KOBE
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Mar 9, 2003
- Messages
- 108
- Points
- 18
The log cabin sparkled like a hidden treasure in the sun-drenched woods, a cozy retreat hugged by swaying pines. The young mother rolled up with her infant, her heart practically singing as she hopped out of the car, the crisp air tickling her nose with pine and possibility. She’d been buzzing with excitement for this getaway—a golden ticket to ditch the daily grind and soak up some pure, unfiltered joy with her baby. The cabin was a dream, its honey-colored logs practically winking in the sunlight, the porch begging for lazy afternoons with a mug of tea. She unloaded her groceries with a bounce in her step, giggling as the baby babbled in the carrier, the forest chiming in with a chorus of chirpy birds and rustling leaves. “This is it, little one!” she chirped, twirling a can of soup like a dance partner. “Our happy little adventure starts now!”
But as the sun dipped into a fiery sunset, three strangers lingered in the store parking lot, their eyes glinting under hoods as she’d driven off. They trailed her through the twisting forest roads, their whispers a dark undercurrent to the evening’s glow—whispers of her, and the masks they wore. These weren’t just covers; they were relics of a twisted legacy, pulled from a rotting settlement nearby. The skull mask, hewn from bone-bleached wood, had been wrested from a hermit’s skeletal clutch, its hollow eyes rumored to weep sap under a new moon. The porcelain doll mask, cracked and stitched, was plucked from a child’s grave, its grin tied to a village yarn of a girl who laughed herself into silence. The jester mask, warped and garish, came from a charred troupe wagon, its leer said to shift in the dark. The Three had found them months ago, and wearing them had sparked something—a gnawing hunger, a call to chase.
Night cloaked the cabin in quiet, the fire’s cheery crackle painting the walls gold as the baby’s soft snores floated down. She’d slipped into her pajamas—a beloved set, a loose emerald-green top sprinkled with tiny white daisies, the cotton butter-soft from years of love, sleeves draping past her wrists in a cozy hug. The matching drawstring pants hung loose, the frayed hems brushing her ankles, the green a soothing balm after her sunny day. She sighed happily, sinking into the couch—until the door blasted inward, splinters flying like a storm. The three charged in, their masks grotesque in the firelight: the skull’s hollow stare, the doll’s stitched smirk, the jester’s twisted glee. They grabbed her before her joy could turn to a scream, dragging her to the next room—lifting and binding her with rough rope, stretching her face-down across the dining room table—arms yanked forward, legs pulled back until her joints ached. The table’s jagged wood clawed through her pajamas, snagging the daisies, a brutal echo of her earlier bliss.
“What do you want?!” she gasped, voice quivering. The skull leaned close, its whisper a raspy hiss: “Shhh… you’ll feel it.” The sound slithered into her, icy and sharp. Her heart jolted as the jester peeled away, boots thumping up to the baby’s room. Panic surged, wild and raw. “No—please, not my baby! NO!”
The doll crouched, her whisper a soft, sinister croon: “Look, sunshine.” She thrust a phone forward, its screen flaring—the nursery, the jester looming over the crib above the sleeping infant. Her breath caught, tears streaming as she begged, “PLEASE—leave her alone! I’ll do anything!”
The table creaked as the skull climbed atop her, straddling her ass, her whisper a venomous thread: “Let’s play.” Cold fingers slid under the green top, brushing the skin beneath, then struck. Nails raked her ribs, savage and unrelenting, while others skittered to her armpits, stretched wide beneath the sleeves. The tickling erupted, a searing, alien torment she’d never known. She’d giggled at light touches before, but nothing like this—nothing so invasive, so consuming. Her ticklishness roared awake, her body bucking as a shrill, uncontrollable laugh tore from her throat. Her ribs blazed, nails clawing through the cotton, digging into every tender crease. Her armpits were a furnace—fingers burrowing past the fabric, scraping the hypersensitive skin until her screams twisted into frenzied giggles.
She thrashed, ropes digging into her wrists. Her eyes stayed glued to the phone, to the jester’s still form, as her body shuddered. Sweat soaked her pajamas, the cotton clinging, the pants shifting with each twist. The tickling was a beast—her sides a twitching inferno, her armpits a shrieking void—her inexperience amplifying it into a nightmare. “STOP—GOD, PLEASE—STOP!” she wailed, but the skull’s whisper hissed: “Such a bright song.”
The doll leaned in, her whisper a mocking lilt: “Laughing while your little star’s up there? How can you be this ticklish now, hmm? Silly girl.”
“Yeah,” the skull rasped, nails gouging her ribs. “Giggling like a fool—your baby’s fate, and you’re a mess.” The taunts flayed her, her laughter a tortured wail, her mind buckling under the video’s threat and this unbearable, unfamiliar assault.
The jester’s boots thudded back down, each step a blow. The skull slid off, the phone clattering aside. His whisper rasped: “Kid’s fine. Sleeping like sunshine.” Relief flared, a fragile spark—snuffed as they flipped her onto her back. Ropes bit deeper, arms hoisted high, legs splayed, her body a trembling X. The green pajamas clung, daisies darkened with sweat.
“What…?” she croaked, dread rising. The doll’s whisper curled: “We saw you—alone, radiant. These masks… they crave you.”
They yanked the emerald top up, baring her torso, daisies bunching over her head. Her breasts spilled free, full and pale, firelight tracing their curves—nipples tightening, skin prickling. She gasped, shame scorching her as they tugged the drawstring pants down, the frayed hem snagging before sliding off, leaving her bare. Her intimate place lay exposed—soft, vulnerable, framed by faint red curls, glistening with sweat. Relief drowned in fresh terror. “No—don’t—!”
Her cry shattered as thirty fingers descended. Two claimed her upper body—nails raking her ribs until they glowed red, skittering over her breasts, circling her nipples with cruel lightness before plunging to her underarms. The jester dropped low, his mouth clamping onto her core—hot, wet, savage—tongue lashing with ferocious precision, a relentless, pulsing rhythm that drowned her senses in a flood of overwhelming heat and pressure. His fingers tickled her thighs, clawing the quivering flesh, amplifying the chaos. Her body arched, a scream of pure overload ripping free. The tickling on her naked skin was a cataclysm—every nerve flayed, every touch a molten spike, her inexperience making her ticklishness a raw, screaming torrent. Between her legs, the jester’s assault was a tidal wave—his tongue a relentless invader, his breath a searing gust, his mask’s leer pressing into her mind as her body convulsed, teetering beyond her limits, her core clenching in a storm of unwanted sensation she couldn’t escape.
Her breasts jolted with each spasm, fingers kneading the soft flesh, scraping the peaks until her laughter warped into a piercing wail. Her thighs quaked, the tickling a blazing counterpoint to the jester’s suffocating, inescapable torment—her nerves fraying, her mind drowning in the clash of ticklish agony and the overpowering invasion below. The doll slid down, seizing her feet—soft, flawless, red polish flashing like blood. Nails dragged across her soles, then erupted into frenzied scratching beneath her toes. Her arches seized, toes curling, the ticklish agony surging up her legs to merge with the chaos.
“STOP—PLEASE—STOP!” she shrieked, voice splitting. “I CAN’T—I CAN’T TAKE IT—PLEASE!”
The jester’s whisper rasped against her skin, hot and mocking: “Bare and screaming, ticklish beyond breaking—perfect for the masks.”
“Yeah,” the doll hissed, raking her soles. “These sweet feet—twitching like mad. Thought you’d shine here, didn’t you?”
Her body bucked, a live wire of torment, the masks’ ancient hunger feeding their frenzy. The fire dimmed, shadows stretching as their fingers and the jester’s relentless mouth pressed on, her screams fading to broken gasps.
Our story pulls back, leaving her—naked, bound, lost beneath those cursed masks—her fate, and her child’s, a dark, unreadable abyss.
But as the sun dipped into a fiery sunset, three strangers lingered in the store parking lot, their eyes glinting under hoods as she’d driven off. They trailed her through the twisting forest roads, their whispers a dark undercurrent to the evening’s glow—whispers of her, and the masks they wore. These weren’t just covers; they were relics of a twisted legacy, pulled from a rotting settlement nearby. The skull mask, hewn from bone-bleached wood, had been wrested from a hermit’s skeletal clutch, its hollow eyes rumored to weep sap under a new moon. The porcelain doll mask, cracked and stitched, was plucked from a child’s grave, its grin tied to a village yarn of a girl who laughed herself into silence. The jester mask, warped and garish, came from a charred troupe wagon, its leer said to shift in the dark. The Three had found them months ago, and wearing them had sparked something—a gnawing hunger, a call to chase.
Night cloaked the cabin in quiet, the fire’s cheery crackle painting the walls gold as the baby’s soft snores floated down. She’d slipped into her pajamas—a beloved set, a loose emerald-green top sprinkled with tiny white daisies, the cotton butter-soft from years of love, sleeves draping past her wrists in a cozy hug. The matching drawstring pants hung loose, the frayed hems brushing her ankles, the green a soothing balm after her sunny day. She sighed happily, sinking into the couch—until the door blasted inward, splinters flying like a storm. The three charged in, their masks grotesque in the firelight: the skull’s hollow stare, the doll’s stitched smirk, the jester’s twisted glee. They grabbed her before her joy could turn to a scream, dragging her to the next room—lifting and binding her with rough rope, stretching her face-down across the dining room table—arms yanked forward, legs pulled back until her joints ached. The table’s jagged wood clawed through her pajamas, snagging the daisies, a brutal echo of her earlier bliss.
“What do you want?!” she gasped, voice quivering. The skull leaned close, its whisper a raspy hiss: “Shhh… you’ll feel it.” The sound slithered into her, icy and sharp. Her heart jolted as the jester peeled away, boots thumping up to the baby’s room. Panic surged, wild and raw. “No—please, not my baby! NO!”
The doll crouched, her whisper a soft, sinister croon: “Look, sunshine.” She thrust a phone forward, its screen flaring—the nursery, the jester looming over the crib above the sleeping infant. Her breath caught, tears streaming as she begged, “PLEASE—leave her alone! I’ll do anything!”
The table creaked as the skull climbed atop her, straddling her ass, her whisper a venomous thread: “Let’s play.” Cold fingers slid under the green top, brushing the skin beneath, then struck. Nails raked her ribs, savage and unrelenting, while others skittered to her armpits, stretched wide beneath the sleeves. The tickling erupted, a searing, alien torment she’d never known. She’d giggled at light touches before, but nothing like this—nothing so invasive, so consuming. Her ticklishness roared awake, her body bucking as a shrill, uncontrollable laugh tore from her throat. Her ribs blazed, nails clawing through the cotton, digging into every tender crease. Her armpits were a furnace—fingers burrowing past the fabric, scraping the hypersensitive skin until her screams twisted into frenzied giggles.
She thrashed, ropes digging into her wrists. Her eyes stayed glued to the phone, to the jester’s still form, as her body shuddered. Sweat soaked her pajamas, the cotton clinging, the pants shifting with each twist. The tickling was a beast—her sides a twitching inferno, her armpits a shrieking void—her inexperience amplifying it into a nightmare. “STOP—GOD, PLEASE—STOP!” she wailed, but the skull’s whisper hissed: “Such a bright song.”
The doll leaned in, her whisper a mocking lilt: “Laughing while your little star’s up there? How can you be this ticklish now, hmm? Silly girl.”
“Yeah,” the skull rasped, nails gouging her ribs. “Giggling like a fool—your baby’s fate, and you’re a mess.” The taunts flayed her, her laughter a tortured wail, her mind buckling under the video’s threat and this unbearable, unfamiliar assault.
The jester’s boots thudded back down, each step a blow. The skull slid off, the phone clattering aside. His whisper rasped: “Kid’s fine. Sleeping like sunshine.” Relief flared, a fragile spark—snuffed as they flipped her onto her back. Ropes bit deeper, arms hoisted high, legs splayed, her body a trembling X. The green pajamas clung, daisies darkened with sweat.
“What…?” she croaked, dread rising. The doll’s whisper curled: “We saw you—alone, radiant. These masks… they crave you.”
They yanked the emerald top up, baring her torso, daisies bunching over her head. Her breasts spilled free, full and pale, firelight tracing their curves—nipples tightening, skin prickling. She gasped, shame scorching her as they tugged the drawstring pants down, the frayed hem snagging before sliding off, leaving her bare. Her intimate place lay exposed—soft, vulnerable, framed by faint red curls, glistening with sweat. Relief drowned in fresh terror. “No—don’t—!”
Her cry shattered as thirty fingers descended. Two claimed her upper body—nails raking her ribs until they glowed red, skittering over her breasts, circling her nipples with cruel lightness before plunging to her underarms. The jester dropped low, his mouth clamping onto her core—hot, wet, savage—tongue lashing with ferocious precision, a relentless, pulsing rhythm that drowned her senses in a flood of overwhelming heat and pressure. His fingers tickled her thighs, clawing the quivering flesh, amplifying the chaos. Her body arched, a scream of pure overload ripping free. The tickling on her naked skin was a cataclysm—every nerve flayed, every touch a molten spike, her inexperience making her ticklishness a raw, screaming torrent. Between her legs, the jester’s assault was a tidal wave—his tongue a relentless invader, his breath a searing gust, his mask’s leer pressing into her mind as her body convulsed, teetering beyond her limits, her core clenching in a storm of unwanted sensation she couldn’t escape.
Her breasts jolted with each spasm, fingers kneading the soft flesh, scraping the peaks until her laughter warped into a piercing wail. Her thighs quaked, the tickling a blazing counterpoint to the jester’s suffocating, inescapable torment—her nerves fraying, her mind drowning in the clash of ticklish agony and the overpowering invasion below. The doll slid down, seizing her feet—soft, flawless, red polish flashing like blood. Nails dragged across her soles, then erupted into frenzied scratching beneath her toes. Her arches seized, toes curling, the ticklish agony surging up her legs to merge with the chaos.
“STOP—PLEASE—STOP!” she shrieked, voice splitting. “I CAN’T—I CAN’T TAKE IT—PLEASE!”
The jester’s whisper rasped against her skin, hot and mocking: “Bare and screaming, ticklish beyond breaking—perfect for the masks.”
“Yeah,” the doll hissed, raking her soles. “These sweet feet—twitching like mad. Thought you’d shine here, didn’t you?”
Her body bucked, a live wire of torment, the masks’ ancient hunger feeding their frenzy. The fire dimmed, shadows stretching as their fingers and the jester’s relentless mouth pressed on, her screams fading to broken gasps.
Our story pulls back, leaving her—naked, bound, lost beneath those cursed masks—her fate, and her child’s, a dark, unreadable abyss.
Attachments
Last edited:
