GiggleTales
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Dr. Elena Voss adjusted her glasses as she reviewed the monitors. The underground facility beneath an unassuming industrial park in rural Serbia was quiet except for the low hum of machinery. Tonight’s subject had finally arrived.
Subject 24 – real name: Ana Petrović, 24 years old, 5'6", athletic build from years of amateur gymnastics, extremely ticklish feet, ribs, underarms, belly, and inner thighs according to the preliminary scans her team had run while she was unconscious. Perfect.
Ana woke up slowly, her head throbbing. The last thing she remembered was walking home from her late shift at the café in Obrenovac. A van, a cloth over her face, then nothing.
She tried to move and immediately realized she couldn’t.
Her arms were stretched straight up and locked into padded steel cuffs attached to a vertical metal frame. Her legs were spread wide apart, ankles secured in similar cuffs bolted to the floor. She was completely naked except for a thin black blindfold over her eyes and a small heart-rate monitor clipped to her ear. The room was warm, almost uncomfortably so, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sweeter — baby oil?
“What the fuck… where am I?!” she shouted, voice cracking. “Let me go! This is kidnapping!”
A calm, professional female voice answered from the darkness. “Good evening, Subject 24. Welcome to the Voss Institute for Sensory Endurance Research. You have been selected for our most advanced tickle-torture protocol. The experiment will last as long as your body can endure. There is no safe word. There is no escape. Your only purpose now is to laugh, beg, and cum for our data.”
Ana’s heart slammed against her ribs. “You’re insane! Let me out right now or I’ll—”
A single finger — warm, soft, and deliberate — traced slowly down the center of her bare sole.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEK! HAHAHAHAHAHA! No! Don’t! Stoooop!”
The finger didn’t stop. It drew lazy circles around her arch, then scratched lightly under her toes. Ana’s foot jerked wildly in the cuff, but there was zero give.
“HAHAAHAHAHAHA! Please! I’m ticklish! I can’t— HAHAHAHAHAHA! Not my feet!”
Dr. Voss’s voice remained clinical. “Noted. Extreme sensitivity on plantar surface confirmed. Team, begin Phase One: Full-body mapping.”
The lights in the room brightened just enough for Ana to see silhouettes moving around her. Four assistants — two men, two women, all wearing white lab coats and black gloves — stepped into position. They carried trays of tools: long ostrich feathers, soft makeup brushes, electric toothbrushes, bottles of warm oil, and small vibrating pads.
Ana’s blindfold was removed. She blinked, eyes wide with terror as she took in the scene.
“Oh god… no… please don’t do this…”
Dr. Voss stood directly in front of her, holding a tablet. She was strikingly beautiful — early 40s, sharp cheekbones, dark hair in a tight bun. “We’re going to test every inch of you, Ana. We already know your worst spots from the scans, but we need live reactions. Start with the feet.”
Two assistants dropped to their knees. One took her left foot, the other her right.
They started slowly. Ten fingers at once, skittering lightly over both soles. Ana exploded instantly.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOO! NOT THE FEET! HAHAHAAHAHA! PLEASE I’LL DO ANYTHING! STOOOOP!”
Her laughter was loud, frantic, and completely uncontrollable. The fingers danced between her toes, under the balls of her feet, along the arches, and back again in perfect synchronization. Every time she thought she might catch a breath, they switched techniques — one set scratching with fingernails, the other using feather-light strokes that somehow felt worse.
“AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN’T BREATHE! MERCY! HAHAHAHAHA! I BEG YOU!”
One assistant poured warm oil over both feet, making them glisten. The slickness amplified everything. Now the fingers slid effortlessly, finding every wrinkle and crease.
Ana’s body thrashed in the restraints. Her hips bucked, her abs clenched, tears already forming in her eyes.
“PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU! HAHAHAHAHAHA! MY FEET ARE TOO TICKLISH! STOP TICKLING MY FEET!”
Dr. Voss made notes. “Subject shows classic hysterical response. Laughter volume at maximum. Begin dual-tool escalation.”
The assistants picked up electric toothbrushes. The low buzzing filled the room as the spinning bristles touched her oiled soles at the same time.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! NO! NO! THAT’S WORSE! HAHAHAHAHA! I’LL DIE! PLEASE TURN THEM OFF!”
The brushes whirred relentlessly — one on her left arch, the other attacking the base of her toes on the right. Ana screamed with laughter, her voice cracking into high-pitched squeals. Her toes curled and spread involuntarily, offering no protection.
After ten straight minutes of foot torture, Ana was already a mess — face flushed, chest heaving, saliva dripping from her chin.
Dr. Voss stepped closer. “Excellent data so far. Now upper body.”
The two remaining assistants moved in. One targeted her ribs and sides, the other her underarms and belly.
Fingers dug into her ribcage with spider-like precision, while another set scribbled wildly in her smooth, sensitive armpits.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA! NOT THERE! NOT MY RIBS! AAAAHAHAHAHA! MY ARMPITS ARE KILLING ME! HAHAHAHAHAHA! STOP TICKLING ME THERE!”
They oiled her torso as well. The slick fingers glided faster, finding the exact spots that made her jerk and spasm. One assistant used a long feather to tease the sides of her breasts and the hollows under her arms simultaneously.
Ana’s laughter turned desperate and broken.
“PLEASE! I’LL BE YOUR SLAVE! I’LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT! JUST STOP TICKLING ME! HAHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN’T TAKE IT!”
Dr. Voss smiled for the first time. “You will be our slave, Ana. That’s the point. But the tickling doesn’t stop until we say so.”
They worked her body for another twenty minutes — ribs, belly button (they poured oil directly into it and used a thin brush to swirl inside), hip bones, and the ultra-sensitive crease where thigh met torso.
Ana came for the first time without any direct genital stimulation — just from the overwhelming tickling and the constant helpless laughter. Her orgasm hit hard, body convulsing as she screamed with laughter and pleasure at the same time.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA! I’M CUMMING! OH GOD I’M CUMMING FROM BEING TICKLED! HAHAHAHAHA! PLEASE NO MORE!”
The team didn’t pause. They simply noted the timestamp and continued.
Phase Two began with the machine.
The vertical frame tilted backward until Ana was almost horizontal, still spread-eagle. A large, automated tickling apparatus lowered from the ceiling — dozens of articulated arms tipped with different tools: feathers, silicone brushes, vibrating nubs, and small rotating pads.
Dr. Voss explained calmly while the machine positioned itself. “This device can tickle you for hours without fatigue. We’ve programmed it based on your real-time reactions. It learns what breaks you fastest.”
The first arms descended.
Soft feathers began swirling over her inner thighs and the soles of her feet at the same time. Two vibrating pads locked onto her nipples. A pair of spinning brushes targeted her underarms. Another set attacked her belly and sides.
Ana lost her mind.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOOOOOO! IT’S EVERYWHERE! HAHAHAHAHA! TURN IT OFF! I BEG YOU! MERCY! MERCY! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
The machine was merciless and precise. It varied speed and intensity, never letting her adapt. When her laughter started to die down from exhaustion, it would switch to a new combination that sent her right back into hysterics.
For the next hour, Ana was tickled non-stop by the machine while the human team watched and took detailed notes. She came three more times — once from the feathers on her inner thighs brushing dangerously close to her pussy, once when the machine focused exclusively on her feet for twenty straight minutes, and once when they added ice cubes to her oiled belly while the brushes kept going.
Between orgasms she could only beg incoherently.
“Please… ha… ha… I can’t… anymore… my body… too ticklish… I’ll do anything… just five minutes… please…”
Dr. Voss leaned over her sweat-soaked face. “You’re doing beautifully, Subject 24. Your endurance is above average. We’re only at hour three.”
“Three hours?! HAHAHAHAHA! No! I’ll go crazy! Please stop the machine!”
Instead, Dr. Voss nodded to the team. “Manual intervention on the most sensitive zones.”
Two assistants sat on either side of her spread legs. They poured more warm oil directly onto her exposed pussy and inner thighs. Then, with gloved hands, they began the most diabolical tickling yet — feather-light strokes along her labia, circling her clit without ever fully touching it, while other fingers skittered over her asshole and the ultra-sensitive skin just behind her knees.
At the same time, the machine continued its assault on her upper body and feet.
Ana’s laughter became a continuous, broken wail.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOT MY PUSSY! PLEASE NOT THERE! I’M TOO TICKLISH! AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA! I’LL SQUIRT! DON’T MAKE ME SQUIRT AGAIN! HAHAHAHAHA!”
She did. Hard. The orgasm ripped through her so violently that she actually lifted her hips off the frame for a second, screaming with laughter as clear fluid sprayed from her.
The team applauded lightly.
Dr. Voss spoke into her recorder: “Subject 24 achieved squirting orgasm purely from tickle stimulation of genitals and surrounding areas. Recommend extending genital tickling protocol to four hours daily.”
Ana was sobbing and laughing at the same time, voice hoarse.
“I can’t… I can’t take any more… my feet… my ribs… my pussy… everything is too sensitive… please let me go… I’ll never tell anyone… just stop tickling me…”
Dr. Voss stroked her hair almost tenderly. “Sweet girl. You still don’t understand. This is your life now. Every day we will strap you down and tickle you until you break. Then we’ll let you rest just enough to recover sensitivity, and we’ll start again. By the end of the month you’ll be begging us to tickle you even when we stop.”
She signaled the machine again.
This time it focused on a single devastating combination: rapid vibrating brushes on both soles, feathers swirling deep in her armpits, and two soft spinning pads directly on her swollen, hypersensitive clit and labia.
Ana’s eyes rolled back. Her laughter became silent for several seconds — just her mouth open in a silent scream of hysterical ecstasy — before exploding back at full volume.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I’M BREAKING! YOU’RE BREAKING ME! HAHAHAHAHA! I’M YOUR TICKLE TOY! PLEASE! I’LL BE GOOD! JUST LET ME CUM AGAIN! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
She came twice more in quick succession, body shaking violently in the restraints, tears streaming down her face.
Hours blurred together.
By the time the session reached the six-hour mark, Ana was a wreck — covered in oil and her own juices, voice almost gone, every muscle twitching from endless laughter and forced orgasms. The machine was still going, slower now but no less effective, keeping her in a constant state of ticklish agony and pleasure.
Dr. Voss finally stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Ana’s heaving stomach.
“Phase One complete. You lasted longer than 87% of our previous subjects. Congratulations, Ana.”
Ana could barely speak. “Please… no more today… I’m destroyed…”
Dr. Voss smiled. “Today? Oh no, darling. We’re just getting started. The machine will continue on low intensity while you sleep. Tomorrow we introduce the full-body oil submersion tank and the tickling tentacles. You’re going to be our star subject for a very, very long time.”
She leaned down and whispered directly into Ana’s ear as the machine kept lightly teasing her soles and inner thighs:
“Laugh for me one more time, little tickle slave.”
The brushes on her feet sped up just enough.
Ana’s broken, exhausted laughter filled the room once again.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA… please… HAHAHAHA… mercy…”
Dr. Voss straightened up, satisfied.
“Data collection continuing. Subject 24 — tickle endurance: exceptional. Psychological breaking point: imminent.”
She turned off the main lights, leaving only the soft glow of the monitors and the quiet, relentless whir of the machine as it continued its work on Ana’s helpless, twitching body.
In the darkness, Ana’s hoarse, desperate laughter echoed endlessly.
“HAHAHAHAHA… I beg you… HAHAHAHAHA… no more…”
But the tickling never stopped.
