LisaLisaJam
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That's a Yacht of Tickling (a tickle torture story) F/MF (nudity non-con) PART 1
- Thread starter LisaLisaJam
- Start date
LisaLisaJam
TMF Master
- Joined
- Oct 14, 2023
- Messages
- 641
- Points
- 93
That's a Yacht of Tickling
The man at the docks terminal had asked her twice if she was sure that she was Cassidy Clark. Not in an accusatory way, more like he couldn’t believe someone had shown up. “Not many really ever come,” he muttered, handing her a thick envelope embossed with a gold logo she didn’t recognize. “Swear to god, 9 out of 10 don't show up.”
Cassidy ran her fingers along the yacht’s gangway railing, cool, polished steel under the midday sun. The boat smelled like lemons and saltwater, and when she stepped onto the deck, her sandals clicked against teak so flawless that it looked fake. There was no crew in sight. Just the hum of distant engines and the slap of waves against the hull. She dropped her duffel by a lounger, scanning the upper deck she stood on. A bar stocked with bottles she couldn’t pronounce, a jacuzzi bubbling for no one, and a dining table set for one under a fluttering canopy. The whole thing was surreal, like walking onto a movie set where they’d forgotten to hire the extras.
She pulled out her phone. Three bars. No missed calls. Cassidy dialed her mother first, listening to the ring while squinting at the yacht’s name painted in curling script near the bow: Serpent’s Kiss. Her mom picked up with a breathless “Baby?” like she’d been holding the phone waiting. “You on that boat yet?” Cassidy laughed, rolling her shoulders to shake off the weirdness. “Yeah. It’s… way bigger than I thought.” She didn’t mention the envelope burning a hole in her back pocket, or how the guy at the dock entryway had looked at her like she’d signed her own death warrant.
“Put it on video!” her mom demanded. Cassidy obliged, panning the camera across the obscenely perfect deck. Her mother whistled low. “Lord. That’s white people money.” Cassidy snorted. "Well mom, there's no white people on this boat to oppress me, as she rolled her eyes, displeased with her Mom's unnecessary prejudice."
Ten minutes later, after debating a few different unimportant subjects, Cassidy sighed. “Alright, I’m gonna poke around, Mom. Tell Dad I didn’t drown.” Her mother made a wet kissing noise and said goodbye. “Hug my puppy for me!” Cassidy requested. The ridiculousness of saying that while on a floating palace wasn’t lost on her.
She soon found the master suite by accident, her shoulder nudged a panel of what looked like solid mahogany, and it swung inward on silent hinges. The bed alone could’ve slept five. Her duffel looked like a child’s toy abandoned on the silk duvet. Cassidy noticed a thick envelope on the desk. She open the sealed envelope. Inside there were five crisp pages, instructions in dense paragraphs that made her stomach tighten. She wanted to explore the ship right now so she only quickly skimmed phrases, “participant autonomy,” “total privacy assured”, before a single underlined sentence made her pause: You are the sole arbiter of allowable conduct aboard Serpent’s Kiss. That was strange. "What kind of decisions on conduct could she possibly make here? That's just dumb to even write down," she thought.
Cassidy exited her room and climbed the spiral staircase to the bridge three steps at a time, sandals slapping against metal. The control panels looked like something out of Star Trek, screens mapping ocean currents, radar blips pulsing green. A woman barely taller than the wheel stood with her back to the door, humming over a steaming chai. She turned with a start, spilling some on her white uniform. “You’re early,” the woman said, dabbing at the stain with a towel she had quickly picked up. Her name tag read: Capt. R. Patel.
“Captain?” Cassidy blinked. “I thought this thing sailed itself.”
Patel’s laugh was quick, practiced, but her fingers twitched where they gripped the chai cup. “Oh, it does. God knows I wouldn’t trust myself to park this beast.” She gestured to the glowing console where a dotted line traced lazy loops on the digital chart. “Autopilot’s programmed to keep you 20 miles out, no storms, no tankers to collide with. Just you and the open bar.” Her smile reached her eyes. “I’m just the mechanic. Triple-check the nuts and bolts, make sure the AI doesn’t decide you’re plankton.”
Cassidy being her usual grateful self, thanked her genuinely for her services. "Oh Capt Patel, thank you so much for doing all of that. It's kind of you and I appreciate you." Patel chuckled, "You're welcome my dear. And it's also my job so..." Cassidy leaned against the radar screen, cool glass against her hip. “So the entire crew is…?”
“Gone within thirty minutes.” Patel interjected, as she tapped her watch. “Deckhands already left at dawn. Chef packed your meals in cryo, just microwave and pretend it’s fresh.” She hesitated, then she unclipped a keycard from her belt. “Master override. For your safety. This will give you access through any doors, locked or unlocked.” The plastic was warm from her body heat. Cassidy turned it over. There were no markings, just a single word embossed in tiny letters: CURATOR.
Something prickled at the back of Cassidy’s neck. “Why give me this card?”
Patel busied herself starting all the auto systems, then answered her. “Because when you're the only guest on the ship, you should have access to it, I'm assuming.” Cassidy opened her mouth to reply, but a chime from the console cut her off. Patel swore under her breath. “My ferry's here early.” She grabbed her duffel by the wheel, then paused at the door. “That envelope you got in your room? Read it all very thoroughly, as soon as you can. It's super helpful.”
Cassidy stared at the keycard. “Will do, thanks." When Cassidy looked up, Patel was already halfway down the stairs, her footsteps echoing like she couldn’t leave fast enough. The yacht’s engines groaned to life beneath Cassidy’s feet, a deep vibration that traveled up her spine. Through the panoramic windows, a ferry bobbed in the distance. She wandered one deck down, quickly discovering the dining room. Then Cassidy had a great, simple idea. She was going to take a hot shower, change into comfortable clothes, have some dinner, and lots of fine wine!
ONE MONTH EARLIER:
The envelope looked like those cheap wedding invitations people ordered in bulk, thick cardstock with a faux-gold trim peeling at the edges. Cassidy had almost tossed it straight into the recycling bin when she saw the unfamiliar return address: Maritime Leisure Awards, some PO box in Delaware. Inside, a single sheet of creamy paper announced in looping script that she’d been "selected for an exclusive luxury experience" aboard the Serpent’s Kiss. "No strings," it promised. "No crew. No other guests. Just you and the open sea for seven days." She’d snorted so hard her neighbor’s tabby cat startled off the porch railing.
She left it face-up on her coffee table for days as a joke. Her girlfriend Tracey picked it up during Thursday wine night, squinting at the embossed logo. "Babe, this is either a timeshare scam or a serial killer’s dating profile." Cassidy remembered laughing, swirling her pinot noir while Tracey dramatically held the letter between two fingers like it might be laced with anthrax. "Right? Like I’ll wake up chained to a radiator with my kidneys in a Yeti cooler." They’d both cackled, and Cassidy threw the letter onto a pile of unopened bills.
But then the second envelope came, this one stuffed with glossy photos of the yacht’s sun deck, the infinity pool, the master suite with its stupidly over-sized bed. A USB drive taped to the back contained a 360-degree virtual tour sound-tracked by ocean waves. That’s when Cassidy started googling. She found nothing, no reviews, no news articles, not even a Wikipedia page for Maritime Leisure Awards. The mystery should’ve been a red flag. Instead, it hooked her like a dare.
NOW:
The shower’s rainforest head had dumped wonderful scalding water down Cassidy’s shoulders, steam fogging the bathroom’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She’d found the master suite’s wardrobe stocked with absurdly soft robes and, weirdly, three identical sets of her exact bra size. A few minutes later, the food and wine were very enjoyable. The discovery that the "cryo meals" were actually seared scallops and truffle risotto that tasted like they’d been plated five minutes ago. She looked at her phone and it was now 5:15 pm. The boat was moving now. The sun would set in a couple hours, and she was really looking forward to it.
