mch5
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Mar 9, 2012
- Messages
- 326
- 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! 🙂
She was laughing again. Not as violently as two days ago, but hell is hell, whether it's 400°C or 800°C, your skin is still on fire.
Pain... she longed for pain. Pain is honest. It screams. It bleeds. It reflects the storm inside. But this? This was something far worse.
This was humiliation in disguise. A mockery of agony. Laughter without joy, surrender without consent. It stripped her of dignity, made her betrayal sound like delight.
The sensation itself was maddening. Each flicker of touch ignited nerves in ways no pain could. Her body convulsed, giggled, shrieked with glee her soul never felt. She wanted to sob, to vomit, to scream stop, but all that came out was laughter.
That was the true horror: not the restraints, not the fingers tracing every tender line of her (ok, that too), but her own body laughing, betraying her truth, telling the world she enjoyed it. And she couldn't stop it.
No one could.
"Eeeck... hehehehehe-ek.. Eeehc... hehehe-he... Eeeek-... Pleahehehe-heh... Eeaec... I c-...I can'ttt-heheh-kkkk... Eeheek... Pl-hehehehe-cch.... E-eeehc... H-you-hhkili...mhhhehe... Eeeck... hehehe-ch-kkk..."
She sat upright, arms pulled high above her head, strapped in place to form a rigid 'H' shape. Her legs were lifted and secured in a padded frame, bent so her knees pressed nearly to her chest, thighs resting against the soft curve of her belly. Her feet were fully exposed, angled forward—helpless, vulnerable, and actively abused.
In front of her sat her tormentor, a woman in her thirties, perched rigidly on a metal stool. She wore the same sleeveless overall assigned to every not-currently-tortured TDGrid citizen, the thin fabric clinging slightly from sweat. Her hair was cropped short, and her face had an unsettling blend of innocence and severity, like a Kindergarten teacher who had seen too much. Her eyes betrayed fear, but her hands were relentless, methodical, almost desperate in their effort as they danced mercilessly over J882’s bare, trembling soles.
About two meters in front of her, J883 lay strapped to the padded table, completely still, yet unmistakably conscious. A breathing tube protruded from her mouth, silencing her entirely. Her respiration was machine-regulated, steady and precise, with an artificial calmness that felt inhuman. Each rise and fall of her chest subtly shifted the immense weight of her belly, making it appear to shrink slightly before swelling back to its natural, heavy presence. Her eyes wandered aimlessly across the room, restless, searching. Was she thinking? Plotting? Sinking deeper into madness? Impossible to tell.
A group of so-called "technicians" swarmed around J883, wiping, adjusting, inspecting her like she was some grotesque exhibit. They moved with quiet efficiency, preparing her for... something J882 couldn’t let herself imagine. If she even could imagine anything right now. One of them pressed a button beneath the table, causing it to shift and arch, tilting J883’s upper body downward until her head vanished behind the obscene curve of her mountain-sized belly, which now dominated the view like some monument to helplessness.
X401 was there too, pacing, barking orders, micro-managing every cruel detail. Unlike N717, who had once faked warmth with all the grace of a sociopath in customer service, X401 took no visible pleasure in anything. She radiated nothing but cold precision, a quiet contempt etched into her face that seemed to say, "I know exactly what I’m doing, and I’m excellent at it."
She stopped in front of J882, arms folded, gaze analytical. "Don’t neglect the back of the knees, F556. They’re exposed for a reason," she instructed the woman tormenting J882, her voice calm, clinical, like a teacher correcting form.
F556 immediately reached behind J882's knees, her fingers diving in with practiced cruelty, three on each hand, skimming and digging under the knees before darting back to the soles. She alternated rapidly between both zones, unpredictable and merciless, keeping J882's nerves on edge and her laughter spiraling out of control.
"Eeeck... hehehehe-ekkk... Eeeek... hehehe-kk... Eeeeh-hehehe-heee... P-plehehease-hhehehk... I-ccchhh.... I caa-ehehh—kkk... Eeeech-h—no—kkkhhheheh... Eeeeh—chkk..."
J882’s head hung low, chin pressed to her chest, shoulders twitching violently with every breathless spasm. Her mouth gaped in a helpless rhythm, a glistening string of drool trailing from her lips. Under the harsh, clinical lights, it shimmered—tracing a humiliating, wet line down her trembling belly, gliding over the slight rise of her pubic mound, and continuing down, fully visible, fully exposed. With her legs raised and spread wide by the frame, the drool passed unashamedly over her exposed vagina, like a perverse signature of her surrender—undeniable, glistening, intimate.
Then, without a word, X401 stepped closer. Her hand reached under J882’s left breast, pressing gently against a trembling rib, feeling for something. Perhaps pulse. Perhaps resistance. She held it there for two seconds, long enough to unsettle, short enough to deny intimacy, then gave a tiny nod and walked away to continue her ruthless oversight.
"Is J883 ready? Why is her screen still off? Turn it on, now. Make sure it’s angled directly over her face. I want her to see every twitch J882 makes. Today, please!" snapped X401, her voice razor-sharp and unamused.
The "technicians" hurried to comply. A screen, held by a cold, flexible metal arm, flickered to life just above J883’s face, casting a harsh light across her expressionless features. Her eyes flinched at the glow, then slowly focused upward—as if unsure whether what she saw was real or some new layer of her nightmare.
"Side-clamps," X401 snapped.
The technicians secured two padded mechanical clamps to the sides of J883’s table, aligning them precisely with the soft flesh of her exposed flanks.
X401 took a deep breath, clearly disgusted by the euphemism she was expected to use, and exhaled flatly, "Make her happy."
The clamps pulsed in relentless rhythm, swiftly pinching and releasing the soft flesh of J883’s sides. Her body jolted, spasming in reflex, straining against the restraints with violent urgency. The table groaned under the force, creaking ominously, but held firm. Her escape was impossible. Her suffering is unavoidable.
