it.
In a burst of rage, J883 screamed, "Bastards! You're killing her! Stop dis!" Her voice cracked with fury and helplessness, eyes locked on the screens as if dragged there by force. She strained violently against her restraints, her large frame flexing with all the strength it could muster. Every muscle rippled beneath soft flesh, the table creaking and groaning under her weight with each desperate thrash. But it was useless. Like J882, she couldn’t move an inch. Not to help. Not to look away.
"She needs to enjoy this properly. J501, flanks, level 5. Make her feel it," X401 said, her tone calm but laced with an almost surgical cruelty, as if giving routine instructions for a vivisection.
A third woman stepped out from the shadows. She was naked, her body slender and pale, with an odd fragility to her that immediately set her apart from the others. She didn’t carry the clinical stillness of the technicians, something in her gait was hesitant, almost amateurish. Her smile twitched at the corners as if holding back laughter of her own.
She walked around to J883’s left side and began the treatment without ceremony. Her fingers ran in fast, chaotic motions along J883’s flank, from the bottom of the lowest rib down to the hip bone. It wasn’t graceful. It was frantic. Both hands moved with a desperation that seemed disconnected from intention, as if her body remembered a script recently burned into her nerves.
J501 was no professional. Her hands trembled slightly, and her touch was imprecise—but relentless. She had only recently been broken and reprogrammed herself. The compulsion to tickle was freshly wired into her, and it radiated through her every movement. She didn’t just tickle, she reenacted.
Her giggles slipped out in little bursts, not mocking but reactive, as if she still felt the echoes of what she was doing. Each pass over J883’s hypersensitive side made her fingers flinch with mirrored memory, like a phantom itch she couldn’t escape. Her smile twitched, eyes glassy, caught in the feedback loop of torture and its residue.
And still, she tickled. Not out of cruelty, but because she had been taught there was no alternative.
"Fouk' h... come on! Hah... Shtop! ha-hh..." J883 giggled, her voice betraying the flickers of involuntary reaction. It vasn’t as bad as before, she knew that, but she would never admit it. "Dis no fun... Ah-Ah..." Her big belly jolted with each reflexive spasm. "Let hA-er go, ple-sh... Ha..."
And just if reading her mind, X401 ordered "Thigh roots!".
B912 tapped her tablet. The small green LED on the device covering J883's labia blinked once, then turned solid red. A soft mechanical hum followed as the six thin arms sprang to life, moving with chilling precision. They began tickling her thigh roots at high speed, methodical, exact, inescapable. Each arm traced perfectly along the same hypersensitive creases, brushing over the tender nerves again and again like a scalpel made of silk. It was the kind of tickling that didn’t vary or hesitate, like being stabbed with invisible feathers, again and again, until reason gave way to chaos.
J883 exploded in a burst of uncontrollable laughter, "AaaHaHa... Ek-No-Hahahaha... eik-Hahahah... eiik-Staaaa-Hahahaha... Heik-Hahaha...!" Her voice cracked and pitched like a derailed engine, each syllable laced with desperation and disbelief. It was unbearable. Her large belly convulsed with violent tremors, jiggling and jumping beneath each wave of stimulus. Her full H38 breasts bounced with each involuntary spasm, nipples visibly tightening from the overwhelming flood of nervous system chaos.
"This is will take to much time! B219, yes, you, Use the Pitbrush, no mercy!" X401 ordered while watching J883 laughing out of control.
B219 put down the tablet and picked up a bizarre-looking device, part electric toothbrush, part toilet brush, all malice. Its bristles buzzed with high-frequency vibration, visibly trembling with restrained energy.
She positioned herself beside J883’s right armpit. With one hand, she gently but firmly pushed aside the heavy curve of the breast. With the other, she lowered the Pitbrush until it touched skin.
The vibrating bristles traced slow, deliberate paths up and down the exposed hollow, each pass leaving behind a trail of prickling overstimulation. The brush was far too soft to cause pain, but the effect was cruelly effective, every microsecond of contact felt like a hundred icy feathers dancing in unison.
B219 made no effort to spare a spot. She painted the entire armpit in trembling torment, each stroke smooth, unwavering, exhaustive.
And J883, she shook. She screamed through laughter, wild and animalistic, her voice shredded into high-pitched howls. Her body thrashed, betrayed by spasms she could no longer control. And most of all, she broke.
She was in perfect hell, trapped in a storm of overwhelming sensation, laughing like a demon, while her soul watched in horror. Across the screens, J882, the only and most precious person in the world to her, was being dragged into madness, her body twitching, her face distorted in a parody of joy. And J883 couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t help. Just laugh.
It was a symphony of madness, an orchestra of laughter without music, just the twisted duet of J883 and J882. Their voices overlapped, bounced, and pierced through the room like dueling instruments, one frantic and desperate, the other on the brink of collapse. There was no harmony, only hysteria. A score written in shrieks and gasps, conducted by torment.
"Eee..k... Hhe..hhk...hh... Eeec... hh-hch-hh-t-t... Ee-k... heh-hk-t-t-t... h-Eeee... k-hh-he-hk-t-t..."
J882's laughter had mutated into something monstrous, no longer rhythmic. It stuttered in breathless, high-pitched clicks, like a broken music box forcing out its final, warped notes. Her body jerked helplessly, her hips twitching against the restraints, every nerve a live wire. Her skin was flushed a deep, feverish red, blushed from neck to thighs, as if her entire torso had been set alight with embarrassment, exhaustion, and heat. The color only added to the surreal horror, she looked almost aroused, almost glowing—yet it was the fire of overexertion, of a body pushed far past its limits while the mind dangled on the edge of blackout.
I'm going to die. I can't breathe! Please! Somebody! Please! her mind screamed, but no sound escaped her mouth now except that horrible, automatic laughter.
I'm going to die! And I'm laughing! Laughing like a puppet... Laughing while dying!
The muscles around her lips pulled into an obscene grin, stretched wide and glistening with saliva, her thighs glimmering with sweat and something else—betrayal. Her clit throbbed, exposed and helpless, caught in the chaotic rhythm between unbearable stimulation and twisted arousal. She didn't want it. She hated it.
But her body didn't care. Her mind was fading, her thoughts fracturing into flashes of shame and terror, and all the while, she laughed. Like it was her last function.
J882 was hardly breathing. Her heart pounded frantically, trying to force blood to her brain, but there was no oxygen in that blood. Her chest rose in short, empty bursts as her body fought a losing battle against suffocation. She slowly started to drift away, vision flickering, consciousness slipping like water through her fingers.
And then the video feed stopped.
J883, still laughing uncontrollably, tried to process what she’d just seen, but her mind was a whirlwind of sensation. Was J882 dead? Did she faint? Was her precious daughter gone?
She had no way of knowing. Not now. Not while her body was still convulsing with laughter. Not while her brain screamed for clarity and breath. If only she could even think clearly...
Her own laughter, at that exact moment, twisted violently. Something inside her snapped, not a bone, but something deeper. Something old, solid, and barbaric. The giant spy, forged to endure pain and brutality, melted into jelly.
Her laughter began to change, decaying into something broken. The wild cackles faded into hissing, creaking sounds, like an old castle door being opened and closed over and over again. No rhythm. No breath. Just leaking sound and the echoes of madness.
A stream of urine escaped, warm and silent, pooling beneath her. There was no device to catch it. No effort to hide it. No one cared, not even the cruel machine that still tickled her to oblivion, unbothered by the collapse it had just caused.
She was collapsing. A monument brought down by tickles and trauma. A relic unraveling beneath waves of engineered hysteria.
"Now we are getting somewhere," said X401, her voice almost purring with clinical satisfaction as she watched J883's trembling belly begin to soften—not from relief, but because she was barely breathing. Her massive chest strained for air, each breath shallower than the last. Her body, deep red and soaked, was too depleted to keep up the violent spasms. The laughter didn’t stop, it simply shrank, crackling into thin, suffocating wisps. The spasms slowed, not from mercy, but from sheer exhaustion. The machine still tickled. No one intervened.
*****
J882’s last moments of consciousness weren’t something she could comprehend. Her mind was dissolving, piece by piece, leaving behind only flickers. Her face was blank, a slack mask occasionally tugged into ghostly fractions of 'smiles', as if her nerves were mimicking a memory they barely recalled. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stayed fixed on her own softly trembling belly. It rhythmically rose and fell like a dying volcano, rumbling gently, as if begging to erupt, but lacking the force or pressure to ever truly explode. Only the tremors remained. Her belly was still laughing, without her.
N717 smiled—a slow, eerie curl of her lips that suggested far too much delight. Her gloved fingers hovered for a second, then descended, toying with J882’s left nipple. She tickled it, featherlight, more a caress than a touch. It twitched slightly, stiffening just a little, more from the cold than arousal, but N717 didn't care.
She leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of J882’s ear, her breath warm and venomously intimate.
"And that’s, hon’... how we make you happy," she whispered, each word dripping with artificial affection, like a lover’s lie spoken in a torture chamber.
Then she giggled. Softly. A sound that didn’t belong in that room, and yet made everything worse.
She then stood up and ordered "All Stop, release restraints...".
J882 didn't hear the rest of the order. She wasn't even there anymore—no thoughts, no resistance, just the faint echo of something that used to be a person. Her body, on autopilot, gave one last tremble through the belly, and a final ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. Her eyes glazed, and darkness engulfed her.
Unfortunately for her, she was still alive.
****************
See you, in chapter 4 🙂
Last edited:
