ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 18
Darkness: silent as it is impenetrable. Nothing to be discerned but the low rumble of a central cooling unit reverberating off in the distance. You may believe this room to be vacant, but someone is here: you just have to listen carefully. Do you hear it? The gentle hiss of air passing through her nostrils? She is asleep, but not for long, as you have bigger, better plans for her. The sound of an industrial light switch slapping on echoes through the chamber, as a blinding spotlight illuminates the angelic form of star Olympic gymnast Simone Biles, your guest of honor for this evening and, if all goes well, for much longer.
She tightens her eyelids, the sudden flood of fluorescent light abruptly stirring her from a restful slumber. Little by little, she begins to peel them open, the disorientation from such an unexpected interruption making it that much harder to begin to discern anything around her. However, as she turns her head, attempting to lift herself from her horizontal position, she slowly comes to a most horrifying revelation: she cannot. In fact, the more she attempts to bring herself upright, the more she realizes she can’t move anywhere.
Not one inch.
A wave of panic washes over her, hoping it to be nothing more than a bout of sleep paralysis she had always heard of but never had the fortune of experiencing for herself. However, as she slowly regains the rest of her peripheral senses, feeling her way around her dire predicament, her sense of urgency is validated. Peering above her head, her vision slowly finding clarity, she makes a most horrifying discovery: two leather cuffs, akin to those found in insane asylums, binding her wrists high above. Nestled below that are two thick leather straps wrapped around each elbow, with a thick chord from underneath the table pulling them outward, further immobilizing her arms much to her dismay.
She pulls against these restraints, trying to dislodge just one of them to no avail, left without a modicum of slack for her bulging muscles to take advantage of. Still reeling from this discovery, she traces her way down the length of her body, attempting to see the full scope of her confinement. Such curiosity will reveal itself as her first mistake, illuminating in full the totality of her fate: she lays atop a padded leather table, its length perfectly in proportion to her petite figure. Lining the table are three thick leather straps placed in seemingly strategic areas across her toned body: one around her chest, one at her hips, and one just above her knees, each keeping her pressed against the table much to her chagrin.
The more she gleans her way across her bondage, the greater her vision is restored, taking in the totality of her dilemma bit by agonizing bit. Gazing down at the end of the table, Simone’s terror is redoubled at the sight of a monstrous contraption, one that she has never seen before: a thick set of padded wooden stocks, bored with two holes six inches apart in which her ankles are locked in place by a latch and padlock on its left side. At this angle, craning her head forward as it seems to be the only part of her not bound to the table, she can only catch a glimpse at the very tips of her toes. However, as she wriggles them to and fro, she suddenly realizes even they are incapacitated: thick lines of fuzzy string are lassoed around each one, pulling them back to the board, leaving her feet stretched taut and completely immobilized.
As if she didn’t feel vulnerable enough: clad in merely her two-piece bikini, the near entirety of her dark chocolate skin is left precariously exposed to be taken full advantage of, the potential of which is slowly overtaking her senses with every passing moment. A strange taste in her mouth peaks her concern even further, little does she realize it to be a large rubber ball nestled in between her gleaming white teeth, secured with two rings on either side of her face. She can smell the distinct scent of leather just underneath her nose, with a thick panel placed on top of her supple lips, its silver buckle resting atop the back of her neck, keeping her worried moans all but completely mute.
She can’t move, or speak, and very soon, she won’t even be able to hope.
She gives a valiant struggle, her Olympic might reduce to mere wriggles under the constriction of such bondage. Searching for even one weak spot across several tenuous moments, she ceases her efforts, her chest heaving up and down betraying the extraneous effort that has fallen short of freedom. Finding the true desperation within her, she calls out for help, the ear-splitting shriek of a woman in peril reduced to a muffled squeak under her highly effective double gag. It is here that she realizes this is no dream, but an absolute nightmare incarnate, one that she is unable to escape no matter how hard she tries. Welling up in tears, a sensation of helplessness washes over her, substituted only by sheer panic when, at her lowest point, you abruptly speak, finally making your presence known.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, my dear.”
She is suddenly paralyzed, having just realized someone was lying in wait, shrouded in the dark corner of the room, silently watching her this entire time. She peers frantically about, desperately trying to find the source of the omnipotent voice. Slowly but surely, from the foot of her entrapment, you exit the darkness, approaching your helpless captive in her most vulnerable position. Having revealed yourself, you gaze into her piercing eyes, met with a look of absolute disdain having rendered as helpless as she is now. She has no power, nothing but the wrath of a woman subdued by an unknown stranger, and that’s the way you wish to keep it. It is the ultimate power you wield over her that she will fear most, as during her stay here, she will learn what it truly means to have her entire world placed under your control, that which in time she will only learn to love.
“I have been watching you for some time, my little princess,” you recite, tracing the tip of your finger across the quiet leather of the table, circling her in predatory fashion. “Elegant, agile, the zenith of human athleticism, all consolidated into the perfect machine I have the pleasure of entertaining before me. It’s no wonder you were able to take gold so decisively season after season. Congratulations, by the way.”
The muscles across her entire body tense abruptly, jerking with all her might against her binds, trying yet again to free herself from the inescapable bondage you have so meticulously curated for her visit. The sudden nature of her struggle startles you, but you do not convey it, watching over her pathetic state in mere amusement. After a few mere moments of struggling, she slumps back to her position, opting for a more nuanced response to your pleasure.
“MMMMMMFFFKKKKUUUUUU!!” she bellows forth, what little she can articulate reduced to a muffled gurgling heap that is felt more than understood. Gazing over her subdued form, you watch as tiny droplets collect at the sides of her eyes, confirming just how helpless she knows herself to be whether she will admit it or not.
“I know honey: you just couldn’t wait to get here, could you?” you tease, brushing your fingers over her midsection, her rippling stomach muscles tensing up to try and resist your tender touch, putting a devious smile on your face as you go. “But you’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” You tug playfully at her bonds, pretending you’re checking them for slack, knowing full well you had amply prepared them beforehand for what would amount to the long haul for your delectable darling.
“You see, I just had to make everything perfect for you, sweetheart: every cuff and strap, strand and gag, even this custom-made table, meant for you and you alone. Because you’re my queen, you need to be treated like one. I hope you’ll come to appreciate all the thought I put into your arrival: it was the least I could do.”
With a searing burn in her eyes, she follows you: your devious tangent merely revealing your true nature as that of a crooked vulture hovering over a helpless animal, just waiting for just the right moment to strike. Your eyes betray your lust for her, gazing over every inch of her toned flesh, sumptuous skin, and shapely features that you have so idolized from behind a computer screen. You made sure to present her in a way perfect for what you are about to do to her, leaving much room for you to do your work.
“I know what you’re thinking,” you state, stopping just to her right side, ominously hovering over her. “Where am I? What am I doing here? What does he want with me? Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting: I’ll tell you, but I don’t think you’re going to like the answer.”
She glares right into your eyes, that searing wrath merely a front she has put up in this perilous situation she has found herself in. Her breathing heightens, faster and faster as you inch closer to your little captive without any hope for her escape. Little does she know you can smell her fear, piercing deep inside to reveal that timid little girl that has no control over her surroundings, being relinquished into this cruel world all by her lonesome. She was merely waiting for the day when she was to fall into your inescapable clutches, whether she knew it or not.
“I just love powerful women like you,” you gently speak as though addressing a child. “So strong, so invulnerable, standing at the top of the world, looking down at the rest of us from the pedestal we place you upon.” Ever so carefully, moving your hands just over her head, her eyes following them up to the crooks of her wrists, you hover the tips of your fingers just above her skin, increasing the tension with every agonizing inch.
“That’s why you’re here: to feel what we feel, to be brought down from your perch one way or another, because there’s something I want you to take away from all this…”
“I want you to feel powerless.”
With the tip of your index finger, beginning not one centimeter below the leather cuff binding her left wrist, you begin tracing your way down her arm. She turns away, disgusted at the very thought of you putting one finger on her, but as you begin twisting and twirling down her forearm, caressing her trembling bicep along the way, her frustrated snarls soon begin to transform into something much more satisfying. You take your other hand, beginning at the same exact spot on her right wrist, starting with two fingers this time. Slowly but surely, inch by agonizing inch, not taking one look away from her beautiful face, you approach the tender flesh of her underarms, her breathing becomes more frantic, preparing herself for what she is sure is going to happen next while having absolutely no control over it. Trying to resist, she swears to herself not to give you one ounce of pleasure, as though she had any say in the matter. As you stop directly atop the hollows of her supple underarms, you wait what seems like an eternity before, through painful curiosity, her fury-laden eyes meet yours.
“Ticklish, are we?” you ask tenderly, right before unleashing a flurry of ticklish torments upon her tender flesh, skittering your nails into her armpits with abandon as she throws her head back in distressed fashion.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” a frantic shriek escapes her, thrashing side to side in desperate attempt for escape. Bucking against her restraints, shaking the table almost off the ground, she lets out a furious energy you wouldn’t normally find in such a small creature. However, only having found herself barely able to just rock herself back and forth in desperation, she chooses rather to conserve what energy she is soon going to need. Your ravenous fingers devour every inch of her supple skin, finding each spot that will elicit even greater displays of ticklish agony. Without warning, having slowed to a gentle caressing motion, Simone just able to catch a modicum of rest, you suddenly thrust your thumbs deep into her underarm hollows, eliciting a primal shriek from her strained gullet.
“UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMPHHHHHH!!” Her desperate wail echoes through the chamber, able to pierce through the ball and panel gag you had chosen so carefully to stifle her hapless cries. Her eyes clenched, Simone cannot even take it upon herself to witness her evolving torments, opting to shroud herself in ignorance even it may cost her, which it certainly will. Making your way down her muscular figure, you begin lacing your fingers between each and every one of your ribs, her eyes shooting open like saucers the moment you massage your way deep into their prominent form.
“MMMMMMMMFUUUUUUKKKKK!! RRRRRRRRRRRHPH!!” She cannot help but let loose like a wild woman, driven out of her mind as you meticulously count each of her ribs, pressing your fingers in between their crevices to her chagrin. Despite the absolutely abysmal fate she is being subjected to this very moment, to you, she is absolutely adorable: being treated to the sight of such a powerhouse of an athlete being stripped of the ground underneath her feet, writhing in ticklish agony underneath your fingertips, is nothing short of heaven to you. You can’t help yourself but to check in from time to time, hoping the little creature still has something left in her for the next stage.
“Does that tickle my dear?” you tauntingly ask, hovering just inches over her strained face.
“NNNNNNNNNMMMMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” she exclaims, resisting your control over her helpless body with what little she has left. What crippling weakness she must feel at this very moment, years of training made completely futile to the maddening touch of someone so skilled in the art of tickle torture. She couldn’t have known her bulging ab muscles would make it easy for you to weave your fingers through the cracks, massaging between them as though you were looking for gold. She couldn’t have dreamed that her toned body would leave no insulation against your ticklish touch, with every nerve ending in her body lighting up like a Christmas tree as the electric sensation courses through every nerve ending to overload. You note her increasing desperation but, like before, you can’t help yourself but indulge in teasing her even further.
“Oh Miss Biles, the fun is only just beginning!” you gleefully state, twisting your knuckles into her sides, eliciting a shriek the likes of which could have come straight out of a horror movie. Her reenergized reactions delight your senses, flapping her body against the padded table endlessly under your fingertips. Luckily, you had sprung for the high-quality medical grade leather straps, ones which would not leave even a trace of bruising against the most frantic of struggling, just in case you will one day have to relinquish your darling back to her normal life. They may have cost a pretty penny, but they’re sure coming in handy with subduing your most ravenous houseguest at the moment.
“MRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPHEEEEEEEEEE!! MRRRRRRRRPHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!” she attempts to beg, not knowing just what it will take for you to cease her torments. Oh, if she could only get that pesky gag out of her mouth, she could bargain for her release: offering money, promising never to compete again, relinquishing anything in order to secure even a moment of peace from her torments. By the time you began digging your thumbs into her hyper ticklish hips, reaching underneath the wide leather belt to access such a horrendous spot, she may have been tempted to relinquish so much more had she been given the chance.
However, you are not one for negotiation.
“I sure hope you’re having as much fun as I am, young lady!” you note, glancing upward to witness the torrent of frustrated tears streaming from her glistening eyes, her athletic body collecting a layer of sweat from what has only been a measly thirty minutes of continuous torture. Making your way down her angelic figure, you gently caress the tips of your fingers underneath her knees, their form trying to bend away to no avail. Flicking across her smooth skin, you merely tease her, a preamble to the endless torments that await. She grunts and moans, the teasing nature of it maddening in such a helpless state. Massaging into her toned legs, capitalizing on their ripe surface area despite her petite figure, her wild shrieks ascend another octave, shooting into the stratosphere without a single person to hear them. How pitiful she must feel: the legs which won her gold, hoisting herself up unto all of those beams and bars, the prized possessions of every gymnast being used against her in such a fashion. Little could she have known that this was merely all part of the master plan, something you felt it necessary for her to hear during her ever-so desired break this very moment.
“If you’re wondering my dear, the answer is yes: I have done my research,” you dictate to the poor creature, catching what little breath she could while attempting to comprehend the depths of your perversion. “I’m sure you’re well aware of the price of fame: having every minuscule detail freely accessible to the general public no matter how personal. All it took was but a cursory search on the web to ascertain every aspect I would need in preparing your bonds: height, weight, dress size, shoe size, all the parameters needed to craft the bondage which you get to enjoy. Thank you, internet!” She gazes into your eyes in righteous indignation, only wishing she could grasp hold of her deranged captor and show you what a woman can do to such a pitiful excuse for a human being. If only she could understand the depths of not only your obsession with her, but your obsession with the subject itself: the libraries of tickling videos, the endless pages of blog posts, and the catacombs of literature you went through, all in preparation for delivering a tickle torture beyond her imagination, and it wasn’t just by your doing that she was to experience this fate, something you are about to let her in on.
“But there’s so much more than that: I just want you to know I’m not the only one who had a say in what was going to happen to you,” you say, watching her eyes turn wide in bewilderment, not knowing if there was yet another looming figure waiting to take advantage of her. Kneeling at the foot of the table, you indulge the sight of these precious size five feet you had only seen bouncing their way across the workout mat time and time again.
“Several months ago, I made a poll online, one which asked what should happen to you if you ever found yourself in such a tenuous condition. Oh, it seemed to be mere fantasy on the surface, just a fun little survey for anyone combing the web, sharing their darkest fantasies to the anonymous void. Just imagine what their surprise would be if they ever found their input to be materializing: everything from your restraints, all the way down to these stocks you find yourself in today, all per special request by my friends online. I even had people message me directly, giving special details I didn’t have the heart to include in the poll. That panel gag you’re savoring right now? You can thank Dustin from North Texas for that one. These three straps across your body? Madeline from Toronto. I just hope you’ll come to appreciate the effort each and every one of them expended to make this whole ordeal possible. But, now that I’ve got that out of the way, it’s time for the Grand Finale.”
It wasn’t possible, she thought: that aside from this one lunatic, there may be thousands of people like him out there, waiting to take their turn. It was true that, unfortunately for her and all those to fall victim to such a fate, that their perverted tendencies would overrule their sense of common decency. Just how much they would wish to be in his place: ravaging her toned body hours on end, leaving no inch unscathed by their tickling fingers. The devilish fantasies they wish to exercise upon her know no bounds.
“I just know how left out these feet have been feeling,” you teasingly say, gazing upon their twitching yet perfectly shaped form, nestled snugly within this device of your own creation. “Let’s see if we can fix that.” You trace the tip of your index finger across her right sole, eliciting a jerk going up her entire leg. She gasps, the sudden sensation usurping all her defenses, left in tatters from the torments she has endured up until now with your skittering fingers.
“MMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEE!!” she squeals underneath her gag the moment you pick up pace, not wishing to waste any more time than you already have. Scraping your nails across their surface, you revel in their writhing figure, unable to escape your invasive touch. Simone is absolute livid: cackling behind her gag, she lets out a gurgled cry from time to time, displaying just how much distress she is being put under. It’s inconceivable just how sensitive they could be, given the hours she has spent upon them on the mat, beating them up with every day only to be torn down by your piercing nails across their flesh. However, you can only indulge in how vulnerable she still is afterwards, making quick work out of them with the minimum amount of effort.
“Do you like art Simone?” you ask, reaching underneath the table, revealing a small lockbox just out of sight. “I like art.” She doesn’t even bother looking down at you, knowing for sure nothing she could do would aid her in preventing such torments from occurring. Reaching into your toolkit, you reveal a pair of fine-tipped painter’s brushes, their tips perfectly equipped for the smooth flesh of Simone’s feet. Gently, you begin tracing the tip of the paintbrush across her heel, its prickly surface scratching her supple skin with maddening consistency.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!” she screams, followed closely by an eerie silence which her voice has transcended all time and space. Lapping up the length of her sole, you drive the poor girl into a frenzy of ticklish torments, reveling in how such a ubiquitous tool could cause such anguish to befall her. Your devilish implement knows no bounds: finding its way in between each one of her toes, underneath the toe pads, even the crevices between the nail and flesh, all driving her insane. No matter how hard she clenches them, it seems as if she’s only opening up another avenue in which to tickle her to oblivion, inviting you to caress the wrinkles across her soles, only to indulge in the webbing in between her toes once they have opened up for you. By the end of this near-hour long ordeal, her disheveled form has rendered her primed for the more intimate phase of her torture.
“You cannot imagine just how honored I am to sit at your beautiful, angelic feet,” you recite, the ringing in her ears from her endless screams making it hard to hear you. “I must request permission to indulge in them, if you will let me.” She knew it to be nothing more than an order than a request: Simone, in her helpless position, having no leverage to sway anything that may happen to her. However, with the threat of her feet being ravaged yet again, she has no choice but to submit. Silently nodding her head to you, she has finally given in to your influence, something which is sweeter than her girlish laughter could ever be.
Every so gently, you begin running the tip of your tongue across the length of her right foot. From her plump heel, all the way up to her toes, you taste her delicious flesh, caressing its perfect design with amorous intent. Grasping it with your hands on both sides, you begin indulging yourself, lapping your tongue over every square inch of their surface. You dare not hold yourself back, showing them the love that you have held for them as they deserve it, something she could not have ever imagined possible.
She cringes, the feeling of a slimy little creature traversing its way across the lowliest of appendages too foreign for her to comprehend. However, inundated by her submissive state, she begins to elicit a different reaction. She begins to moan, juxtaposed against her teetering giggles as you tenderly skitter your nails across her supple sole. Once you begin flossing your tongue between her toes, she finally breaks down. Arching her back, she can do nothing as you make love to her feet, enveloping her plump toes in your mouth for further enjoyment. She jumps in surprise as you nibble her toes, lapping at their undersides in tandem, keeping her in an eternal limbo of peril and pleasure to your liking. Drooling uncontrollably, she yearns for more attention, something that you are surely to use against her.
You reach back into your chest, taking a small bottle of oil, having sat in a heating unit this entire time. Pouring a small puddle into your hand, you smear it across her left foot, covering its entirety with the viscous substance. You do the same with the right, making sure to cover everything, working it into the sides and tops of her feet, even lacing it in between her toes. Had she been able to gaze upon the dual hairbrushes hovering just inches away from her feet, she may have been tempted to beg for more nibbles upon her toes. But now, she is too weak to resist: not even one whimper coming from her, feeling the ultimate helplessness that has finally sunken it.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here in my chambers,” you dictate, placing the dastardly hairbrushes atop her soles, stopping just as she gazes at you with the tender look of a woman on the brink of disaster. “But now, it’s time to break you.” Frantically, you press its hard bristles into her sole, vigorously scrubbing her tender flesh with wild abandonment. She wrenches against her bonds once more, having her newfound energy coursing through every fiber of her being in the process.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” She lets out an almighty scream, one which has yet to reveal itself until now. Wrenching once again against her bonds that merely do not budge, she exerts that very last modicum of energy she has been holding onto for dear life up until this very moment. You are relentless, pressing deep into her soles, ravaging her heels, demolishing her tender toes time and time again, leaving her with only the hope that you would show mercy upon her despite it never crossing your mind.
What becomes of her is an endless cycle: a shriek of distress, followed by a torrent of silent breathy laughter, her eyes jettisoning open again and again from such horrors. Even having endured as much as she has, she can nonetheless feel every bristle caressing the length of her soles, jettisoning up to her flailing toes the minute she even hopes for it all to be over. Whatever amount of time has passed since her torments began is completely out of her grasp, the entire ordeal melding into one laughter-drenched frenzy the likes of which she will never forget. After a full half hour of her ordeal, she has but the energy to lay there, engulfed in a torrent of uncontrollable sobbing that is betraying the sight of the broken woman she is. Taking the hairbrushes from her feet, noting the reddening atop their surface, you finally let her rest.
“Well, it sure has been fun Miss Biles,” you tell her, stroking her cheek, witnessing the broken stare of such a strong little athlete. “But, you’ll need your rest for the time to come.” She can barely wince at the thought of her torments continuing, not even considering that there may be others lying in wait for her, the totality of the evils of man having been inflicted upon her these past two hours.
Oh, if only.
“You might feel yourself drained, utterly siphoned of any last shred of energy…” you say, just as you make your way into the darkness, grasping the light switch that started it all “…but we have unfinished business to attend to, young lady.” With the flick of a switch, the entirety of the chamber is illuminated, and by the look on her face, it would seem as though she were looking in a portal directly to Hell: contraption after diabolical contraption, lining every wall, draped from every ceiling, all for the sole purpose of inflicting tickle torture beyond imagination. She has no words to describe such a room but you do: each and every last machine designed for her, meant to satisfy your every fantasy until the end of time. A perilous scream escapes her, knowing for sure it may be her last chance to sway your devious urges, but it is too late.
“You best prepare yourself for tonight, sweetie,” you say, approaching her with a soaked rag you had hidden just underneath her, slowly descending it upon her face. “You’re going to need your strength.” As the thick cloth covers her nose, your plaything attempting to thrash away in vein, darkness slowly creeps over her…
The End
She tightens her eyelids, the sudden flood of fluorescent light abruptly stirring her from a restful slumber. Little by little, she begins to peel them open, the disorientation from such an unexpected interruption making it that much harder to begin to discern anything around her. However, as she turns her head, attempting to lift herself from her horizontal position, she slowly comes to a most horrifying revelation: she cannot. In fact, the more she attempts to bring herself upright, the more she realizes she can’t move anywhere.
Not one inch.
A wave of panic washes over her, hoping it to be nothing more than a bout of sleep paralysis she had always heard of but never had the fortune of experiencing for herself. However, as she slowly regains the rest of her peripheral senses, feeling her way around her dire predicament, her sense of urgency is validated. Peering above her head, her vision slowly finding clarity, she makes a most horrifying discovery: two leather cuffs, akin to those found in insane asylums, binding her wrists high above. Nestled below that are two thick leather straps wrapped around each elbow, with a thick chord from underneath the table pulling them outward, further immobilizing her arms much to her dismay.
She pulls against these restraints, trying to dislodge just one of them to no avail, left without a modicum of slack for her bulging muscles to take advantage of. Still reeling from this discovery, she traces her way down the length of her body, attempting to see the full scope of her confinement. Such curiosity will reveal itself as her first mistake, illuminating in full the totality of her fate: she lays atop a padded leather table, its length perfectly in proportion to her petite figure. Lining the table are three thick leather straps placed in seemingly strategic areas across her toned body: one around her chest, one at her hips, and one just above her knees, each keeping her pressed against the table much to her chagrin.
The more she gleans her way across her bondage, the greater her vision is restored, taking in the totality of her dilemma bit by agonizing bit. Gazing down at the end of the table, Simone’s terror is redoubled at the sight of a monstrous contraption, one that she has never seen before: a thick set of padded wooden stocks, bored with two holes six inches apart in which her ankles are locked in place by a latch and padlock on its left side. At this angle, craning her head forward as it seems to be the only part of her not bound to the table, she can only catch a glimpse at the very tips of her toes. However, as she wriggles them to and fro, she suddenly realizes even they are incapacitated: thick lines of fuzzy string are lassoed around each one, pulling them back to the board, leaving her feet stretched taut and completely immobilized.
As if she didn’t feel vulnerable enough: clad in merely her two-piece bikini, the near entirety of her dark chocolate skin is left precariously exposed to be taken full advantage of, the potential of which is slowly overtaking her senses with every passing moment. A strange taste in her mouth peaks her concern even further, little does she realize it to be a large rubber ball nestled in between her gleaming white teeth, secured with two rings on either side of her face. She can smell the distinct scent of leather just underneath her nose, with a thick panel placed on top of her supple lips, its silver buckle resting atop the back of her neck, keeping her worried moans all but completely mute.
She can’t move, or speak, and very soon, she won’t even be able to hope.
She gives a valiant struggle, her Olympic might reduce to mere wriggles under the constriction of such bondage. Searching for even one weak spot across several tenuous moments, she ceases her efforts, her chest heaving up and down betraying the extraneous effort that has fallen short of freedom. Finding the true desperation within her, she calls out for help, the ear-splitting shriek of a woman in peril reduced to a muffled squeak under her highly effective double gag. It is here that she realizes this is no dream, but an absolute nightmare incarnate, one that she is unable to escape no matter how hard she tries. Welling up in tears, a sensation of helplessness washes over her, substituted only by sheer panic when, at her lowest point, you abruptly speak, finally making your presence known.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, my dear.”
She is suddenly paralyzed, having just realized someone was lying in wait, shrouded in the dark corner of the room, silently watching her this entire time. She peers frantically about, desperately trying to find the source of the omnipotent voice. Slowly but surely, from the foot of her entrapment, you exit the darkness, approaching your helpless captive in her most vulnerable position. Having revealed yourself, you gaze into her piercing eyes, met with a look of absolute disdain having rendered as helpless as she is now. She has no power, nothing but the wrath of a woman subdued by an unknown stranger, and that’s the way you wish to keep it. It is the ultimate power you wield over her that she will fear most, as during her stay here, she will learn what it truly means to have her entire world placed under your control, that which in time she will only learn to love.
“I have been watching you for some time, my little princess,” you recite, tracing the tip of your finger across the quiet leather of the table, circling her in predatory fashion. “Elegant, agile, the zenith of human athleticism, all consolidated into the perfect machine I have the pleasure of entertaining before me. It’s no wonder you were able to take gold so decisively season after season. Congratulations, by the way.”
The muscles across her entire body tense abruptly, jerking with all her might against her binds, trying yet again to free herself from the inescapable bondage you have so meticulously curated for her visit. The sudden nature of her struggle startles you, but you do not convey it, watching over her pathetic state in mere amusement. After a few mere moments of struggling, she slumps back to her position, opting for a more nuanced response to your pleasure.
“MMMMMMFFFKKKKUUUUUU!!” she bellows forth, what little she can articulate reduced to a muffled gurgling heap that is felt more than understood. Gazing over her subdued form, you watch as tiny droplets collect at the sides of her eyes, confirming just how helpless she knows herself to be whether she will admit it or not.
“I know honey: you just couldn’t wait to get here, could you?” you tease, brushing your fingers over her midsection, her rippling stomach muscles tensing up to try and resist your tender touch, putting a devious smile on your face as you go. “But you’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” You tug playfully at her bonds, pretending you’re checking them for slack, knowing full well you had amply prepared them beforehand for what would amount to the long haul for your delectable darling.
“You see, I just had to make everything perfect for you, sweetheart: every cuff and strap, strand and gag, even this custom-made table, meant for you and you alone. Because you’re my queen, you need to be treated like one. I hope you’ll come to appreciate all the thought I put into your arrival: it was the least I could do.”
With a searing burn in her eyes, she follows you: your devious tangent merely revealing your true nature as that of a crooked vulture hovering over a helpless animal, just waiting for just the right moment to strike. Your eyes betray your lust for her, gazing over every inch of her toned flesh, sumptuous skin, and shapely features that you have so idolized from behind a computer screen. You made sure to present her in a way perfect for what you are about to do to her, leaving much room for you to do your work.
“I know what you’re thinking,” you state, stopping just to her right side, ominously hovering over her. “Where am I? What am I doing here? What does he want with me? Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting: I’ll tell you, but I don’t think you’re going to like the answer.”
She glares right into your eyes, that searing wrath merely a front she has put up in this perilous situation she has found herself in. Her breathing heightens, faster and faster as you inch closer to your little captive without any hope for her escape. Little does she know you can smell her fear, piercing deep inside to reveal that timid little girl that has no control over her surroundings, being relinquished into this cruel world all by her lonesome. She was merely waiting for the day when she was to fall into your inescapable clutches, whether she knew it or not.
“I just love powerful women like you,” you gently speak as though addressing a child. “So strong, so invulnerable, standing at the top of the world, looking down at the rest of us from the pedestal we place you upon.” Ever so carefully, moving your hands just over her head, her eyes following them up to the crooks of her wrists, you hover the tips of your fingers just above her skin, increasing the tension with every agonizing inch.
“That’s why you’re here: to feel what we feel, to be brought down from your perch one way or another, because there’s something I want you to take away from all this…”
“I want you to feel powerless.”
With the tip of your index finger, beginning not one centimeter below the leather cuff binding her left wrist, you begin tracing your way down her arm. She turns away, disgusted at the very thought of you putting one finger on her, but as you begin twisting and twirling down her forearm, caressing her trembling bicep along the way, her frustrated snarls soon begin to transform into something much more satisfying. You take your other hand, beginning at the same exact spot on her right wrist, starting with two fingers this time. Slowly but surely, inch by agonizing inch, not taking one look away from her beautiful face, you approach the tender flesh of her underarms, her breathing becomes more frantic, preparing herself for what she is sure is going to happen next while having absolutely no control over it. Trying to resist, she swears to herself not to give you one ounce of pleasure, as though she had any say in the matter. As you stop directly atop the hollows of her supple underarms, you wait what seems like an eternity before, through painful curiosity, her fury-laden eyes meet yours.
“Ticklish, are we?” you ask tenderly, right before unleashing a flurry of ticklish torments upon her tender flesh, skittering your nails into her armpits with abandon as she throws her head back in distressed fashion.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” a frantic shriek escapes her, thrashing side to side in desperate attempt for escape. Bucking against her restraints, shaking the table almost off the ground, she lets out a furious energy you wouldn’t normally find in such a small creature. However, only having found herself barely able to just rock herself back and forth in desperation, she chooses rather to conserve what energy she is soon going to need. Your ravenous fingers devour every inch of her supple skin, finding each spot that will elicit even greater displays of ticklish agony. Without warning, having slowed to a gentle caressing motion, Simone just able to catch a modicum of rest, you suddenly thrust your thumbs deep into her underarm hollows, eliciting a primal shriek from her strained gullet.
“UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMPHHHHHH!!” Her desperate wail echoes through the chamber, able to pierce through the ball and panel gag you had chosen so carefully to stifle her hapless cries. Her eyes clenched, Simone cannot even take it upon herself to witness her evolving torments, opting to shroud herself in ignorance even it may cost her, which it certainly will. Making your way down her muscular figure, you begin lacing your fingers between each and every one of your ribs, her eyes shooting open like saucers the moment you massage your way deep into their prominent form.
“MMMMMMMMFUUUUUUKKKKK!! RRRRRRRRRRRHPH!!” She cannot help but let loose like a wild woman, driven out of her mind as you meticulously count each of her ribs, pressing your fingers in between their crevices to her chagrin. Despite the absolutely abysmal fate she is being subjected to this very moment, to you, she is absolutely adorable: being treated to the sight of such a powerhouse of an athlete being stripped of the ground underneath her feet, writhing in ticklish agony underneath your fingertips, is nothing short of heaven to you. You can’t help yourself but to check in from time to time, hoping the little creature still has something left in her for the next stage.
“Does that tickle my dear?” you tauntingly ask, hovering just inches over her strained face.
“NNNNNNNNNMMMMMMMPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” she exclaims, resisting your control over her helpless body with what little she has left. What crippling weakness she must feel at this very moment, years of training made completely futile to the maddening touch of someone so skilled in the art of tickle torture. She couldn’t have known her bulging ab muscles would make it easy for you to weave your fingers through the cracks, massaging between them as though you were looking for gold. She couldn’t have dreamed that her toned body would leave no insulation against your ticklish touch, with every nerve ending in her body lighting up like a Christmas tree as the electric sensation courses through every nerve ending to overload. You note her increasing desperation but, like before, you can’t help yourself but indulge in teasing her even further.
“Oh Miss Biles, the fun is only just beginning!” you gleefully state, twisting your knuckles into her sides, eliciting a shriek the likes of which could have come straight out of a horror movie. Her reenergized reactions delight your senses, flapping her body against the padded table endlessly under your fingertips. Luckily, you had sprung for the high-quality medical grade leather straps, ones which would not leave even a trace of bruising against the most frantic of struggling, just in case you will one day have to relinquish your darling back to her normal life. They may have cost a pretty penny, but they’re sure coming in handy with subduing your most ravenous houseguest at the moment.
“MRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPHEEEEEEEEEE!! MRRRRRRRRPHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!” she attempts to beg, not knowing just what it will take for you to cease her torments. Oh, if she could only get that pesky gag out of her mouth, she could bargain for her release: offering money, promising never to compete again, relinquishing anything in order to secure even a moment of peace from her torments. By the time you began digging your thumbs into her hyper ticklish hips, reaching underneath the wide leather belt to access such a horrendous spot, she may have been tempted to relinquish so much more had she been given the chance.
However, you are not one for negotiation.
“I sure hope you’re having as much fun as I am, young lady!” you note, glancing upward to witness the torrent of frustrated tears streaming from her glistening eyes, her athletic body collecting a layer of sweat from what has only been a measly thirty minutes of continuous torture. Making your way down her angelic figure, you gently caress the tips of your fingers underneath her knees, their form trying to bend away to no avail. Flicking across her smooth skin, you merely tease her, a preamble to the endless torments that await. She grunts and moans, the teasing nature of it maddening in such a helpless state. Massaging into her toned legs, capitalizing on their ripe surface area despite her petite figure, her wild shrieks ascend another octave, shooting into the stratosphere without a single person to hear them. How pitiful she must feel: the legs which won her gold, hoisting herself up unto all of those beams and bars, the prized possessions of every gymnast being used against her in such a fashion. Little could she have known that this was merely all part of the master plan, something you felt it necessary for her to hear during her ever-so desired break this very moment.
“If you’re wondering my dear, the answer is yes: I have done my research,” you dictate to the poor creature, catching what little breath she could while attempting to comprehend the depths of your perversion. “I’m sure you’re well aware of the price of fame: having every minuscule detail freely accessible to the general public no matter how personal. All it took was but a cursory search on the web to ascertain every aspect I would need in preparing your bonds: height, weight, dress size, shoe size, all the parameters needed to craft the bondage which you get to enjoy. Thank you, internet!” She gazes into your eyes in righteous indignation, only wishing she could grasp hold of her deranged captor and show you what a woman can do to such a pitiful excuse for a human being. If only she could understand the depths of not only your obsession with her, but your obsession with the subject itself: the libraries of tickling videos, the endless pages of blog posts, and the catacombs of literature you went through, all in preparation for delivering a tickle torture beyond her imagination, and it wasn’t just by your doing that she was to experience this fate, something you are about to let her in on.
“But there’s so much more than that: I just want you to know I’m not the only one who had a say in what was going to happen to you,” you say, watching her eyes turn wide in bewilderment, not knowing if there was yet another looming figure waiting to take advantage of her. Kneeling at the foot of the table, you indulge the sight of these precious size five feet you had only seen bouncing their way across the workout mat time and time again.
“Several months ago, I made a poll online, one which asked what should happen to you if you ever found yourself in such a tenuous condition. Oh, it seemed to be mere fantasy on the surface, just a fun little survey for anyone combing the web, sharing their darkest fantasies to the anonymous void. Just imagine what their surprise would be if they ever found their input to be materializing: everything from your restraints, all the way down to these stocks you find yourself in today, all per special request by my friends online. I even had people message me directly, giving special details I didn’t have the heart to include in the poll. That panel gag you’re savoring right now? You can thank Dustin from North Texas for that one. These three straps across your body? Madeline from Toronto. I just hope you’ll come to appreciate the effort each and every one of them expended to make this whole ordeal possible. But, now that I’ve got that out of the way, it’s time for the Grand Finale.”
It wasn’t possible, she thought: that aside from this one lunatic, there may be thousands of people like him out there, waiting to take their turn. It was true that, unfortunately for her and all those to fall victim to such a fate, that their perverted tendencies would overrule their sense of common decency. Just how much they would wish to be in his place: ravaging her toned body hours on end, leaving no inch unscathed by their tickling fingers. The devilish fantasies they wish to exercise upon her know no bounds.
“I just know how left out these feet have been feeling,” you teasingly say, gazing upon their twitching yet perfectly shaped form, nestled snugly within this device of your own creation. “Let’s see if we can fix that.” You trace the tip of your index finger across her right sole, eliciting a jerk going up her entire leg. She gasps, the sudden sensation usurping all her defenses, left in tatters from the torments she has endured up until now with your skittering fingers.
“MMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEE!!” she squeals underneath her gag the moment you pick up pace, not wishing to waste any more time than you already have. Scraping your nails across their surface, you revel in their writhing figure, unable to escape your invasive touch. Simone is absolute livid: cackling behind her gag, she lets out a gurgled cry from time to time, displaying just how much distress she is being put under. It’s inconceivable just how sensitive they could be, given the hours she has spent upon them on the mat, beating them up with every day only to be torn down by your piercing nails across their flesh. However, you can only indulge in how vulnerable she still is afterwards, making quick work out of them with the minimum amount of effort.
“Do you like art Simone?” you ask, reaching underneath the table, revealing a small lockbox just out of sight. “I like art.” She doesn’t even bother looking down at you, knowing for sure nothing she could do would aid her in preventing such torments from occurring. Reaching into your toolkit, you reveal a pair of fine-tipped painter’s brushes, their tips perfectly equipped for the smooth flesh of Simone’s feet. Gently, you begin tracing the tip of the paintbrush across her heel, its prickly surface scratching her supple skin with maddening consistency.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!” she screams, followed closely by an eerie silence which her voice has transcended all time and space. Lapping up the length of her sole, you drive the poor girl into a frenzy of ticklish torments, reveling in how such a ubiquitous tool could cause such anguish to befall her. Your devilish implement knows no bounds: finding its way in between each one of her toes, underneath the toe pads, even the crevices between the nail and flesh, all driving her insane. No matter how hard she clenches them, it seems as if she’s only opening up another avenue in which to tickle her to oblivion, inviting you to caress the wrinkles across her soles, only to indulge in the webbing in between her toes once they have opened up for you. By the end of this near-hour long ordeal, her disheveled form has rendered her primed for the more intimate phase of her torture.
“You cannot imagine just how honored I am to sit at your beautiful, angelic feet,” you recite, the ringing in her ears from her endless screams making it hard to hear you. “I must request permission to indulge in them, if you will let me.” She knew it to be nothing more than an order than a request: Simone, in her helpless position, having no leverage to sway anything that may happen to her. However, with the threat of her feet being ravaged yet again, she has no choice but to submit. Silently nodding her head to you, she has finally given in to your influence, something which is sweeter than her girlish laughter could ever be.
Every so gently, you begin running the tip of your tongue across the length of her right foot. From her plump heel, all the way up to her toes, you taste her delicious flesh, caressing its perfect design with amorous intent. Grasping it with your hands on both sides, you begin indulging yourself, lapping your tongue over every square inch of their surface. You dare not hold yourself back, showing them the love that you have held for them as they deserve it, something she could not have ever imagined possible.
She cringes, the feeling of a slimy little creature traversing its way across the lowliest of appendages too foreign for her to comprehend. However, inundated by her submissive state, she begins to elicit a different reaction. She begins to moan, juxtaposed against her teetering giggles as you tenderly skitter your nails across her supple sole. Once you begin flossing your tongue between her toes, she finally breaks down. Arching her back, she can do nothing as you make love to her feet, enveloping her plump toes in your mouth for further enjoyment. She jumps in surprise as you nibble her toes, lapping at their undersides in tandem, keeping her in an eternal limbo of peril and pleasure to your liking. Drooling uncontrollably, she yearns for more attention, something that you are surely to use against her.
You reach back into your chest, taking a small bottle of oil, having sat in a heating unit this entire time. Pouring a small puddle into your hand, you smear it across her left foot, covering its entirety with the viscous substance. You do the same with the right, making sure to cover everything, working it into the sides and tops of her feet, even lacing it in between her toes. Had she been able to gaze upon the dual hairbrushes hovering just inches away from her feet, she may have been tempted to beg for more nibbles upon her toes. But now, she is too weak to resist: not even one whimper coming from her, feeling the ultimate helplessness that has finally sunken it.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here in my chambers,” you dictate, placing the dastardly hairbrushes atop her soles, stopping just as she gazes at you with the tender look of a woman on the brink of disaster. “But now, it’s time to break you.” Frantically, you press its hard bristles into her sole, vigorously scrubbing her tender flesh with wild abandonment. She wrenches against her bonds once more, having her newfound energy coursing through every fiber of her being in the process.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” She lets out an almighty scream, one which has yet to reveal itself until now. Wrenching once again against her bonds that merely do not budge, she exerts that very last modicum of energy she has been holding onto for dear life up until this very moment. You are relentless, pressing deep into her soles, ravaging her heels, demolishing her tender toes time and time again, leaving her with only the hope that you would show mercy upon her despite it never crossing your mind.
What becomes of her is an endless cycle: a shriek of distress, followed by a torrent of silent breathy laughter, her eyes jettisoning open again and again from such horrors. Even having endured as much as she has, she can nonetheless feel every bristle caressing the length of her soles, jettisoning up to her flailing toes the minute she even hopes for it all to be over. Whatever amount of time has passed since her torments began is completely out of her grasp, the entire ordeal melding into one laughter-drenched frenzy the likes of which she will never forget. After a full half hour of her ordeal, she has but the energy to lay there, engulfed in a torrent of uncontrollable sobbing that is betraying the sight of the broken woman she is. Taking the hairbrushes from her feet, noting the reddening atop their surface, you finally let her rest.
“Well, it sure has been fun Miss Biles,” you tell her, stroking her cheek, witnessing the broken stare of such a strong little athlete. “But, you’ll need your rest for the time to come.” She can barely wince at the thought of her torments continuing, not even considering that there may be others lying in wait for her, the totality of the evils of man having been inflicted upon her these past two hours.
Oh, if only.
“You might feel yourself drained, utterly siphoned of any last shred of energy…” you say, just as you make your way into the darkness, grasping the light switch that started it all “…but we have unfinished business to attend to, young lady.” With the flick of a switch, the entirety of the chamber is illuminated, and by the look on her face, it would seem as though she were looking in a portal directly to Hell: contraption after diabolical contraption, lining every wall, draped from every ceiling, all for the sole purpose of inflicting tickle torture beyond imagination. She has no words to describe such a room but you do: each and every last machine designed for her, meant to satisfy your every fantasy until the end of time. A perilous scream escapes her, knowing for sure it may be her last chance to sway your devious urges, but it is too late.
“You best prepare yourself for tonight, sweetie,” you say, approaching her with a soaked rag you had hidden just underneath her, slowly descending it upon her face. “You’re going to need your strength.” As the thick cloth covers her nose, your plaything attempting to thrash away in vein, darkness slowly creeps over her…
The End
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