J883's smile, twisted awkwardly by the breathing tube, widened with eerie ease. Within thirty seconds, she had surrendered, fully, helplessly, to the muted spasms of laughter. Her massive belly quivered with machine-synced precision: each mechanical inhale dulled the tremors, only for them to re-emerge more violently with each exhale, like ripples of madness riding the tide of artificial breath:
inhale-in... jiggle—JIggle—JIGGle—JIGGLE—down... inhale-in... jiggle—JIggle—JIGGle—JIGGLE—down... inhale-in... jiggle—JIggle—JIGGle—JIGGLE—down... like a grotesque lullaby, orchestrated by wires and cruelty, rhythmic, perverse, and utterly detached from any true joy.
X401 considered it a decent start—but not nearly enough. With calculated calm, she moved to J883’s hips and knelt beside the trembling mass of flesh. Her fingers began to trace slow, deliberate circles at the roots of J883’s thighs, inching closer to the exposed folds between them. Her voice dropped to a soft, unnerving whisper: “Look how happy your daughter is... her laughter means so much. You feel it, don’t you? You want her lost in joy. You need it too. Look at her eyes... look at her smile...”
She kept whispering, over and over, like a ritual of erosion, chipping away what little remained of resistance.
J883 was lost—adrift in frantic, silent laughter. Her body convulsed in mechanical rhythm while her mind screamed for mercy, a break, a breath, something to ground her in sanity. But there was nothing. No anchor. No reality beyond the torment. Words melted into soundless noise, concepts unraveled. "Sense"—whatever that used to mean—was evaporating.
She could only laugh.
She could only watch.
Watch as her daughter dissolved into the same madness, into that agonizing mirage of joy. J882’s eyes begged for help, her mouth laughed in betrayal. Horror lived in her gaze, but the smile never faltered. Drool shimmered on her lips. Her face, red and twitching, radiated something disturbingly close to happiness.
And that was the collapse. The clamps, the tickling, the whispers, each chipped away at her until there was nothing left but reflex. And in that hollowed-out place, J883 realized something horrifying: she was smiling too. Not despite the tickling, but because of it. Her body had submitted. Her mind was just catching up.
J882's laughter had gone silent too, not out of shock, not from some new wave of torture, not even from collapse (that had already come and gone, long ago). The truth was simpler, crueler: there was just no more air. Her body, reduced to a shuddering machine of reflex and mock-joy, had run out of fuel.
She gasped, ragged, hoarse, and let out another silent burst of laughter. Then again. And again. Like a broken metronome of madness, ticking toward nothing.
"Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t..."
The tickling ceased, just a murmur, then stillness. Now she should breathe. Now she should recover. Now she should think. But she didn't. She simply drifted off. Whether it was passing out or falling asleep didn’t matter, her body embraced the void, and her mind followed without protest.
As the world faded, something brushed her cheek, a whisper of short hair, a ghost of presence. A voice, imagined or not, murmured gently into the silence: "The more you tickle, the less you're tickled."
*****
Savannah had heard whispers of TDGrid. Not much, just a strange acronym and a single word on a discreet tag worn by three mysterious female doctors who visited the hospital every week, always after hours, always unannounced. No one questioned them. They moved like they belonged, like their silence was authorized. Once a week, without fail, they would arrive, request the patient list, and quietly vanish into one of the rooms, locking the door behind them.
It became routine. Unquestioned. Until one night, curiosity got the better of Savannah.
She happened to pass by one of the closed rooms. From inside: a sound. Muffled. Desperate. A scream. Her pulse surged. She tried the handle, it was locked. Her instincts flared. She rushed to the nurses' station, yanked open drawers, searching frantically, until in the back of a dusty, half-forgotten compartment, she found a key.
She returned to the room—heartbeat pounding, dread coiling in her gut. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. In one swift motion, she slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.
Two of the TDGrid doctors stood motionless beside the bed. The patient, a woman in her forties, was strapped down with soft medical restraints—standard for suicide prevention, but nothing about this felt standard. Her wrists were secured, her body trembling slightly, her eyes wide with terror.
"What is—" Savannah began, but the words caught in her throat.
A sharp sting hit the side of her neck. Not like in the movies, real. Deep. Immediate. Her knees buckled as burning liquid coursed through her veins. One of the women stepped forward, catching her effortlessly.
The last thing she saw was the door closing quietly behind her as everything fell into black.
And from the black, only silence.
**
J882 jolted awake, breath catching, heart slamming in her chest. She was still in that same chair—but no straps. Her arms lay limp on her lap, legs relaxed and grounded. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t believe.
A sudden burst of crying erupted from her throat, raw and shaking, but it faded fast. Something clicked. A thought. A defiant truth, or maybe a desperate lie.
—I’m still here. Still thinking. Still alive. I’ve survived the Redingtons. I can survive this too.—
Was it a fact? A delusion? It didn’t matter. It was the only thing she had left.
In front of her stood the stool—abandoned, quiet—where her tormentor had once perched. Minutes ago? Hours? Time had lost all meaning. Resting atop it were two objects: a bottle of water, still cold with condensation, and a neatly folded sleeveless overall.
She rose on shaky legs, slipped into the garment like slipping into a role she hadn’t chosen, and drank. Desperately. The water hit her dry throat like fire and ice at once.
And then, her eyes fell on the table.
She stepped closer. Her mother lay as before, stretched taut, limbs restrained, unmoving but not lifeless. The breathing tube still hissed in quiet precision, filling her lungs in perfect mechanical rhythm. An IV dripped steadily into one arm. A catheter snaked from between her legs, clinical and cold.
Her mouth twitched faintly, the remnants of a smile carved there by force, not joy. But her face, soft now, looked... calm.
Then their eyes met.
J883’s gaze locked onto hers. It held no panic, no plea, just sorrow. A deep, aching sorrow. And something else. An apology. For things she never did. For pain she never caused. For being broken in front of her daughter, over and over again.
J882 gently stroked her mother’s forehead, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek—a gesture that should’ve meant goodbye. But it didn’t. Not this time. It was a vow, sealed in silence: "We’re not done. I’m not done. I will survive, and I will come back for you."
Her fingers lingered for a breath longer, then slipped away. And without a word, she turned and walked toward the door behind the shadows, where fate waited, unblinking.
****
Outside the room, her daemon awaited, smiling, composed, like nothing had ever happened. It was N717. "Good morning, hun'," she purred, voice oozing false warmth. Then, with a knowing glance and a tilt of her head: "Walk with me."
J882 complied, keeping a cautious arm’s length between them, not out of fear, but something colder. N717 didn’t mind. She filled the silence with a casual, wicked grin. “So... be honest. Did watching me get tickled turn you on a little?”
J882 had pushed the events of the "studio" into a dark corner of her mind, but now, fragments resurfaced. Her emotions tangled: disgust, confusion, something else she didn’t dare name. She slowed her pace, taking a few long, deliberate steps. N717 waited patiently, and was rewarded with a small, reluctant nod.
N717 beamed with smug satisfaction. "I bet you’re the reason they cranked the level up," she said, practically glowing. Without waiting for a reply, she added under her breath with theatrical menace, "Ohhh, when I get my hands on K401... I swear, I'm gonna rearrange her liver with a feather."
They walked a while longer, twisting through corridor after corridor until they reached a wooden brown door labeled: "101C – Taking a Point." N717 stopped, turned to J882, and with a sly smirk said, "One more thing I need from you before you're off the hook for the weekend."
J882 was ready, or at least, as ready as anyone could be. Ready to laugh herself to death, to endure another descent into chaos by a gauntlet of women armed with swirling brushes, sharp nails, 'pleasure' devices, and whatever psychopathic horrors TDGrid had cooked up this time.
She wasn’t brave. She was terrified. Every functional neuron screamed at her to run, slam into a wall if she had to, just to escape. But something inside her had hardened. Bent, not broken.
So she stood, spine taut, fists clenched at her sides.
"Alright," she muttered through dry lips. "What is it this time?"
N717 didn’t answer. She simply turned the handle and pushed the door open with theatrical ease, stepping aside just enough for J882 to follow. They entered together, J882's breath already tightening in her chest before the door even clicked shut behind them.
J882 wasn’t ready for what she saw—yet somewhere inside, her body eased. Her breath hitched, her heart clenched, but instead of fear, there was a flicker of something... manageable. Familiar. And for a brief moment, she almost welcomed it.
It was a dark room—sterile, humming, disturbingly familiar. The walls were lined with instruments, cold and indifferent. But in the center, under a cruel, surgical spotlight, knelt a woman on a padded circle of floor.
She was completely naked.
Her posture was rigid, unnervingly composed. She knelt fully upright, arms stretched wide in a mock-crucifixion, held taut by sleek restraints anchored invisibly to the padded floor. Her back remained straight, chin lifted just enough to expose her face—naked, vulnerable, and painted in a mix of confusion and quiet dread. It looked like a scene from some twisted B-grade religious thriller, complete with the surreal sense that this woman wasn’t just on display, she was being offered.
J882 stared, unsure whether to be terrified or relieved.
She was petite, barely 155 cm tall, with a lean, compact frame shaped by yoga and long shifts on her feet. Her honey-gold skin glowed under the spotlight, smooth and warm-toned, but visibly blushed where the cold air kissed her. Natural waves of blondish hair fell loosely to her shoulders, slightly disheveled, framing a face that danced between youthful innocence and barely-contained panic.
Her bones were light, her body compact, built for movement, yet so easy to pin down. That’s exactly what they had done. Despite her size, she radiated an undeniable, haunting allure: the quiet beauty of a form shaped by discipline, now rendered helpless.
Her breasts, small and firm, stood out with flushed nipples tightened by the chill. A sheen of sweat coated her skin—an after-effect of the sedative that had long worn off, but left her body confused and overheated. Her belly was flat, fluttering with each sharp breath, and her thighs tensed beneath her like coiled springs. The restraints held her arms wide in a perfect crucifixion, emphasizing every inch of her exposure. She wasn’t just restrained, she was displayed, posed with purpose. Vulnerable. Offered. And terrifyingly real.
N717’s voice cut clean through the silence.
"J882, meet J959. Your test."
The moment J959 registered movement, her head snapped up. Confusion bloomed into panic, her voice cracking as it erupted into the silence.
"Where... where am I?! Why am I here?! Let me go! Who the hell are you?! Why am I naked? What do you want from me?!"
Her voice climbed with every word, breath turning rapid and shallow. She pulled against the restraints, arms twitching, muscles tightening, but nothing gave. The panic in her voice was real, unchecked, and rising fast. Each question tumbled out half-formed, colliding with the next in a breathless rush.
N717 spoke calmly, almost sweetly, like she was reciting protocol she had said a hundred times before. "You’re here because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. And now… well, now you need to be punished, and persuaded, to let go of such bad habits."
"N-no, really, there's no need for punishment or persuasion. I’ll cooperate, I promise. Whatever you think I know, I don’t! I swear, I don’t even know who you are, or what this place is, or—"
"TDGrid," N717 snapped, slicing through J959’s panicked rambling like a blade.
J959 froze, words caught in her throat. But instinct took over, she had to try. "Please, I have a family... my husband’s probably looking for me. Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear."
"Of course you won't. But we still need to make sure," N717 said evenly. Then, turning slightly, she added, "J882, position yourself behind her and begin."
J882 stepped behind J959’s restrained, exposed form. There was no ambiguity, she knew exactly what was expected. But knowing it and doing it were worlds apart. Torturing someone, especially knowing firsthand how it feels? That was something else entirely.
N717 locked eyes with J882. "Now. Or switch places."
J882 leaned in and whispered, "I'm sorry," her voice barely audible. Then, from behind, she slipped her hands into J959’s armpits and began to tickle, softly, with two fingers on each hand, precise and deliberate.
""What the fuck are you doing?! Stop it!" J959 knew exactly what J882 was doing. She and her husband shared a tickling kink, but that was always consensual, always playful. This? This was twisted. This was wrong.
J959 felt it immediately—that twitch deep in her lower abdomen, a surge of involuntary tension as her body registered the light, teasing strokes under her arms. It mirrored perfectly, maddeningly, the sensation of those fingers. "Stop it! Stoh... hh... stohehe... he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk...he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk...he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk..."
Her voice broke down into helpless giggles. She couldn’t finish a sentence. Couldn’t beg properly. Her body betrayed her, writhing in place, trying to pull away. She was too ticklish, absurdly ticklish. And somehow, they knew. Of all the things they could have discovered, how the fuck did they know that??
J959’s stuttering laughter was music to N717’s ears, soft, desperate, and involuntary. But it wasn’t enough. "J882, stop playing. Four fingers," she said, voice firm and flat as she tapped commands into the nearby workstation, sending a message across the local network without even glancing up.
J959's laughter intensified—sharp, erratic bursts that made her abdomen flex uncontrollably. Her belly twitched violently with each forced giggle, her whole torso shuddering as she tried and failed to brace. "Hhk... he-he-he-he-he-he-he... kkh... hhk... StopStoppphst-he-he-he-he-he-he—hhk... plishhe-he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk... pl-he-he-he-he-he-he-he..."
Her breasts bounced rapidly with the motion, slick with sweat that clung to her like a second skin. Each convulsion sent ripples across her chest, every jolt from laughter echoing through her trembling frame. She gasped between fits, breath hitching and ragged, her body already shaking from exertion, and the session had barely begun.
The door opened with a soft click, and another woman stepped in, dressed in the same sleeveless overall as the others.
"C201, thighs. Deep," N717 ordered without looking up.
Without a word, C201 knelt between J959’s legs and got to work. Her fingers spread and settled on the delicate inner thighs—just shy of too intimate, yet devastatingly effective. She moved in calculated strokes, slow at first, tracing light patterns with her fingertips, then quicker, deeper, zeroing in on twitch points like she was trained to read them.
J959 jolted, gasping mid-laugh, her legs trembling as if trying to pull away, but the restraints gave no mercy. Her laughter faltered into sharp hiccups before rebounding into a shrieking rhythm, breathless and broken.
C201 didn’t flinch. She was a professional. Efficient. Not just someone performing a task, she was a cog in a system, smooth and exact, executing her role with mechanical precision. The suffering in front of her wasn’t a distraction. It was affirmation. It meant she was doing it right.
J959 tried with everything she had to beg, but her mouth couldn’t shape words—only jagged breaths and fractured laughter spilled out. Her face and chest burned red-hot, flushed with heat and desperation. Tears streamed freely, not from sadness, but as if her body was trying to put out its own fire. "hhk... hh-he-hh-he... hhk... hh-hh-hhe-he..."
N717 knew things were going too far with J959. It wouldn’t have mattered if they were allowed to keep her, but she was just a civilian, meant to be broken into obedience, not destroyed. N717 had hoped to push her just far enough to make her lose control, maybe wet herself, something symbolic, something final. But now her vitals were slipping, fast, and even N717 had to acknowledge the line was approaching.
"C201, J882, give her a minute to breathe," N717 said reluctantly, eyes still locked on the monitor.
She stepped away from the workstation, her boots tapping slowly on the hard floor as she approached the trembling figure of J959. Her movements were measured, deliberate, more like a predator studying its prey than a caretaker checking in. She circled her slowly, eyes tracing sweat patterns across J959's flushed skin, observing the heaving of her chest, the micro-twitches in her thighs, the barely-stabilizing breathing rhythm.
J959’s recovery was happening, but too slowly. Her head remained tilted down, her shoulders sagging slightly now. Muscles twitched beneath skin still damp and glistening. Her mouth hung open, trying to inhale, to reset, but the panic hadn’t left her body. Not yet.
N717 said nothing. She just watched—for a while—hoping, silently, that she hadn’t pushed too far. The numbers on the monitor danced too close to critical, and for once, uncertainty crept behind her eyes.
She crouched beside J959, lowering herself slowly. Her voice came softer now, less command, more calibration. “Hey... hey. J-Nine-f...” she stopped herself, corrected. This wasn’t an asset. Not yet.
“Hey, Savannah. Can you hear me?”
No response. N717 leaned in closer, studying the girl’s face for even the smallest reaction.
“Hey! Hey, Savannah!” she said louder, and gave a gentle poke to her rib.
It worked. J959’s eyes shot open, her head lifting abruptly, chest heaving. Her mouth hung open, breath ragged and fast. She looked around, wild, disoriented, panicked but silent.
N717 reached out, cupping the side of her head firmly. “Can you understand me?”
J959 blinked, barely forming the words. “My... head hurts...”
"You'll be fine." N717 stood up slowly, brushing her palms together like closing a file. "C201, J882, have a great weekend. Now out! I’ll handle the rest."
The two women left the room. J882 didn’t look back. She forced her mind blank, sealed shut around the guilt clawing at the edge of her thoughts. She had done what she had to do. And she would do it again. Because survival was the only thing left that made sense.
[Special thanks to user: scrtq, who donated… a character]
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! 🙂
Chapter 5
She was laughing again. Not as violently as two days ago, but hell is hell, whether it's 400°C or 800°C, your skin is still on fire.
Pain... she longed for pain. Pain is honest. It screams. It bleeds. It reflects the storm inside. But this? This was something far worse.
This was humiliation in disguise. A mockery of agony. Laughter without joy, surrender without consent. It stripped her of dignity, made her betrayal sound like delight.
The sensation itself was maddening. Each flicker of touch ignited nerves in ways no pain could. Her body convulsed, giggled, shrieked with glee her soul never felt. She wanted to sob, to vomit, to scream stop, but all that came out was laughter.
That was the true horror: not the restraints, not the fingers tracing every tender line of her (ok, that too), but her own body laughing, betraying her truth, telling the world she enjoyed it. And she couldn't stop it.
No one could.
"Eeeck... hehehehehe-ek.. Eeehc... hehehe-he... Eeeek-... Pleahehehe-heh... Eeaec... I c-...I can'ttt-heheh-kkkk... Eeheek... Pl-hehehehe-cch.... E-eeehc... H-you-hhkili...mhhhehe... Eeeck... hehehe-ch-kkk..."
She sat upright, arms pulled high above her head, strapped in place to form a rigid 'H' shape. Her legs were lifted and secured in a padded frame, bent so her knees pressed nearly to her chest, thighs resting against the soft curve of her belly. Her feet were fully exposed, angled forward—helpless, vulnerable, and actively abused.
In front of her sat her tormentor, a woman in her thirties, perched rigidly on a metal stool. She wore the same sleeveless overall assigned to every not-currently-tortured TDGrid citizen, the thin fabric clinging slightly from sweat. Her hair was cropped short, and her face had an unsettling blend of innocence and severity, like a Kindergarten teacher who had seen too much. Her eyes betrayed fear, but her hands were relentless, methodical, almost desperate in their effort as they danced mercilessly over J882’s bare, trembling soles.
About two meters in front of her, J883 lay strapped to the padded table, completely still, yet unmistakably conscious. A breathing tube protruded from her mouth, silencing her entirely. Her respiration was machine-regulated, steady and precise, with an artificial calmness that felt inhuman. Each rise and fall of her chest subtly shifted the immense weight of her belly, making it appear to shrink slightly before swelling back to its natural, heavy presence. Her eyes wandered aimlessly across the room, restless, searching. Was she thinking? Plotting? Sinking deeper into madness? Impossible to tell.
A group of so-called "technicians" swarmed around J883, wiping, adjusting, inspecting her like she was some grotesque exhibit. They moved with quiet efficiency, preparing her for... something J882 couldn’t let herself imagine. If she even could imagine anything right now. One of them pressed a button beneath the table, causing it to shift and arch, tilting J883’s upper body downward until her head vanished behind the obscene curve of her mountain-sized belly, which now dominated the view like some monument to helplessness.
X401 was there too, pacing, barking orders, micro-managing every cruel detail. Unlike N717, who had once faked warmth with all the grace of a sociopath in customer service, X401 took no visible pleasure in anything. She radiated nothing but cold precision, a quiet contempt etched into her face that seemed to say, "I know exactly what I’m doing, and I’m excellent at it."
She stopped in front of J882, arms folded, gaze analytical. "Don’t neglect the back of the knees, F556. They’re exposed for a reason," she instructed the woman tormenting J882, her voice calm, clinical, like a teacher correcting form.
F556 immediately reached behind J882's knees, her fingers diving in with practiced cruelty, three on each hand, skimming and digging under the knees before darting back to the soles. She alternated rapidly between both zones, unpredictable and merciless, keeping J882's nerves on edge and her laughter spiraling out of control.
"Eeeck... hehehehe-ekkk... Eeeek... hehehe-kk... Eeeeh-hehehe-heee... P-plehehease-hhehehk... I-ccchhh.... I caa-ehehh—kkk... Eeeech-h—no—kkkhhheheh... Eeeeh—chkk..."
J882’s head hung low, chin pressed to her chest, shoulders twitching violently with every breathless spasm. Her mouth gaped in a helpless rhythm, a glistening string of drool trailing from her lips. Under the harsh, clinical lights, it shimmered—tracing a humiliating, wet line down her trembling belly, gliding over the slight rise of her pubic mound, and continuing down, fully visible, fully exposed. With her legs raised and spread wide by the frame, the drool passed unashamedly over her exposed vagina, like a perverse signature of her surrender—undeniable, glistening, intimate.
Then, without a word, X401 stepped closer. Her hand reached under J882’s left breast, pressing gently against a trembling rib, feeling for something. Perhaps pulse. Perhaps resistance. She held it there for two seconds, long enough to unsettle, short enough to deny intimacy, then gave a tiny nod and walked away to continue her ruthless oversight.
"Is J883 ready? Why is her screen still off? Turn it on, now. Make sure it’s angled directly over her face. I want her to see every twitch J882 makes. Today, please!" snapped X401, her voice razor-sharp and unamused.
The "technicians" hurried to comply. A screen, held by a cold, flexible metal arm, flickered to life just above J883’s face, casting a harsh light across her expressionless features. Her eyes flinched at the glow, then slowly focused upward—as if unsure whether what she saw was real or some new layer of her nightmare.
"Side-clamps," X401 snapped.
The technicians secured two padded mechanical clamps to the sides of J883’s table, aligning them precisely with the soft flesh of her exposed flanks.
X401 took a deep breath, clearly disgusted by the euphemism she was expected to use, and exhaled flatly, "Make her happy."
The clamps pulsed in relentless rhythm, swiftly pinching and releasing the soft flesh of J883’s sides. Her body jolted, spasming in reflex, straining against the restraints with violent urgency. The table groaned under the force, creaking ominously, but held firm. Her escape was impossible. Her suffering is unavoidable.
J883's smile, twisted awkwardly by the breathing tube, widened with eerie ease. Within thirty seconds, she had surrendered, fully, helplessly, to the muted spasms of laughter. Her massive belly quivered with machine-synced precision: each mechanical inhale dulled the tremors, only for them to re-emerge more violently with each exhale, like ripples of madness riding the tide of artificial breath:
inhale-in... jiggle—JIggle—JIGGle—JIGGLE—down... inhale-in... jiggle—JIggle—JIGGle—JIGGLE—down... inhale-in... jiggle—JIggle—JIGGle—JIGGLE—down... like a grotesque lullaby, orchestrated by wires and cruelty, rhythmic, perverse, and utterly detached from any true joy.
X401 considered it a decent start—but not nearly enough. With calculated calm, she moved to J883’s hips and knelt beside the trembling mass of flesh. Her fingers began to trace slow, deliberate circles at the roots of J883’s thighs, inching closer to the exposed folds between them. Her voice dropped to a soft, unnerving whisper: “Look how happy your daughter is... her laughter means so much. You feel it, don’t you? You want her lost in joy. You need it too. Look at her eyes... look at her smile...”
She kept whispering, over and over, like a ritual of erosion, chipping away what little remained of resistance.
J883 was lost—adrift in frantic, silent laughter. Her body convulsed in mechanical rhythm while her mind screamed for mercy, a break, a breath, something to ground her in sanity. But there was nothing. No anchor. No reality beyond the torment. Words melted into soundless noise, concepts unraveled. "Sense"—whatever that used to mean—was evaporating.
She could only laugh.
She could only watch.
Watch as her daughter dissolved into the same madness, into that agonizing mirage of joy. J882’s eyes begged for help, her mouth laughed in betrayal. Horror lived in her gaze, but the smile never faltered. Drool shimmered on her lips. Her face, red and twitching, radiated something disturbingly close to happiness.
And that was the collapse. The clamps, the tickling, the whispers, each chipped away at her until there was nothing left but reflex. And in that hollowed-out place, J883 realized something horrifying: she was smiling too. Not despite the tickling, but because of it. Her body had submitted. Her mind was just catching up.
J882's laughter had gone silent too, not out of shock, not from some new wave of torture, not even from collapse (that had already come and gone, long ago). The truth was simpler, crueler: there was just no more air. Her body, reduced to a shuddering machine of reflex and mock-joy, had run out of fuel.
She gasped, ragged, hoarse, and let out another silent burst of laughter. Then again. And again. Like a broken metronome of madness, ticking toward nothing.
"Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t... Heek... k-k-k-k-t-t-t..."
The tickling ceased, just a murmur, then stillness. Now she should breathe. Now she should recover. Now she should think. But she didn't. She simply drifted off. Whether it was passing out or falling asleep didn’t matter, her body embraced the void, and her mind followed without protest.
As the world faded, something brushed her cheek, a whisper of short hair, a ghost of presence. A voice, imagined or not, murmured gently into the silence: "The more you tickle, the less you're tickled."
*****
Savannah had heard whispers of TDGrid. Not much, just a strange acronym and a single word on a discreet tag worn by three mysterious female doctors who visited the hospital every week, always after hours, always unannounced. No one questioned them. They moved like they belonged, like their silence was authorized. Once a week, without fail, they would arrive, request the patient list, and quietly vanish into one of the rooms, locking the door behind them.
It became routine. Unquestioned. Until one night, curiosity got the better of Savannah.
She happened to pass by one of the closed rooms. From inside: a sound. Muffled. Desperate. A scream. Her pulse surged. She tried the handle, it was locked. Her instincts flared. She rushed to the nurses' station, yanked open drawers, searching frantically, until in the back of a dusty, half-forgotten compartment, she found a key.
She returned to the room—heartbeat pounding, dread coiling in her gut. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. In one swift motion, she slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.
Two of the TDGrid doctors stood motionless beside the bed. The patient, a woman in her forties, was strapped down with soft medical restraints—standard for suicide prevention, but nothing about this felt standard. Her wrists were secured, her body trembling slightly, her eyes wide with terror.
"What is—" Savannah began, but the words caught in her throat.
A sharp sting hit the side of her neck. Not like in the movies, real. Deep. Immediate. Her knees buckled as burning liquid coursed through her veins. One of the women stepped forward, catching her effortlessly.
The last thing she saw was the door closing quietly behind her as everything fell into black.
And from the black, only silence.
**
J882 jolted awake, breath catching, heart slamming in her chest. She was still in that same chair—but no straps. Her arms lay limp on her lap, legs relaxed and grounded. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t believe.
A sudden burst of crying erupted from her throat, raw and shaking, but it faded fast. Something clicked. A thought. A defiant truth, or maybe a desperate lie.
—I’m still here. Still thinking. Still alive. I’ve survived the Redingtons. I can survive this too.—
Was it a fact? A delusion? It didn’t matter. It was the only thing she had left.
In front of her stood the stool—abandoned, quiet—where her tormentor had once perched. Minutes ago? Hours? Time had lost all meaning. Resting atop it were two objects: a bottle of water, still cold with condensation, and a neatly folded sleeveless overall.
She rose on shaky legs, slipped into the garment like slipping into a role she hadn’t chosen, and drank. Desperately. The water hit her dry throat like fire and ice at once.
And then, her eyes fell on the table.
She stepped closer. Her mother lay as before, stretched taut, limbs restrained, unmoving but not lifeless. The breathing tube still hissed in quiet precision, filling her lungs in perfect mechanical rhythm. An IV dripped steadily into one arm. A catheter snaked from between her legs, clinical and cold.
Her mouth twitched faintly, the remnants of a smile carved there by force, not joy. But her face, soft now, looked... calm.
Then their eyes met.
J883’s gaze locked onto hers. It held no panic, no plea, just sorrow. A deep, aching sorrow. And something else. An apology. For things she never did. For pain she never caused. For being broken in front of her daughter, over and over again.
J882 gently stroked her mother’s forehead, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek—a gesture that should’ve meant goodbye. But it didn’t. Not this time. It was a vow, sealed in silence: "We’re not done. I’m not done. I will survive, and I will come back for you."
Her fingers lingered for a breath longer, then slipped away. And without a word, she turned and walked toward the door behind the shadows, where fate waited, unblinking.
****
Outside the room, her daemon awaited, smiling, composed, like nothing had ever happened. It was N717. "Good morning, hun'," she purred, voice oozing false warmth. Then, with a knowing glance and a tilt of her head: "Walk with me."
J882 complied, keeping a cautious arm’s length between them, not out of fear, but something colder. N717 didn’t mind. She filled the silence with a casual, wicked grin. “So... be honest. Did watching me get tickled turn you on a little?”
J882 had pushed the events of the "studio" into a dark corner of her mind, but now, fragments resurfaced. Her emotions tangled: disgust, confusion, something else she didn’t dare name. She slowed her pace, taking a few long, deliberate steps. N717 waited patiently, and was rewarded with a small, reluctant nod.
N717 beamed with smug satisfaction. "I bet you’re the reason they cranked the level up," she said, practically glowing. Without waiting for a reply, she added under her breath with theatrical menace, "Ohhh, when I get my hands on K401... I swear, I'm gonna rearrange her liver with a feather."
They walked a while longer, twisting through corridor after corridor until they reached a wooden brown door labeled: "101C – Taking a Point." N717 stopped, turned to J882, and with a sly smirk said, "One more thing I need from you before you're off the hook for the weekend."
J882 was ready, or at least, as ready as anyone could be. Ready to laugh herself to death, to endure another descent into chaos by a gauntlet of women armed with swirling brushes, sharp nails, 'pleasure' devices, and whatever psychopathic horrors TDGrid had cooked up this time.
She wasn’t brave. She was terrified. Every functional neuron screamed at her to run, slam into a wall if she had to, just to escape. But something inside her had hardened. Bent, not broken.
So she stood, spine taut, fists clenched at her sides.
"Alright," she muttered through dry lips. "What is it this time?"
N717 didn’t answer. She simply turned the handle and pushed the door open with theatrical ease, stepping aside just enough for J882 to follow. They entered together, J882's breath already tightening in her chest before the door even clicked shut behind them.
J882 wasn’t ready for what she saw—yet somewhere inside, her body eased. Her breath hitched, her heart clenched, but instead of fear, there was a flicker of something... manageable. Familiar. And for a brief moment, she almost welcomed it.
It was a dark room—sterile, humming, disturbingly familiar. The walls were lined with instruments, cold and indifferent. But in the center, under a cruel, surgical spotlight, knelt a woman on a padded circle of floor.
She was completely naked.
Her posture was rigid, unnervingly composed. She knelt fully upright, arms stretched wide in a mock-crucifixion, held taut by sleek restraints anchored invisibly to the padded floor. Her back remained straight, chin lifted just enough to expose her face—naked, vulnerable, and painted in a mix of confusion and quiet dread. It looked like a scene from some twisted B-grade religious thriller, complete with the surreal sense that this woman wasn’t just on display, she was being offered.
J882 stared, unsure whether to be terrified or relieved.
She was petite, barely 155 cm tall, with a lean, compact frame shaped by yoga and long shifts on her feet. Her honey-gold skin glowed under the spotlight, smooth and warm-toned, but visibly blushed where the cold air kissed her. Natural waves of blondish hair fell loosely to her shoulders, slightly disheveled, framing a face that danced between youthful innocence and barely-contained panic.
Her bones were light, her body compact, built for movement, yet so easy to pin down. That’s exactly what they had done. Despite her size, she radiated an undeniable, haunting allure: the quiet beauty of a form shaped by discipline, now rendered helpless.
Her breasts, small and firm, stood out with flushed nipples tightened by the chill. A sheen of sweat coated her skin—an after-effect of the sedative that had long worn off, but left her body confused and overheated. Her belly was flat, fluttering with each sharp breath, and her thighs tensed beneath her like coiled springs. The restraints held her arms wide in a perfect crucifixion, emphasizing every inch of her exposure. She wasn’t just restrained, she was displayed, posed with purpose. Vulnerable. Offered. And terrifyingly real.
N717’s voice cut clean through the silence.
"J882, meet J959. Your test."
The moment J959 registered movement, her head snapped up. Confusion bloomed into panic, her voice cracking as it erupted into the silence.
"Where... where am I?! Why am I here?! Let me go! Who the hell are you?! Why am I naked? What do you want from me?!"
Her voice climbed with every word, breath turning rapid and shallow. She pulled against the restraints, arms twitching, muscles tightening, but nothing gave. The panic in her voice was real, unchecked, and rising fast. Each question tumbled out half-formed, colliding with the next in a breathless rush.
N717 spoke calmly, almost sweetly, like she was reciting protocol she had said a hundred times before. "You’re here because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. And now… well, now you need to be punished, and persuaded, to let go of such bad habits."
"N-no, really, there's no need for punishment or persuasion. I’ll cooperate, I promise. Whatever you think I know, I don’t! I swear, I don’t even know who you are, or what this place is, or—"
"TDGrid," N717 snapped, slicing through J959’s panicked rambling like a blade.
J959 froze, words caught in her throat. But instinct took over, she had to try. "Please, I have a family... my husband’s probably looking for me. Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear."
"Of course you won't. But we still need to make sure," N717 said evenly. Then, turning slightly, she added, "J882, position yourself behind her and begin."
J882 stepped behind J959’s restrained, exposed form. There was no ambiguity, she knew exactly what was expected. But knowing it and doing it were worlds apart. Torturing someone, especially knowing firsthand how it feels? That was something else entirely.
N717 locked eyes with J882. "Now. Or switch places."
J882 leaned in and whispered, "I'm sorry," her voice barely audible. Then, from behind, she slipped her hands into J959’s armpits and began to tickle, softly, with two fingers on each hand, precise and deliberate.
""What the fuck are you doing?! Stop it!" J959 knew exactly what J882 was doing. She and her husband shared a tickling kink, but that was always consensual, always playful. This? This was twisted. This was wrong.
J959 felt it immediately—that twitch deep in her lower abdomen, a surge of involuntary tension as her body registered the light, teasing strokes under her arms. It mirrored perfectly, maddeningly, the sensation of those fingers. "Stop it! Stoh... hh... stohehe... he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk...he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk...he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk..."
Her voice broke down into helpless giggles. She couldn’t finish a sentence. Couldn’t beg properly. Her body betrayed her, writhing in place, trying to pull away. She was too ticklish, absurdly ticklish. And somehow, they knew. Of all the things they could have discovered, how the fuck did they know that??
J959’s stuttering laughter was music to N717’s ears, soft, desperate, and involuntary. But it wasn’t enough. "J882, stop playing. Four fingers," she said, voice firm and flat as she tapped commands into the nearby workstation, sending a message across the local network without even glancing up.
J959's laughter intensified—sharp, erratic bursts that made her abdomen flex uncontrollably. Her belly twitched violently with each forced giggle, her whole torso shuddering as she tried and failed to brace. "Hhk... he-he-he-he-he-he-he... kkh... hhk... StopStoppphst-he-he-he-he-he-he—hhk... plishhe-he-he-he-he-he-he... hhk... pl-he-he-he-he-he-he-he..."
Her breasts bounced rapidly with the motion, slick with sweat that clung to her like a second skin. Each convulsion sent ripples across her chest, every jolt from laughter echoing through her trembling frame. She gasped between fits, breath hitching and ragged, her body already shaking from exertion, and the session had barely begun.
The door opened with a soft click, and another woman stepped in, dressed in the same sleeveless overall as the others.
"C201, thighs. Deep," N717 ordered without looking up.
Without a word, C201 knelt between J959’s legs and got to work. Her fingers spread and settled on the delicate inner thighs—just shy of too intimate, yet devastatingly effective. She moved in calculated strokes, slow at first, tracing light patterns with her fingertips, then quicker, deeper, zeroing in on twitch points like she was trained to read them.
J959 jolted, gasping mid-laugh, her legs trembling as if trying to pull away, but the restraints gave no mercy. Her laughter faltered into sharp hiccups before rebounding into a shrieking rhythm, breathless and broken.
C201 didn’t flinch. She was a professional. Efficient. Not just someone performing a task, she was a cog in a system, smooth and exact, executing her role with mechanical precision. The suffering in front of her wasn’t a distraction. It was affirmation. It meant she was doing it right.
J959 tried with everything she had to beg, but her mouth couldn’t shape words—only jagged breaths and fractured laughter spilled out. Her face and chest burned red-hot, flushed with heat and desperation. Tears streamed freely, not from sadness, but as if her body was trying to put out its own fire. "hhk... hh-he-hh-he... hhk... hh-hh-hhe-he..."
N717 knew things were going too far with J959. It wouldn’t have mattered if they were allowed to keep her, but she was just a civilian, meant to be broken into obedience, not destroyed. N717 had hoped to push her just far enough to make her lose control, maybe wet herself, something symbolic, something final. But now her vitals were slipping, fast, and even N717 had to acknowledge the line was approaching.
"C201, J882, give her a minute to breathe," N717 said reluctantly, eyes still locked on the monitor.
She stepped away from the workstation, her boots tapping slowly on the hard floor as she approached the trembling figure of J959. Her movements were measured, deliberate, more like a predator studying its prey than a caretaker checking in. She circled her slowly, eyes tracing sweat patterns across J959's flushed skin, observing the heaving of her chest, the micro-twitches in her thighs, the barely-stabilizing breathing rhythm.
J959’s recovery was happening, but too slowly. Her head remained tilted down, her shoulders sagging slightly now. Muscles twitched beneath skin still damp and glistening. Her mouth hung open, trying to inhale, to reset, but the panic hadn’t left her body. Not yet.
N717 said nothing. She just watched—for a while—hoping, silently, that she hadn’t pushed too far. The numbers on the monitor danced too close to critical, and for once, uncertainty crept behind her eyes.
She crouched beside J959, lowering herself slowly. Her voice came softer now, less command, more calibration. “Hey... hey. J-Nine-f...” she stopped herself, corrected. This wasn’t an asset. Not yet.
“Hey, Savannah. Can you hear me?”
No response. N717 leaned in closer, studying the girl’s face for even the smallest reaction.
“Hey! Hey, Savannah!” she said louder, and gave a gentle poke to her rib.
It worked. J959’s eyes shot open, her head lifting abruptly, chest heaving. Her mouth hung open, breath ragged and fast. She looked around, wild, disoriented, panicked but silent.
N717 reached out, cupping the side of her head firmly. “Can you understand me?”
J959 blinked, barely forming the words. “My... head hurts...”
"You'll be fine." N717 stood up slowly, brushing her palms together like closing a file. "C201, J882, have a great weekend. Now out! I’ll handle the rest."
The two women left the room. J882 didn’t look back. She forced her mind blank, sealed shut around the guilt clawing at the edge of her thoughts. She had done what she had to do. And she would do it again. Because survival was the only thing left that made sense.
[Special thanks to user: scrtq, who donated… a character]
