ANRRI365
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2024
- Messages
- 83
- Points
- 18
The Wake Up America studio was bright, polished, and buzzing. A pristine silver spa bed gleamed at center stage, flanked by monitors reading:
"PULSEJET DRY HYDRO MASSAGE – LIVE DEMO"
It looked like something you’d see in a high-end Swiss wellness center. Sleek contours, glowing blue control panel, a shimmering membrane stretched taut across the surface. Impressive. High-tech. Expensive.
Lena Harper eyed it the way a cat eyes an unwanted bath.
It wasn’t that she disliked new gadgets. She simply liked control. Clean transitions, firm boundaries, no surprises. But here she was, in front of a live studio audience, barefoot on the smooth floor, about to slide into what looked suspiciously like a horizontal MRI machine built by a luxury car brand.
“So this is the PulseJet Spa Bed,” Miles Benton, co-host, announced, his smile just wide enough to make Lena suspicious. “It uses targeted water jets beneath a protective membrane to simulate a full-body massage. Dry, mess-free, and programmable.”
“A hands-free massage,” Lena said with a pleasant-enough tone, hiding the slightest twinge of skepticism behind her signature poise. “Seems ideal for people on the go.”
“Or people who’ve forgotten what relaxation feels like,” Miles teased with a sideways glance.
“Some of us find stress motivating,” Lena replied coolly.
The audience chuckled.
She stepped toward the machine, kicked off her size 7 heels, revealing a pair of feet adorned with deep red nail polish, and set them neatly aside. Her bare feet touched the stage floor, perfect pedicure, and graceful as always. Miles couldn't help but sneak of glance of her gorgeous toes and soft, high arched soles as she made her way to the machine.
“Alright,” she said lightly. “Let’s see what this thing can do.” She lay face-down into the cradle, adjusting once. Her soft blonde hair was pinned neatly back, her face the only part visible now. The membrane sealed across her back and legs like shrink-wrap. Inside, her bare feet rested flat against the curved interior.
“Beginning full-body cycle,” the technician called from off-screen.
The machine hummed.
A low mechanical vibration passed through the capsule. The first wave of pulsing jets hit her shoulders—dense, rhythmic thuds of pressure.
“Strong pressure,” Lena noted aloud, her voice calm and steady through the studio mic. “Definitely not just a spa day puff piece.”
The jets worked slowly down her back. Stopping at key muscle groups, kneading, and sweeping. She offered thoughtful commentary as it moved.
“Good lumbar pressure... Hmm. That’s actually very effective. Like a deep tissue massage, just without elbows.”
The technician adjusted a setting. The massage shifted lower—hips, glutes, and hamstrings.
Lena exhaled slowly. Not quite relaxed, but not resisting either.
“We’re now moving toward the calves,” the technician said.
“I can feel that,” Lena replied. “It’s… vigorous. Almost jolting.”
“And what’s next?” Miles asked, too casually.
“Feet, probably,” Lena said matter-of-factly.
A pause.
A hum from the bed.
And then
The jets hit her feet.
The reaction was instant.
Lena gasped audibly. Her entire body jolted within the pod, though all the audience could see was her head suddenly tensing in the cradle.
“Oh!” she blurted out. “Okay...um, that’s....oh mmmmph” Her voice strained, and her eyes squnting with a grimace etched on her face.
The audience chuckled, unsure if it was real or scripted.
“Something wrong?” Miles called out, already grinning.
“It’s uh..... it’s h-h-hitting my feet now....,” Lena said tightly, her voice noticeably strained.
Inside, her toes had curled into the surface but were held tight. Her soles are unable to move an inch. The jets were sweeping slow, even strokes across her arches and the balls of her feet. Pulsing bursts of pressure that felt like electric sparks of ticklish heat. Her heels twitched involuntarily. The muscles in the soles of her feet reflexively twitch with each passing burst. Her soles flinched against the membrane, utterly defenseless.
Then, an involuntary laugh. Short. Sharp. Real. Ticklish.
“Can we...um...mmmph....can we adjust that?” she asked, her composure cracking. “Maybe not the feet, please?”
“Feet are part of the full-body cycle,” the technician chirped from his panel. "Almost done, Lena."
The jets swept back across her soles slower this time. Deliberate.
“No, n-n-no....seriously, let's not my f-feet if we c-c-can, ok?” Lena’s voice wobbled. It wasn’t a scream, but it was close to it.
Her face was tight, her eyes blinking rapidly. The faintest tremble had settled into her lips.
“Is that ticklish, Lena?” Miles asked innocently.
“Y-YES!” she snapped, immediately biting her lower lip as another helpless laugh escaped. “It’s pretty t-t-ticklish....”
Inside, her feet were trembling. Every swirl of the jet along her arches made her twitch uncontrollably. Her toes kept flexing. Her calves tried to rise off the surface, but the membrane held her snug and still.
She was trapped. She had never been tickled in years outside of a random tickle every now and then during a pedicure, let alone tickled while unable to move away.
“Just breathe through it,” Miles teased.
“Mmmmph y-yeah mmmmph like Lamoz r-right...,” Lena hissed between shaky exhales and stifled laughter.
The jets passed again. This time spiraling at the base of her toes. Her head jerked in the cradle. That was too much. Her toes were surprisingly ticklish, even to Lena.
“Hhh—nnnn!” she gasped through clenched teeth. “It’s...it’s still going?!”
Her face was flushed now, cheekbones pink and trembling. A bubbling giggle leaked out again, followed by another. The studio mic picked up the delicate rhythm of her suppressed laughter as she struggled to not break down on national TV.
“Wow,” Miles said with mock reverence. “I think we just found your weak spot.”
“We’ve made the point,” Lena said firmly, her words quick and clipped. “W- we could mmmmph hhhnnn probably wrap the cycle....”
But the technician didn’t hear. Or didn’t care....
Another long pass. The jets glided across her soles again, methodical and maddening.
Lena’s body rocked against the confines of the pod. Her laughter, no longer silent, began to break through in bursts. Short, tight giggles followed by desperate attempts to smother them. Her face was twitching, every muscle in her jaw working overtime to resist the pull of full-blown hysterics.
“Hh...okay....o....okay,” she breathed out. “V-v-very thorough hhh..nnnn...mmmph ahhh… we’ve shown that…”
Miles leaned closer to the monitor, grinning. “Still feeling motivated by stress, there Lena??”
“I s-swear hhhnn, M-m-miles....”
The jets were now focused solely on her arches. Small, circular motions that made her squeal and clamp her mouth shut again. She was twitching. Shaking. Desperately trying to look like she wasn’t on the verge of losing it. But she was just mere seconds from exploding into laughter. She had the urge to plead with the technician to end the massage, but she held as steady as she could while the jets found every ticklish spot on her soft, sensitive feet.
“It’s very...intense,” she said again, her voice breaking into a breathy laugh. “Hhhnnnghhh....okay....might be time to, uh… move on to the next segment…” Lena said, trying to convey her utter torment subtly to her co-host Hoping for mercy on his or the producers part.
Still, the jets continued.
Still, she squirmed, cheeks crimson, breaths coming short and broken.
And then, finally, the machine powered down. The sudden silence was mercy.
Lena lay still for a moment, chest rising and falling. Her eyes were closed. Her cheeks were damp with laughter tears. Her mouth hung open as she tried to gather her voice.
The cover was opened, and when she finally sat up, she did so slowly, like someone walking away from an avalanche. She smoothed her skirt, slipped back into her heels, and turned to the camera with regal precision.
“The PulseJet Spa Bed,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Is… remarkably effective. Very....stimulating experience...
Then she turned to Miles with a subtle yet fiery glare.
“Next week is ice baths. You’re going in first!"
"PULSEJET DRY HYDRO MASSAGE – LIVE DEMO"
It looked like something you’d see in a high-end Swiss wellness center. Sleek contours, glowing blue control panel, a shimmering membrane stretched taut across the surface. Impressive. High-tech. Expensive.
Lena Harper eyed it the way a cat eyes an unwanted bath.
It wasn’t that she disliked new gadgets. She simply liked control. Clean transitions, firm boundaries, no surprises. But here she was, in front of a live studio audience, barefoot on the smooth floor, about to slide into what looked suspiciously like a horizontal MRI machine built by a luxury car brand.
“So this is the PulseJet Spa Bed,” Miles Benton, co-host, announced, his smile just wide enough to make Lena suspicious. “It uses targeted water jets beneath a protective membrane to simulate a full-body massage. Dry, mess-free, and programmable.”
“A hands-free massage,” Lena said with a pleasant-enough tone, hiding the slightest twinge of skepticism behind her signature poise. “Seems ideal for people on the go.”
“Or people who’ve forgotten what relaxation feels like,” Miles teased with a sideways glance.
“Some of us find stress motivating,” Lena replied coolly.
The audience chuckled.
She stepped toward the machine, kicked off her size 7 heels, revealing a pair of feet adorned with deep red nail polish, and set them neatly aside. Her bare feet touched the stage floor, perfect pedicure, and graceful as always. Miles couldn't help but sneak of glance of her gorgeous toes and soft, high arched soles as she made her way to the machine.
“Alright,” she said lightly. “Let’s see what this thing can do.” She lay face-down into the cradle, adjusting once. Her soft blonde hair was pinned neatly back, her face the only part visible now. The membrane sealed across her back and legs like shrink-wrap. Inside, her bare feet rested flat against the curved interior.
“Beginning full-body cycle,” the technician called from off-screen.
The machine hummed.
A low mechanical vibration passed through the capsule. The first wave of pulsing jets hit her shoulders—dense, rhythmic thuds of pressure.
“Strong pressure,” Lena noted aloud, her voice calm and steady through the studio mic. “Definitely not just a spa day puff piece.”
The jets worked slowly down her back. Stopping at key muscle groups, kneading, and sweeping. She offered thoughtful commentary as it moved.
“Good lumbar pressure... Hmm. That’s actually very effective. Like a deep tissue massage, just without elbows.”
The technician adjusted a setting. The massage shifted lower—hips, glutes, and hamstrings.
Lena exhaled slowly. Not quite relaxed, but not resisting either.
“We’re now moving toward the calves,” the technician said.
“I can feel that,” Lena replied. “It’s… vigorous. Almost jolting.”
“And what’s next?” Miles asked, too casually.
“Feet, probably,” Lena said matter-of-factly.
A pause.
A hum from the bed.
And then
The jets hit her feet.
The reaction was instant.
Lena gasped audibly. Her entire body jolted within the pod, though all the audience could see was her head suddenly tensing in the cradle.
“Oh!” she blurted out. “Okay...um, that’s....oh mmmmph” Her voice strained, and her eyes squnting with a grimace etched on her face.
The audience chuckled, unsure if it was real or scripted.
“Something wrong?” Miles called out, already grinning.
“It’s uh..... it’s h-h-hitting my feet now....,” Lena said tightly, her voice noticeably strained.
Inside, her toes had curled into the surface but were held tight. Her soles are unable to move an inch. The jets were sweeping slow, even strokes across her arches and the balls of her feet. Pulsing bursts of pressure that felt like electric sparks of ticklish heat. Her heels twitched involuntarily. The muscles in the soles of her feet reflexively twitch with each passing burst. Her soles flinched against the membrane, utterly defenseless.
Then, an involuntary laugh. Short. Sharp. Real. Ticklish.
“Can we...um...mmmph....can we adjust that?” she asked, her composure cracking. “Maybe not the feet, please?”
“Feet are part of the full-body cycle,” the technician chirped from his panel. "Almost done, Lena."
The jets swept back across her soles slower this time. Deliberate.
“No, n-n-no....seriously, let's not my f-feet if we c-c-can, ok?” Lena’s voice wobbled. It wasn’t a scream, but it was close to it.
Her face was tight, her eyes blinking rapidly. The faintest tremble had settled into her lips.
“Is that ticklish, Lena?” Miles asked innocently.
“Y-YES!” she snapped, immediately biting her lower lip as another helpless laugh escaped. “It’s pretty t-t-ticklish....”
Inside, her feet were trembling. Every swirl of the jet along her arches made her twitch uncontrollably. Her toes kept flexing. Her calves tried to rise off the surface, but the membrane held her snug and still.
She was trapped. She had never been tickled in years outside of a random tickle every now and then during a pedicure, let alone tickled while unable to move away.
“Just breathe through it,” Miles teased.
“Mmmmph y-yeah mmmmph like Lamoz r-right...,” Lena hissed between shaky exhales and stifled laughter.
The jets passed again. This time spiraling at the base of her toes. Her head jerked in the cradle. That was too much. Her toes were surprisingly ticklish, even to Lena.
“Hhh—nnnn!” she gasped through clenched teeth. “It’s...it’s still going?!”
Her face was flushed now, cheekbones pink and trembling. A bubbling giggle leaked out again, followed by another. The studio mic picked up the delicate rhythm of her suppressed laughter as she struggled to not break down on national TV.
“Wow,” Miles said with mock reverence. “I think we just found your weak spot.”
“We’ve made the point,” Lena said firmly, her words quick and clipped. “W- we could mmmmph hhhnnn probably wrap the cycle....”
But the technician didn’t hear. Or didn’t care....
Another long pass. The jets glided across her soles again, methodical and maddening.
Lena’s body rocked against the confines of the pod. Her laughter, no longer silent, began to break through in bursts. Short, tight giggles followed by desperate attempts to smother them. Her face was twitching, every muscle in her jaw working overtime to resist the pull of full-blown hysterics.
“Hh...okay....o....okay,” she breathed out. “V-v-very thorough hhh..nnnn...mmmph ahhh… we’ve shown that…”
Miles leaned closer to the monitor, grinning. “Still feeling motivated by stress, there Lena??”
“I s-swear hhhnn, M-m-miles....”
The jets were now focused solely on her arches. Small, circular motions that made her squeal and clamp her mouth shut again. She was twitching. Shaking. Desperately trying to look like she wasn’t on the verge of losing it. But she was just mere seconds from exploding into laughter. She had the urge to plead with the technician to end the massage, but she held as steady as she could while the jets found every ticklish spot on her soft, sensitive feet.
“It’s very...intense,” she said again, her voice breaking into a breathy laugh. “Hhhnnnghhh....okay....might be time to, uh… move on to the next segment…” Lena said, trying to convey her utter torment subtly to her co-host Hoping for mercy on his or the producers part.
Still, the jets continued.
Still, she squirmed, cheeks crimson, breaths coming short and broken.
And then, finally, the machine powered down. The sudden silence was mercy.
Lena lay still for a moment, chest rising and falling. Her eyes were closed. Her cheeks were damp with laughter tears. Her mouth hung open as she tried to gather her voice.
The cover was opened, and when she finally sat up, she did so slowly, like someone walking away from an avalanche. She smoothed her skirt, slipped back into her heels, and turned to the camera with regal precision.
“The PulseJet Spa Bed,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Is… remarkably effective. Very....stimulating experience...
Then she turned to Miles with a subtle yet fiery glare.
“Next week is ice baths. You’re going in first!"