Wrapped in terrycloth, Cassidy finally grabbed two bottles of wine (slow down there girl) and ascended to Deck 3 at the front of the boat.
The ocean stretched endlessly before her, a shifting, shimmering expanse of liquid mercury under the lowering sun. The water wasn't blue anymore, not really. It had deepened into something richer, darker, like polished hematite kissed with gold where the light hit the crests of gentle swells. Cassidy leaned against the railing, letting the warmth of her third (probably fourth) glass of wine bloom through her chest as the yacht sliced through waves that dissolved into froth along the hull. The salt-tang of the warm air mixed with the mineral bite of the sauvignon blanc, and for the first time since stepping aboard, she felt her shoulders truly relax.
A school of flying fish burst from the water starboard side, their silver bodies glinting like shards of mirror for one breathtaking second before vanishing beneath the surface again. The sky blushed, streaks of peach and lilac bleeding into the fading blue, the sun now a burning coin balanced precariously on the horizon. Cassidy exhaled slowly, watching as the light transformed the yacht's water ahead into glowing crushed diamonds. She'd never understood why people called sunsets romantic until this moment, with the warm wood of the deck under her bare toes and the whole ocean sighing around her. She was still very surprised that she was offered such a free vacation. But as she stood here right now, it was obvious that is was really happening.
Her gaze drifted lazily across the deck, and caught on something she hadn’t noticed before: a large, laminated map mounted between two portholes. The kind you’d see in a shopping mall, screaming YOU ARE HERE in aggressive yellow. Except this one showed the Serpent’s Kiss in cross-section, each level sliced open like a dollhouse. Deck 1: A couple lounges and that stupidly large master suite. Deck 2: kitchens, gym, cinema (watch movies on big screen room). Deck 3: bridge, helm, whatever rich people called their “observation decks.”
And then, at the very bottom, “Deck Zero?” Cassidy murmured. No cheerful yellow arrow pointed to its location, just a gray rectangle with a single notation: Auxiliary & Storage. The deck plans showed stairs leading from Deck 1, down to the Deck 0 level, and those steps were only at the far front of the ship, or the far rear of it. Cassidy pressed a finger to the spots. Deck Zero was tucked down far beneath the ocean waterline, running the full length of the ship, 120 feet of unmarked space. She’d been on ferries where the car deck felt cavernous, but this? Deck 0 was the size of a small warehouse.
3 WEEKS EARLIER:
The email reply had chimed onto Cassidy’s phone while she was elbow-deep in dishwater, suds clinging to her forearms as she squinted at the screen. Maritime Leisure Awards, the subject line in stark black against white. She remembers wiping her hands on her jeans, leaving damp streaks, before tapping it open. The message was corporate-polished, but something about the phrasing made her pause mid-scroll: "We select potential guests based on observed kindness quotients, you exhibit the exact generosity of spirit we wish to cultivate aboard Serpent’s Kiss." Bullshit metrics, clearly, but the next line snagged her: "Consider this a beta test of the ship and its amenities. Our first voyages will cater to hedge fund managers and Saudi princes. We’d prefer they not be our guinea pigs."
Cassidy had snorted, shooting Tracey a look across their tiny galley kitchen. "So I’m the lab rat before they cater to the rich folks?" Tracey, ever the skeptic, palmed her wine glass. "Or you’re the sacrificial virgin they toss overboard to appease Poseidon." They’d laughed, but later, alone, Cassidy reread the email, how they’d italicized no obligations twice, how they’d attached a PDF of glowing testimonials from people whose names she couldn’t verify. The final line stuck like a burr: "We trust you’ll be completely honest in your review of our ship. For a 7 day incredible ocean getaway, all we ask in return is your very thorough, very detailed honest review." Cassidy had also thought about how this offer was free, and that she didn't make enough income as a waitress to go on any real vacations. So, there was that.
NOW:
The breeze carried the scent of salt and something faintly floral, maybe the yacht’s herb garden, as Cassidy stretched out on the sun-warmed teak, her fingers trailing over the edge of the lounger. The wine had softened the edges of everything: the gulls’ cries overhead, the rhythmic slap of water against the hull, even the distant hum of the engines. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds layer over each other like lazy jazz, waves as bass-line, wind as melody. Somewhere between the third and fourth slow breath, she slipped into a nap so deep she didn’t dream. Just darkness, warm and weightless as the ocean beneath her.
She woke to the sky now streaked with stars. A faint indentation from the lounger’s cushion marked her cheek, and her mouth tasted like wine and sleep. The breeze had picked up, tousling her curls as she sat up, blinking at the empty deck. No birds now. Just the quiet creak of the yacht, the occasional splash of a rogue wave. Cassidy stretched, her muscles loose and lazy, and gathered the empty wine bottle, rolling it between her palms before setting it aside. The second bottle, still unopened, was coming with her to her room.
Back in the master suite, the air smelled faintly of lemon polish and the sea. Cassidy kicked off her sandals, relishing the cool marble underfoot as she padded toward the bathroom. Her reflection in the fog-free mirror looked softer somehow, sleep-flushed cheeks, hair wild from the breeze.
She squeezed a dollop of organic cleanser onto her fingertips, inhaling the scent of bergamot and chamomile as she massaged it into her skin. Water hissed from the gold-plated faucet, too hot at first, then perfect as she rinsed away the day's salt and sunscreen. The serum came next, gliding on like liquid silk. She hesitated before applying the night cream, staring at her own slightly-too-shiny face in the mirror. "Dang," she muttered. "When did I turn into someone who uses night cream?" The Cassidy from two months ago, the one who lives paycheck to paycheck, would’ve laughed at this ritual.
The envelope lay where she’d left it on the writing desk, its gold embossing catching the soft glow of the bedside lamps. Cassidy opened the 2nd bottle of wine, and settled into the leather chair, genuine leather for sure. And with a guilty stroke of her thumb, she opened the large envelope. The first page was dense with legal jargon, paragraphs marching in tight formation down crisp linen paper. She skimmed through assurances of confidentiality, vague mentions of "behavioral observation," and a truly staggering liability waiver.
Her eyes caught on a subheading: Phase One: Environmental Acclimatization. The text beneath explained, in painfully dry language, that the first 24 hours were designed for relaxation and familiarization. "Participants often require time to internalize the absence of external oversight," it read, as if they were expecting her to start swinging from the chandeliers after 24 hours. Cassidy snorted, flipping to page two.
The next section made her fingers tremble and her heart race.
Phase Two: Stimulus Introduction was printed in bold, followed by four bullet points, each more unsettling than the previous. She read them twice, lips moving silently:
1. Two discreet auxiliary spaces become accessible at 0800 on Day 2.
2. All onboard amenities remain under participant discretion.
3. No behavioral parameters imposed by Maritime Leisure Awards. International waters. No laws. No consequences.
4. Participants are encouraged to explore their own personal boundaries.
Cassidy set the page down carefully, as if it might detonate. Now that was some really weird shit. Her pulse thudded in her throat as she reached for the wine bottle, no glass this time, and she took a swig. The taste was very nice, their wine was wonderful.
She didn't even finish reading page 2, but continued. Photographs slid out when she turned to page three. Two glossy prints, clearly modern but printed on thick matte paper like old Polaroids. The first showed a young Caucasian man, blonde, absurdly handsome, grinning at the camera with a genuine expression. He lounged shirtless on what looked like a yacht deck, sunlight gilding the lean muscles of his abdomen, his ankles crossed as his nicely shaped soft soles faced towards the camera's lens. Something about his expression, the slight tilt of his head, made Cassidy’s fingers tighten on the photo. Who the hell was this young man and why is his photo in this envelope?
The second photograph image was of a young woman, also college age. Caucasian, blonde hair cropped short, blue eyes wide and startled as if caught mid-laugh. Her bare feet were tucked under her on a white couch, she was in a modest black swim suit. Her body was curvy, naturally very sexy, and without a doubt feminine. Cassidy traced the edge of the photo, frowning. Both strangers were beautiful in that effortless way that felt almost aggressive, like their attractiveness was a challenge Cassidy and to others.
She flipped the photos over. The back of his said: Jonathan, 19 years old. Hers said: Amber, 20 years old.
The next page was filled with fragments, half-poetic, half-clinical observations about laughter. The convulsive gasp before the peal, is what one line read. Another: Stimuli applied perfectly to plantar surfaces. The phrases grew more intimate, the wetness of helpless tears, Cassidy's breath became shallow between her teeth. What the hell was this trip about? What is this boat wanting from her?
She nearly missed another handwritten note tucked between pages four and five, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste: Jonathan and Amber are chemically enhanced to experience arousal, pleasure, from ... tickling. What the hell kind of statement even is that? How would it ever apply to Cassidy? Or to real life in general! Because that statement was obviously of sexual nature, and involved touching, contact, Cassidy's hands and fingers immediately trembled as she held that slip of paper to the light, searching for some sign that this was some kind of satire. The watermark, a tiny serpent coiled around the letter M, glistened under the lamp.
Cassidy stood abruptly, sending wine sloshing dangerously close to spilling from the bottle. The yacht's soft ambient lighting suddenly felt like interrogation lamps. She paced to the panoramic window, pressing her palms against cool glass. The ocean stretched endlessly, no lights marking civilization, no silhouettes of other ships. Just the Serpent's Kiss, cutting through black water with surgical precision.
The master override key card came to mind. Did all the "clues" she'd read about so far add up to ... that these two young people were somewhere on this ship? Perhaps on Deck 0? No way. That couldn't be true. Nothing in the letters specifically said that they were on this ship. She reasoned that the wine was certainly playing around with her thoughts. But the realization hit her like the first icy drop of a storm: this whole situation wasn't a mistake. The Morality Group, whoever they really were, had chosen her specifically. The "kindness quotient" email, the anonymous PO box, even the ridiculous luxury, all designed to lower her guard until she found herself intoxicated and staring at photographs of ticklish strangers.
Cassidy picked up her cell phone. No signal.
"Of course," she muttered, tossing it onto the bed with a soft bounce. The yacht's gentle sway made her stomach flip, or maybe that was the wine. She pressed her fingertips against her temples, kneading circles into the skin. "You're imagining things," she whispered to her reflection in the blackened window. "Too much travel today. Too much..." Her gaze darted to the empty wine bottle.
The TV remote felt cool and reassuring in her palm, its buttons clicked with satisfying precision.
Cassidy cycled through the channels twice, five in total, each offering variations of the same corporate-approved serenity: a sunset loop filmed at half-speed, a silent reel of dolphins breaching, and three different angles of the same tropical cove. No news ticker, no sitcom laughter, just endless, curated tranquility bleeding into her retinas. The yacht's designers had clearly deemed actual entertainment redundant when one could theoretically be gazing at the real ocean instead of its digital facsimile.
The bookshelf beckoned like a dare, floor-to-ceiling mahogany on the suite's shortest wall, its contents arranged by color in some designer's idea of wit. Cassidy ran her fingers along the spines, feeling the rough kiss of cloth-bound editions interspersed with the sleek jackets of modern hardcovers. Most titles were predictably nautical: The Complete Yachtsman’s Guide, Knots for Aristocrats, even a suspiciously pristine copy of Moby Dick with gilded edges. Then, wedged between, a slim volume caught the light with its foil-stamped title: The Truth About Tickling.
The cover felt unnervingly warm under her fingertips. Cassidy removed it, brought it to the bed, tried to relax, and flipped it open to a random page, and immediately slapped the book face down on the bed, and gasped. The chapter heading she had opened it to was titled Neurological Pathways of Laughter above an anatomical illustration so detailed she could count the nerve clusters spider-webbing across a dissected foot. Paragraphs dissected "response thresholds" and "paroxysmal vocalizations" with clinical detachment that made her skin prickle. She slowly lowered her arm to retrieve the book, not knowing why she's even want to open it again. But she was completely alone, and it was a fascinating subject, wasn't it? One she had never given any real thought to. But she realized something strange in that moment. Whether she ever realized it or not, or pursued it or not, tickling and being tickled were plenty interesting to her. How had she not come to that conclusion yet in her life? Perhaps because she'd never been on a ship where books and letters directed her attention to tickling and ticklishness! That could have something to do with it.
Page 47 featured a sidebar titled Optimal Restraint Positions. The caption cheerfully noted Increased vulnerability enhances laughter duration by 42%. She thought to herself, "What kind of people or person takes the time to write such a book? And what kind of people want such knowledge?"
Her pulse jumped yet again when she turned to page 112, a full spread dissecting the "limbic hijack" phenomenon. The text described how sustained stimulation of plantar nerve clusters could short-circuit the prefrontal cortex within 300 seconds, flooding the brain with conflicting signals. Test subjects frequently report involuntary arousal concurrent with pleading for cessation, the author noted, as casually as discussing weather patterns that the average person's mind will start to unravel, and in some cases, strangely, crave more tickling, even though the current sensations are absolute real torture for them. A graph showed cortisol levels spiking alongside dopamine, the two lines intertwining like lovers in a downward spiral. Cassidy realized her own breathing had gone shallow; she pressed a hand to her sternum as if to quiet her heart beneath her ribs.
The book thudded shut. She stared at its cover, the embossed title now seemed to gleam knowingly under the suite's ambient lighting. This wasn't academic curiosity anymore. Someone had studied this. Quantified it. Designed protocols around breaking people down into giggles and whimpers and, her stomach flipped, supposedly they were enjoying it. She thought of Jonathan's grinning photo, the casual display of his vulnerable soles. Of Amber's startled blue eyes. The Morality Group hadn't just observed human nature; they'd curated it. Sculpted variables like a lab experiment. And now she lay in this extremely comfortable bed, on an amazing ship, holding their damn manual.
Cassidy tossed the book to the floor. Deck Zero. The realization slithered into her mind, slick and undeniable. That unmarked area beneath her wasn't for storage. Cassidy's fingers found the CURATOR key card still tucked in her robe pocket, its edges bit into her palm when she clenched her fist. The document said Phase Two began at 0800. Her phone's lock screen read 03:17. Less than six hours until Deck Zero became "accessible."
THREE WEEKS EARLIER:
Cassidy’s fingers had hovered over the keyboard, Tracey’s laughter still ringing in her ears. "Bring me as your +1," she’d joked, popping the last olive from their martini into her mouth. "I’ll be your witness when they harvest your kidneys." The email draft stared back, polite, cautious, Cassidy's written words asking if companions were permitted. The reply came within the hour: "Our data shows group dynamics dilute authentic decision-making. You’ll find more freedom in solitude." At the time, Cassidy had rolled her eyes at the corporate-speak. Now, with the book splayed open at her feet and Deck Zero humming beneath the hull, the words curdled in her memory. Dilute. Authentic. As if they’d known she’d try to bring a lifeline. But they wanted to know what things she would do when alone.
NOW:
The suite’s climate control whispered cold against Cassidy’s bare shoulders. She stared at the CURATOR card, its matte black surface drinking in the lamplight, and wondered how many others had held it before her. The Morality Group hadn’t just isolated her physically; they’d severed every tether to her ordinary morality. No witnesses. No rules. Just the unknown theater of Deck Zero waiting below. Really, what person on earth wouldn't at least go investigate, if only out of pure curiosity?
She stood up and grabbed the photos of Jonathan and Amber and reclined back on to the bed. The photos seemed to breathe life from their flat 2D paper surfaces, their youth, their softness suddenly grotesque under the context of that damn book. Unknowingly, she looked at the photographs for way too long. Every detail clicked into place: the stocked wardrobe (easy access), the lack of crew (no interference), even the wine (lowered inhibitions). They’d engineered this moment down to the minute, and she would have none of it. She will show them she's no lab rat.
Cassidy rolled out of bed, the CURATOR card burning in her thoughts as she pulled on yesterday’s blue jeans and yesterday's yellow t-shirt, too wrinkled to impress anyone, but too clean to justify changing. Deck Zero could wait. Coffee and toast could not. Cassidy stabbed the espresso machine’s buttons, then watching black liquid hemorrhage into a porcelain cup. She slurped it, nice and warm on her tongue. It provided a momentary feeling of calmness. There was still time to pretend this wasn't happening, to lounge by the pool, to nap and vacation without ever giving Deck Zero another thought. That would show them! Show them they've wasted their time and money on her. But then she spotted the same small words written on the napkins by the coffee machine. Remember, no one is watching.
She was still staring at the words when the yacht's voice purred from hidden speakers, velvet and synthetic, like a therapist programmed by a luxury car company. "Congratulations, Cassidy! Phase One completion confirmed at..." A chime sounded. "Your acclimation period concludes in three hours, twelve minutes. We’ve taken liberties to enhance your comfort, all Deck Zero chambers feature industrial-grade soundproof floors, walls and ceilings. Conversations, laughter, or..." The pause felt deliberate. "Vocalizations will not carry beyond each individual chamber."
Cassidy’s espresso cup clattered against the saucer. Industrial. Bulkhead. Words for submarines and prisons, not pleasure cruises. She wanted to scream at the ceiling, What conversations? What damn laughter?, but the AI continued obliviously: "Deck Zero’s climate control maintains optimal conditions for prolonged activity. Humidity calibrated to prevent dehydration. Ambient temperature set at 72°F to minimize fatigue." Cassidy face snarled with contempt at this boat, and its owners.
She cleared her throat, testing. "Can you hear me?" Her voice sounded alien in the empty galley, too loud, too sharp. The silence stretched. Just the hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the yacht adjusting its course. Then, a soft click. "Affirmative." The AI’s tone shifted, less corporate, more conspiratorial. "I’ve been instructed to clarify ambiguities, should you require... reassurance." Cassidy’s pulse hammered. Reassurance about what? About whether Jonathan and Amber were real? Whether they’d scream when...
She gripped the counter’s edge. "Are they, " The words curdled in her mouth. "Are the people in the photos actually on this ship?" Another pause. Then, almost tenderly: "Access to Deck Zero requires your key card. The CURATOR designation permits full... exploration." Cassidy exhaled through her nose. A non-answer. Classic.
She dragged a shaking hand through her curls. "Will you always be able to hear me?" The words tasted metallic, like licking a battery. "And give me information?"
The AI emitted a sound suspiciously close to a chuckle. "Audio monitoring is continuous in all zones, except the master suite." A beat. "But data retrieval requires specific queries from the Curator."
She set the cup down with deliberate care, watching sunlight fracture through its dregs. Three possibilities crystallized: One, storm back to the master suite, lock herself in until this psychotic boat docked somewhere. Two, find Deck Zero immediately, get answers from whoever might be down there. Or three... She glanced at the photographs still lying on the counter. Amber's startled eyes. Jonathan's grinning soles. Three was unthinkable. But she at least had to see if they were down there, and if she could help them if needed.
At 11am sharp, Cassidy stood before an unmarked steel door near the aft swimming pool, its handle-less surface interrupted only by a discreet card reader. The CURATOR key slid in with a whisper-soft click, hydraulic seals exhaling as the door swung inward to reveal a stairwell bathed in crimson emergency lighting. Each step downward thrummed with the yacht’s hidden machinery, vibrations traveling up through the soles of her clogs as she descended.
Deck Zero announced itself with a gust of antiseptic-cool air, another featureless door, another silent card swipe. This one groaned open to reveal a corridor so narrow that her elbows could have brushed both walls if she pretended to be a chicken, its matte black surfaces absorbing the sparse overhead LEDs like a velvet-lined gun barrel. Doors punctuated the passage at precise ten-foot intervals, each marked with nothing but alphanumeric codes glowing faintly amber: Z-07. Z-09. Z-03. The air tasted of filtered oxygen and something underneath, warm skin? Disinfectant? Her own pulse roared in her ears as she crept forward, counting 4 doors on each side before the hall terminated at a locked door, and that was apparently where the stairs leading up on the front side of the ship were.
What the hell was she doing here? Cassidy had spent last Christmas Eve delivering homemade tamales to the overnight ER staff because "they deserve something warm too." She'd once given her last twenty dollars, the exact amount needed for rent, to a sobbing college student who'd dropped her tuition money in a storm drain. Kindness wasn't just a habit; it was her marrow. And right now, that same marrow was screaming at her to turn around; to pretend she never saw these doors. She was angry at herself for remembering the phrased no rules and test your boundaries and no one will ever know.
The keypad's blinking LED taunted her, green, then red, then green again, like a corrupted traffic light. Z-07. Random chance had positioned her nearest to it when she'd noticed the pattern: only two active keypads in the entire corridor, this one and Z-02 at the opposite end of the hallway.
Cassidy pressed her palm flat against the unyielding metal of the door, feeling the vibration of unseen machinery thrumming beneath. The CURATOR card trembled between her fingers. A bead of sweat traced the hollow of her throat as she angled the card, hesitating at the last millimeter, then swiped. The lock disengaged with a sound like a dentist's drill powering down. The door eased open no more than three inches before stopping.
She inhaled sharply, Cassidy curled her fingers around the door frame, pressing her cheek to the cool metal as she leaned forward. One eye closed instinctively, as if half-blindness might make whatever lay beyond less real. The sliver of revealed space showed black walls, some recessed ceiling fluorescent lighting in dimly lit rectangles.
And the cage in front of her. A floor to ceiling enclosure of narrow stainless-steel bars wrapped in smooth black rubber, partitioning the first five feet of the room into a safety cage of sorts, one like you'd have for protection against great white sharks. Cassidy's grip tightened on the door frame, her knuckles blanching white, as she processed its purpose. It was probably not to keep her out, but to prevent someone from leaving the room once the door was unlocked and opened, like right now. Beyond the barrier, the room unfurled into shadowed luxury: charcoal carpet so plush it swallowed sound, walls upholstered in black soundproof panels, and there, perched on a low white leather sofa against the far wall, was Jonathan.
He sat utterly still, barefoot and naked, watching her with an expression caught between curiosity and embarrassed resignation. His blonde hair caught the recessed lighting in dull gold streaks, no hair product, no pretension. Just a boy waiting to see what the next visitor would say or do. The cage suddenly made gruesome sense: they'd given her an interview area. A predator's viewing box.
...to be continued in PART 2
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The man at the docks terminal had asked her twice if she was sure that she was Cassidy Clark. Not in an accusatory way, more like he couldn’t believe someone had shown up. “Not many really ever come,” he muttered, handing her a thick envelope embossed with a gold logo she didn’t recognize. “Swear to god, 9 out of 10 don't show up.”
Cassidy ran her fingers along the yacht’s gangway railing, cool, polished steel under the midday sun. The boat smelled like lemons and saltwater, and when she stepped onto the deck, her sandals clicked against teak so flawless that it looked fake. There was no crew in sight. Just the hum of distant engines and the slap of waves against the hull. She dropped her duffel by a lounger, scanning the upper deck she stood on. A bar stocked with bottles she couldn’t pronounce, a jacuzzi bubbling for no one, and a dining table set for one under a fluttering canopy. The whole thing was surreal, like walking onto a movie set where they’d forgotten to hire the extras.
She pulled out her phone. Three bars. No missed calls. Cassidy dialed her mother first, listening to the ring while squinting at the yacht’s name painted in curling script near the bow: Serpent’s Kiss. Her mom picked up with a breathless “Baby?” like she’d been holding the phone waiting. “You on that boat yet?” Cassidy laughed, rolling her shoulders to shake off the weirdness. “Yeah. It’s… way bigger than I thought.” She didn’t mention the envelope burning a hole in her back pocket, or how the guy at the dock entryway had looked at her like she’d signed her own death warrant.
“Put it on video!” her mom demanded. Cassidy obliged, panning the camera across the obscenely perfect deck. Her mother whistled low. “Lord. That’s white people money.” Cassidy snorted. "Well mom, there's no white people on this boat to oppress me, as she rolled her eyes, displeased with her Mom's unnecessary prejudice."
Ten minutes later, after debating a few different unimportant subjects, Cassidy sighed. “Alright, I’m gonna poke around, Mom. Tell Dad I didn’t drown.” Her mother made a wet kissing noise and said goodbye. “Hug my puppy for me!” Cassidy requested. The ridiculousness of saying that while on a floating palace wasn’t lost on her.
She soon found the master suite by accident, her shoulder nudged a panel of what looked like solid mahogany, and it swung inward on silent hinges. The bed alone could’ve slept five. Her duffel looked like a child’s toy abandoned on the silk duvet. Cassidy noticed a thick envelope on the desk. She open the sealed envelope. Inside there were five crisp pages, instructions in dense paragraphs that made her stomach tighten. She wanted to explore the ship right now so she only quickly skimmed phrases, “participant autonomy,” “total privacy assured”, before a single underlined sentence made her pause: You are the sole arbiter of allowable conduct aboard Serpent’s Kiss. That was strange. "What kind of decisions on conduct could she possibly make here? That's just dumb to even write down," she thought.
Cassidy exited her room and climbed the spiral staircase to the bridge three steps at a time, sandals slapping against metal. The control panels looked like something out of Star Trek, screens mapping ocean currents, radar blips pulsing green. A woman barely taller than the wheel stood with her back to the door, humming over a steaming chai. She turned with a start, spilling some on her white uniform. “You’re early,” the woman said, dabbing at the stain with a towel she had quickly picked up. Her name tag read: Capt. R. Patel.
“Captain?” Cassidy blinked. “I thought this thing sailed itself.”
Patel’s laugh was quick, practiced, but her fingers twitched where they gripped the chai cup. “Oh, it does. God knows I wouldn’t trust myself to park this beast.” She gestured to the glowing console where a dotted line traced lazy loops on the digital chart. “Autopilot’s programmed to keep you 20 miles out, no storms, no tankers to collide with. Just you and the open bar.” Her smile reached her eyes. “I’m just the mechanic. Triple-check the nuts and bolts, make sure the AI doesn’t decide you’re plankton.”
Cassidy being her usual grateful self, thanked her genuinely for her services. "Oh Capt Patel, thank you so much for doing all of that. It's kind of you and I appreciate you." Patel chuckled, "You're welcome my dear. And it's also my job so..." Cassidy leaned against the radar screen, cool glass against her hip. “So the entire crew is…?”
“Gone within thirty minutes.” Patel interjected, as she tapped her watch. “Deckhands already left at dawn. Chef packed your meals in cryo, just microwave and pretend it’s fresh.” She hesitated, then she unclipped a keycard from her belt. “Master override. For your safety. This will give you access through any doors, locked or unlocked.” The plastic was warm from her body heat. Cassidy turned it over. There were no markings, just a single word embossed in tiny letters: CURATOR.
Something prickled at the back of Cassidy’s neck. “Why give me this card?”
Patel busied herself starting all the auto systems, then answered her. “Because when you're the only guest on the ship, you should have access to it, I'm assuming.” Cassidy opened her mouth to reply, but a chime from the console cut her off. Patel swore under her breath. “My ferry's here early.” She grabbed her duffel by the wheel, then paused at the door. “That envelope you got in your room? Read it all very thoroughly, as soon as you can. It's super helpful.”
Cassidy stared at the keycard. “Will do, thanks." When Cassidy looked up, Patel was already halfway down the stairs, her footsteps echoing like she couldn’t leave fast enough. The yacht’s engines groaned to life beneath Cassidy’s feet, a deep vibration that traveled up her spine. Through the panoramic windows, a ferry bobbed in the distance. She wandered one deck down, quickly discovering the dining room. Then Cassidy had a great, simple idea. She was going to take a hot shower, change into comfortable clothes, have some dinner, and lots of fine wine!
ONE MONTH EARLIER:
The envelope looked like those cheap wedding invitations people ordered in bulk, thick cardstock with a faux-gold trim peeling at the edges. Cassidy had almost tossed it straight into the recycling bin when she saw the unfamiliar return address: Maritime Leisure Awards, some PO box in Delaware. Inside, a single sheet of creamy paper announced in looping script that she’d been "selected for an exclusive luxury experience" aboard the Serpent’s Kiss. "No strings," it promised. "No crew. No other guests. Just you and the open sea for seven days." She’d snorted so hard her neighbor’s tabby cat startled off the porch railing.
She left it face-up on her coffee table for days as a joke. Her girlfriend Tracey picked it up during Thursday wine night, squinting at the embossed logo. "Babe, this is either a timeshare scam or a serial killer’s dating profile." Cassidy remembered laughing, swirling her pinot noir while Tracey dramatically held the letter between two fingers like it might be laced with anthrax. "Right? Like I’ll wake up chained to a radiator with my kidneys in a Yeti cooler." They’d both cackled, and Cassidy threw the letter onto a pile of unopened bills.
But then the second envelope came, this one stuffed with glossy photos of the yacht’s sun deck, the infinity pool, the master suite with its stupidly over-sized bed. A USB drive taped to the back contained a 360-degree virtual tour sound-tracked by ocean waves. That’s when Cassidy started googling. She found nothing, no reviews, no news articles, not even a Wikipedia page for Maritime Leisure Awards. The mystery should’ve been a red flag. Instead, it hooked her like a dare.
NOW:
The shower’s rainforest head had dumped wonderful scalding water down Cassidy’s shoulders, steam fogging the bathroom’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She’d found the master suite’s wardrobe stocked with absurdly soft robes and, weirdly, three identical sets of her exact bra size. A few minutes later, the food and wine were very enjoyable. The discovery that the "cryo meals" were actually seared scallops and truffle risotto that tasted like they’d been plated five minutes ago. She looked at her phone and it was now 5:15 pm. The boat was moving now. The sun would set in a couple hours, and she was really looking forward to it.
Wrapped in terrycloth, Cassidy finally grabbed two bottles of wine (slow down there girl) and ascended to Deck 3 at the front of the boat.
The ocean stretched endlessly before her, a shifting, shimmering expanse of liquid mercury under the lowering sun. The water wasn't blue anymore, not really. It had deepened into something richer, darker, like polished hematite kissed with gold where the light hit the crests of gentle swells. Cassidy leaned against the railing, letting the warmth of her third (probably fourth) glass of wine bloom through her chest as the yacht sliced through waves that dissolved into froth along the hull. The salt-tang of the warm air mixed with the mineral bite of the sauvignon blanc, and for the first time since stepping aboard, she felt her shoulders truly relax.
A school of flying fish burst from the water starboard side, their silver bodies glinting like shards of mirror for one breathtaking second before vanishing beneath the surface again. The sky blushed, streaks of peach and lilac bleeding into the fading blue, the sun now a burning coin balanced precariously on the horizon. Cassidy exhaled slowly, watching as the light transformed the yacht's water ahead into glowing crushed diamonds. She'd never understood why people called sunsets romantic until this moment, with the warm wood of the deck under her bare toes and the whole ocean sighing around her. She was still very surprised that she was offered such a free vacation. But as she stood here right now, it was obvious that is was really happening.
Her gaze drifted lazily across the deck, and caught on something she hadn’t noticed before: a large, laminated map mounted between two portholes. The kind you’d see in a shopping mall, screaming YOU ARE HERE in aggressive yellow. Except this one showed the Serpent’s Kiss in cross-section, each level sliced open like a dollhouse. Deck 1: A couple lounges and that stupidly large master suite. Deck 2: kitchens, gym, cinema (watch movies on big screen room). Deck 3: bridge, helm, whatever rich people called their “observation decks.”
And then, at the very bottom, “Deck Zero?” Cassidy murmured. No cheerful yellow arrow pointed to its location, just a gray rectangle with a single notation: Auxiliary & Storage. The deck plans showed stairs leading from Deck 1, down to the Deck 0 level, and those steps were only at the far front of the ship, or the far rear of it. Cassidy pressed a finger to the spots. Deck Zero was tucked down far beneath the ocean waterline, running the full length of the ship, 120 feet of unmarked space. She’d been on ferries where the car deck felt cavernous, but this? Deck 0 was the size of a small warehouse.
3 WEEKS EARLIER:
The email reply had chimed onto Cassidy’s phone while she was elbow-deep in dishwater, suds clinging to her forearms as she squinted at the screen. Maritime Leisure Awards, the subject line in stark black against white. She remembers wiping her hands on her jeans, leaving damp streaks, before tapping it open. The message was corporate-polished, but something about the phrasing made her pause mid-scroll: "We select potential guests based on observed kindness quotients, you exhibit the exact generosity of spirit we wish to cultivate aboard Serpent’s Kiss." Bullshit metrics, clearly, but the next line snagged her: "Consider this a beta test of the ship and its amenities. Our first voyages will cater to hedge fund managers and Saudi princes. We’d prefer they not be our guinea pigs."
Cassidy had snorted, shooting Tracey a look across their tiny galley kitchen. "So I’m the lab rat before they cater to the rich folks?" Tracey, ever the skeptic, palmed her wine glass. "Or you’re the sacrificial virgin they toss overboard to appease Poseidon." They’d laughed, but later, alone, Cassidy reread the email, how they’d italicized no obligations twice, how they’d attached a PDF of glowing testimonials from people whose names she couldn’t verify. The final line stuck like a burr: "We trust you’ll be completely honest in your review of our ship. For a 7 day incredible ocean getaway, all we ask in return is your very thorough, very detailed honest review." Cassidy had also thought about how this offer was free, and that she didn't make enough income as a waitress to go on any real vacations. So, there was that.
NOW:
The breeze carried the scent of salt and something faintly floral, maybe the yacht’s herb garden, as Cassidy stretched out on the sun-warmed teak, her fingers trailing over the edge of the lounger. The wine had softened the edges of everything: the gulls’ cries overhead, the rhythmic slap of water against the hull, even the distant hum of the engines. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds layer over each other like lazy jazz, waves as bass-line, wind as melody. Somewhere between the third and fourth slow breath, she slipped into a nap so deep she didn’t dream. Just darkness, warm and weightless as the ocean beneath her.
She woke to the sky now streaked with stars. A faint indentation from the lounger’s cushion marked her cheek, and her mouth tasted like wine and sleep. The breeze had picked up, tousling her curls as she sat up, blinking at the empty deck. No birds now. Just the quiet creak of the yacht, the occasional splash of a rogue wave. Cassidy stretched, her muscles loose and lazy, and gathered the empty wine bottle, rolling it between her palms before setting it aside. The second bottle, still unopened, was coming with her to her room.
Back in the master suite, the air smelled faintly of lemon polish and the sea. Cassidy kicked off her sandals, relishing the cool marble underfoot as she padded toward the bathroom. Her reflection in the fog-free mirror looked softer somehow, sleep-flushed cheeks, hair wild from the breeze.
She squeezed a dollop of organic cleanser onto her fingertips, inhaling the scent of bergamot and chamomile as she massaged it into her skin. Water hissed from the gold-plated faucet, too hot at first, then perfect as she rinsed away the day's salt and sunscreen. The serum came next, gliding on like liquid silk. She hesitated before applying the night cream, staring at her own slightly-too-shiny face in the mirror. "Dang," she muttered. "When did I turn into someone who uses night cream?" The Cassidy from two months ago, the one who lives paycheck to paycheck, would’ve laughed at this ritual.
The envelope lay where she’d left it on the writing desk, its gold embossing catching the soft glow of the bedside lamps. Cassidy opened the 2nd bottle of wine, and settled into the leather chair, genuine leather for sure. And with a guilty stroke of her thumb, she opened the large envelope. The first page was dense with legal jargon, paragraphs marching in tight formation down crisp linen paper. She skimmed through assurances of confidentiality, vague mentions of "behavioral observation," and a truly staggering liability waiver.
Her eyes caught on a subheading: Phase One: Environmental Acclimatization. The text beneath explained, in painfully dry language, that the first 24 hours were designed for relaxation and familiarization. "Participants often require time to internalize the absence of external oversight," it read, as if they were expecting her to start swinging from the chandeliers after 24 hours. Cassidy snorted, flipping to page two.
The next section made her fingers tremble and her heart race.
Phase Two: Stimulus Introduction was printed in bold, followed by four bullet points, each more unsettling than the previous. She read them twice, lips moving silently:
1. Two discreet auxiliary spaces become accessible at 0800 on Day 2.
2. All onboard amenities remain under participant discretion.
3. No behavioral parameters imposed by Maritime Leisure Awards. International waters. No laws. No consequences.
4. Participants are encouraged to explore their own personal boundaries.
Cassidy set the page down carefully, as if it might detonate. Now that was some really weird shit. Her pulse thudded in her throat as she reached for the wine bottle, no glass this time, and she took a swig. The taste was very nice, their wine was wonderful.
She didn't even finish reading page 2, but continued. Photographs slid out when she turned to page three. Two glossy prints, clearly modern but printed on thick matte paper like old Polaroids. The first showed a young Caucasian man, blonde, absurdly handsome, grinning at the camera with a genuine expression. He lounged shirtless on what looked like a yacht deck, sunlight gilding the lean muscles of his abdomen, his ankles crossed as his nicely shaped soft soles faced towards the camera's lens. Something about his expression, the slight tilt of his head, made Cassidy’s fingers tighten on the photo. Who the hell was this young man and why is his photo in this envelope?
The second photograph image was of a young woman, also college age. Caucasian, blonde hair cropped short, blue eyes wide and startled as if caught mid-laugh. Her bare feet were tucked under her on a white couch, she was in a modest black swim suit. Her body was curvy, naturally very sexy, and without a doubt feminine. Cassidy traced the edge of the photo, frowning. Both strangers were beautiful in that effortless way that felt almost aggressive, like their attractiveness was a challenge Cassidy and to others.
She flipped the photos over. The back of his said: Jonathan, 19 years old. Hers said: Amber, 20 years old.
The next page was filled with fragments, half-poetic, half-clinical observations about laughter. The convulsive gasp before the peal, is what one line read. Another: Stimuli applied perfectly to plantar surfaces. The phrases grew more intimate, the wetness of helpless tears, Cassidy's breath became shallow between her teeth. What the hell was this trip about? What is this boat wanting from her?
She nearly missed another handwritten note tucked between pages four and five, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste: Jonathan and Amber are chemically enhanced to experience arousal, pleasure, from ... tickling. What the hell kind of statement even is that? How would it ever apply to Cassidy? Or to real life in general! Because that statement was obviously of sexual nature, and involved touching, contact, Cassidy's hands and fingers immediately trembled as she held that slip of paper to the light, searching for some sign that this was some kind of satire. The watermark, a tiny serpent coiled around the letter M, glistened under the lamp.
Cassidy stood abruptly, sending wine sloshing dangerously close to spilling from the bottle. The yacht's soft ambient lighting suddenly felt like interrogation lamps. She paced to the panoramic window, pressing her palms against cool glass. The ocean stretched endlessly, no lights marking civilization, no silhouettes of other ships. Just the Serpent's Kiss, cutting through black water with surgical precision.
The master override key card came to mind. Did all the "clues" she'd read about so far add up to ... that these two young people were somewhere on this ship? Perhaps on Deck 0? No way. That couldn't be true. Nothing in the letters specifically said that they were on this ship. She reasoned that the wine was certainly playing around with her thoughts. But the realization hit her like the first icy drop of a storm: this whole situation wasn't a mistake. The Morality Group, whoever they really were, had chosen her specifically. The "kindness quotient" email, the anonymous PO box, even the ridiculous luxury, all designed to lower her guard until she found herself intoxicated and staring at photographs of ticklish strangers.
Cassidy picked up her cell phone. No signal.
"Of course," she muttered, tossing it onto the bed with a soft bounce. The yacht's gentle sway made her stomach flip, or maybe that was the wine. She pressed her fingertips against her temples, kneading circles into the skin. "You're imagining things," she whispered to her reflection in the blackened window. "Too much travel today. Too much..." Her gaze darted to the empty wine bottle.
The TV remote felt cool and reassuring in her palm, its buttons clicked with satisfying precision.
Cassidy cycled through the channels twice, five in total, each offering variations of the same corporate-approved serenity: a sunset loop filmed at half-speed, a silent reel of dolphins breaching, and three different angles of the same tropical cove. No news ticker, no sitcom laughter, just endless, curated tranquility bleeding into her retinas. The yacht's designers had clearly deemed actual entertainment redundant when one could theoretically be gazing at the real ocean instead of its digital facsimile.
The bookshelf beckoned like a dare, floor-to-ceiling mahogany on the suite's shortest wall, its contents arranged by color in some designer's idea of wit. Cassidy ran her fingers along the spines, feeling the rough kiss of cloth-bound editions interspersed with the sleek jackets of modern hardcovers. Most titles were predictably nautical: The Complete Yachtsman’s Guide, Knots for Aristocrats, even a suspiciously pristine copy of Moby Dick with gilded edges. Then, wedged between, a slim volume caught the light with its foil-stamped title: The Truth About Tickling.
The cover felt unnervingly warm under her fingertips. Cassidy removed it, brought it to the bed, tried to relax, and flipped it open to a random page, and immediately slapped the book face down on the bed, and gasped. The chapter heading she had opened it to was titled Neurological Pathways of Laughter above an anatomical illustration so detailed she could count the nerve clusters spider-webbing across a dissected foot. Paragraphs dissected "response thresholds" and "paroxysmal vocalizations" with clinical detachment that made her skin prickle. She slowly lowered her arm to retrieve the book, not knowing why she's even want to open it again. But she was completely alone, and it was a fascinating subject, wasn't it? One she had never given any real thought to. But she realized something strange in that moment. Whether she ever realized it or not, or pursued it or not, tickling and being tickled were plenty interesting to her. How had she not come to that conclusion yet in her life? Perhaps because she'd never been on a ship where books and letters directed her attention to tickling and ticklishness! That could have something to do with it.
Page 47 featured a sidebar titled Optimal Restraint Positions. The caption cheerfully noted Increased vulnerability enhances laughter duration by 42%. She thought to herself, "What kind of people or person takes the time to write such a book? And what kind of people want such knowledge?"
Her pulse jumped yet again when she turned to page 112, a full spread dissecting the "limbic hijack" phenomenon. The text described how sustained stimulation of plantar nerve clusters could short-circuit the prefrontal cortex within 300 seconds, flooding the brain with conflicting signals. Test subjects frequently report involuntary arousal concurrent with pleading for cessation, the author noted, as casually as discussing weather patterns that the average person's mind will start to unravel, and in some cases, strangely, crave more tickling, even though the current sensations are absolute real torture for them. A graph showed cortisol levels spiking alongside dopamine, the two lines intertwining like lovers in a downward spiral. Cassidy realized her own breathing had gone shallow; she pressed a hand to her sternum as if to quiet her heart beneath her ribs.
The book thudded shut. She stared at its cover, the embossed title now seemed to gleam knowingly under the suite's ambient lighting. This wasn't academic curiosity anymore. Someone had studied this. Quantified it. Designed protocols around breaking people down into giggles and whimpers and, her stomach flipped, supposedly they were enjoying it. She thought of Jonathan's grinning photo, the casual display of his vulnerable soles. Of Amber's startled blue eyes. The Morality Group hadn't just observed human nature; they'd curated it. Sculpted variables like a lab experiment. And now she lay in this extremely comfortable bed, on an amazing ship, holding their damn manual.
Cassidy tossed the book to the floor. Deck Zero. The realization slithered into her mind, slick and undeniable. That unmarked area beneath her wasn't for storage. Cassidy's fingers found the CURATOR key card still tucked in her robe pocket, its edges bit into her palm when she clenched her fist. The document said Phase Two began at 0800. Her phone's lock screen read 03:17. Less than six hours until Deck Zero became "accessible."
THREE WEEKS EARLIER:
Cassidy’s fingers had hovered over the keyboard, Tracey’s laughter still ringing in her ears. "Bring me as your +1," she’d joked, popping the last olive from their martini into her mouth. "I’ll be your witness when they harvest your kidneys." The email draft stared back, polite, cautious, Cassidy's written words asking if companions were permitted. The reply came within the hour: "Our data shows group dynamics dilute authentic decision-making. You’ll find more freedom in solitude." At the time, Cassidy had rolled her eyes at the corporate-speak. Now, with the book splayed open at her feet and Deck Zero humming beneath the hull, the words curdled in her memory. Dilute. Authentic. As if they’d known she’d try to bring a lifeline. But they wanted to know what things she would do when alone.
NOW:
The suite’s climate control whispered cold against Cassidy’s bare shoulders. She stared at the CURATOR card, its matte black surface drinking in the lamplight, and wondered how many others had held it before her. The Morality Group hadn’t just isolated her physically; they’d severed every tether to her ordinary morality. No witnesses. No rules. Just the unknown theater of Deck Zero waiting below. Really, what person on earth wouldn't at least go investigate, if only out of pure curiosity?
She stood up and grabbed the photos of Jonathan and Amber and reclined back on to the bed. The photos seemed to breathe life from their flat 2D paper surfaces, their youth, their softness suddenly grotesque under the context of that damn book. Unknowingly, she looked at the photographs for way too long. Every detail clicked into place: the stocked wardrobe (easy access), the lack of crew (no interference), even the wine (lowered inhibitions). They’d engineered this moment down to the minute, and she would have none of it. She will show them she's no lab rat.
Cassidy rolled out of bed, the CURATOR card burning in her thoughts as she pulled on yesterday’s blue jeans and yesterday's yellow t-shirt, too wrinkled to impress anyone, but too clean to justify changing. Deck Zero could wait. Coffee and toast could not. Cassidy stabbed the espresso machine’s buttons, then watching black liquid hemorrhage into a porcelain cup. She slurped it, nice and warm on her tongue. It provided a momentary feeling of calmness. There was still time to pretend this wasn't happening, to lounge by the pool, to nap and vacation without ever giving Deck Zero another thought. That would show them! Show them they've wasted their time and money on her. But then she spotted the same small words written on the napkins by the coffee machine. Remember, no one is watching.
She was still staring at the words when the yacht's voice purred from hidden speakers, velvet and synthetic, like a therapist programmed by a luxury car company. "Congratulations, Cassidy! Phase One completion confirmed at..." A chime sounded. "Your acclimation period concludes in three hours, twelve minutes. We’ve taken liberties to enhance your comfort, all Deck Zero chambers feature industrial-grade soundproof floors, walls and ceilings. Conversations, laughter, or..." The pause felt deliberate. "Vocalizations will not carry beyond each individual chamber."
Cassidy’s espresso cup clattered against the saucer. Industrial. Bulkhead. Words for submarines and prisons, not pleasure cruises. She wanted to scream at the ceiling, What conversations? What damn laughter?, but the AI continued obliviously: "Deck Zero’s climate control maintains optimal conditions for prolonged activity. Humidity calibrated to prevent dehydration. Ambient temperature set at 72°F to minimize fatigue." Cassidy face snarled with contempt at this boat, and its owners.
She cleared her throat, testing. "Can you hear me?" Her voice sounded alien in the empty galley, too loud, too sharp. The silence stretched. Just the hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the yacht adjusting its course. Then, a soft click. "Affirmative." The AI’s tone shifted, less corporate, more conspiratorial. "I’ve been instructed to clarify ambiguities, should you require... reassurance." Cassidy’s pulse hammered. Reassurance about what? About whether Jonathan and Amber were real? Whether they’d scream when...
She gripped the counter’s edge. "Are they, " The words curdled in her mouth. "Are the people in the photos actually on this ship?" Another pause. Then, almost tenderly: "Access to Deck Zero requires your key card. The CURATOR designation permits full... exploration." Cassidy exhaled through her nose. A non-answer. Classic.
She dragged a shaking hand through her curls. "Will you always be able to hear me?" The words tasted metallic, like licking a battery. "And give me information?"
The AI emitted a sound suspiciously close to a chuckle. "Audio monitoring is continuous in all zones, except the master suite." A beat. "But data retrieval requires specific queries from the Curator."
She set the cup down with deliberate care, watching sunlight fracture through its dregs. Three possibilities crystallized: One, storm back to the master suite, lock herself in until this psychotic boat docked somewhere. Two, find Deck Zero immediately, get answers from whoever might be down there. Or three... She glanced at the photographs still lying on the counter. Amber's startled eyes. Jonathan's grinning soles. Three was unthinkable. But she at least had to see if they were down there, and if she could help them if needed.
At 11am sharp, Cassidy stood before an unmarked steel door near the aft swimming pool, its handle-less surface interrupted only by a discreet card reader. The CURATOR key slid in with a whisper-soft click, hydraulic seals exhaling as the door swung inward to reveal a stairwell bathed in crimson emergency lighting. Each step downward thrummed with the yacht’s hidden machinery, vibrations traveling up through the soles of her clogs as she descended.
Deck Zero announced itself with a gust of antiseptic-cool air, another featureless door, another silent card swipe. This one groaned open to reveal a corridor so narrow that her elbows could have brushed both walls if she pretended to be a chicken, its matte black surfaces absorbing the sparse overhead LEDs like a velvet-lined gun barrel. Doors punctuated the passage at precise ten-foot intervals, each marked with nothing but alphanumeric codes glowing faintly amber: Z-07. Z-09. Z-03. The air tasted of filtered oxygen and something underneath, warm skin? Disinfectant? Her own pulse roared in her ears as she crept forward, counting 4 doors on each side before the hall terminated at a locked door, and that was apparently where the stairs leading up on the front side of the ship were.
What the hell was she doing here? Cassidy had spent last Christmas Eve delivering homemade tamales to the overnight ER staff because "they deserve something warm too." She'd once given her last twenty dollars, the exact amount needed for rent, to a sobbing college student who'd dropped her tuition money in a storm drain. Kindness wasn't just a habit; it was her marrow. And right now, that same marrow was screaming at her to turn around; to pretend she never saw these doors. She was angry at herself for remembering the phrased no rules and test your boundaries and no one will ever know.
The keypad's blinking LED taunted her, green, then red, then green again, like a corrupted traffic light. Z-07. Random chance had positioned her nearest to it when she'd noticed the pattern: only two active keypads in the entire corridor, this one and Z-02 at the opposite end of the hallway.
Cassidy pressed her palm flat against the unyielding metal of the door, feeling the vibration of unseen machinery thrumming beneath. The CURATOR card trembled between her fingers. A bead of sweat traced the hollow of her throat as she angled the card, hesitating at the last millimeter, then swiped. The lock disengaged with a sound like a dentist's drill powering down. The door eased open no more than three inches before stopping.
She inhaled sharply, Cassidy curled her fingers around the door frame, pressing her cheek to the cool metal as she leaned forward. One eye closed instinctively, as if half-blindness might make whatever lay beyond less real. The sliver of revealed space showed black walls, some recessed ceiling fluorescent lighting in dimly lit rectangles.
And the cage in front of her. A floor to ceiling enclosure of narrow stainless-steel bars wrapped in smooth black rubber, partitioning the first five feet of the room into a safety cage of sorts, one like you'd have for protection against great white sharks. Cassidy's grip tightened on the door frame, her knuckles blanching white, as she processed its purpose. It was probably not to keep her out, but to prevent someone from leaving the room once the door was unlocked and opened, like right now. Beyond the barrier, the room unfurled into shadowed luxury: charcoal carpet so plush it swallowed sound, walls upholstered in black soundproof panels, and there, perched on a low white leather sofa against the far wall, was Jonathan.
He sat utterly still, barefoot and naked, watching her with an expression caught between curiosity and embarrassed resignation. His blonde hair caught the recessed lighting in dull gold streaks, no hair product, no pretension. Just a boy waiting to see what the next visitor would say or do. The cage suddenly made gruesome sense: they'd given her an interview area. A predator's viewing box.
...to be continued in PART 2
Watch the VIDEOS for this story by CLICKING HERE
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LisaLisaJam
TMF Master
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Thank you. I guess we'll see how Cassidy handles this situation. @Smellking
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milagros317
Wielder of 500 Feathers
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I would ignore Moby Dick and read the other two with interest.
Fine description of the love/hate relationship with tickle torture that I (among many other people) have.
A great set-up. Greatly looking forward to part two.
Also, I hope that Jonathan is just as ticklish as Silas was in your Glenhaven Happiness Manor series.
Clearly, I hope that Cassidy tickles him totally without mercy.
LisaLisaJam
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Thanks. I'm super stoked about the setup for this story. Unique, I hope! @milagros317
LisaLisaJam
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Thanks! I'm being quite careful as I write the rest of this. I want it to stand the test of time and be awesome, different, super enjoyable.
@TickleMFG
TickleMFG
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Take your time! Your stories are excellent.
milagros317
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Having read part two, I am sure it will be all of those things.
LisaLisaJam
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Having read part two, I am sure it will be all of those things.
Appreciate the encouragement. I'm not sure yet the kind of person I want Amber to be. I'm trying to decide between timid and cooperative, or sassy and confident. I'm leaning towards the latter. @milagros317
milagros317
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I like the way you're leaning better than the alternative. 😀
LisaLisaJam
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LisaLisaJam
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LisaLisaJam
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I have a question. Do you want Cassidy to eventually feel sorry for what she's doing to Jonathan and Amber ... and stop the tickling? Set them free?
milagros317
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I don't want her to stop tickling Jonathan. I want her to go on indefinitely.
I'm not sure about Amber. Maybe she should stop tickling Amber and cuddle with her.
LisaLisaJam
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That's so interesting. I could be wrong but your comment seems to reveal that you're 100% in love with only F/M tickling and/or domination ... and you could easily 'take it or leave it' when it comes to F/F. Interesting how there's all different kinds of us out there and our focus is sometimes on very specific things. @milagros317
milagros317
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I am indeed in love with F/m tickling and domination. (Hence the capital F and the lowercase m.) I like it when, in fictional stories, F/m tickling goes on to the point of extreme tickle torture. That is the way some of my own stories are written. One example is "Ted's Big Break". https://www.ticklingforum.com/threads/teds-big-break-f-m.28994/
My favorite kind of F/F tickling story would always stop short of torture; at most it would involve a slight pushing of limits. I do like reading lesbian love scenes, so it is natural to want the tickling to end with cuddles and then more serious sexual activity. To each of us his or her own preferences.
My favorite kind of F/F tickling story would always stop short of torture; at most it would involve a slight pushing of limits. I do like reading lesbian love scenes, so it is natural to want the tickling to end with cuddles and then more serious sexual activity. To each of us his or her own preferences.
LisaLisaJam
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I appreciate all input, thoughts, likes and dislikes. It expands my mind. Thank you.
LisaLisaJam
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I'm working on some awesome VIDEOS for the "trailer" of this story! Soon!
milagros317
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That would be wonderful. 😀