Dr. Elena Voss adjusted her glasses as she reviewed the monitors. The underground facility beneath an unassuming industrial park in rural Serbia was quiet except for the low hum of machinery. Tonight’s subject had finally arrived.
Subject 24 – real name: Ana Petrović, 24 years old, 5'6", athletic build from years of amateur gymnastics, extremely ticklish feet, ribs, underarms, belly, and inner thighs according to the preliminary scans her team had run while she was unconscious. Perfect.
Ana woke up slowly, her head throbbing. The last thing she remembered was walking home from her late shift at the café in Obrenovac. A van, a cloth over her face, then nothing.
She tried to move and immediately realized she couldn’t.
Her arms were stretched straight up and locked into padded steel cuffs attached to a vertical metal frame. Her legs were spread wide apart, ankles secured in similar cuffs bolted to the floor. She was completely naked except for a thin black blindfold over her eyes and a small heart-rate monitor clipped to her ear. The room was warm, almost uncomfortably so, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sweeter — baby oil?
“What the fuck… where am I?!” she shouted, voice cracking. “Let me go! This is kidnapping!”
A calm, professional female voice answered from the darkness. “Good evening, Subject 24. Welcome to the Voss Institute for Sensory Endurance Research. You have been selected for our most advanced tickle-torture protocol. The experiment will last as long as your body can endure. There is no safe word. There is no escape. Your only purpose now is to laugh, beg, and cum for our data.”
Ana’s heart slammed against her ribs. “You’re insane! Let me out right now or I’ll—”
A single finger — warm, soft, and deliberate — traced slowly down the center of her bare sole.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEK! HAHAHAHAHAHA! No! Don’t! Stoooop!”
The finger didn’t stop. It drew lazy circles around her arch, then scratched lightly under her toes. Ana’s foot jerked wildly in the cuff, but there was zero give.
“HAHAAHAHAHAHA! Please! I’m ticklish! I can’t— HAHAHAHAHAHA! Not my feet!”
Dr. Voss’s voice remained clinical. “Noted. Extreme sensitivity on plantar surface confirmed. Team, begin Phase One: Full-body mapping.”
The lights in the room brightened just enough for Ana to see silhouettes moving around her. Four assistants — two men, two women, all wearing white lab coats and black gloves — stepped into position. They carried trays of tools: long ostrich feathers, soft makeup brushes, electric toothbrushes, bottles of warm oil, and small vibrating pads.
Ana’s blindfold was removed. She blinked, eyes wide with terror as she took in the scene.
“Oh god… no… please don’t do this…”
Dr. Voss stood directly in front of her, holding a tablet. She was strikingly beautiful — early 40s, sharp cheekbones, dark hair in a tight bun. “We’re going to test every inch of you, Ana. We already know your worst spots from the scans, but we need live reactions. Start with the feet.”
Two assistants dropped to their knees. One took her left foot, the other her right.
They started slowly. Ten fingers at once, skittering lightly over both soles. Ana exploded instantly.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOO! NOT THE FEET! HAHAHAAHAHA! PLEASE I’LL DO ANYTHING! STOOOOP!”
Her laughter was loud, frantic, and completely uncontrollable. The fingers danced between her toes, under the balls of her feet, along the arches, and back again in perfect synchronization. Every time she thought she might catch a breath, they switched techniques — one set scratching with fingernails, the other using feather-light strokes that somehow felt worse.
“AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN’T BREATHE! MERCY! HAHAHAHAHA! I BEG YOU!”
One assistant poured warm oil over both feet, making them glisten. The slickness amplified everything. Now the fingers slid effortlessly, finding every wrinkle and crease.
Ana’s body thrashed in the restraints. Her hips bucked, her abs clenched, tears already forming in her eyes.
“PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU! HAHAHAHAHAHA! MY FEET ARE TOO TICKLISH! STOP TICKLING MY FEET!”
Dr. Voss made notes. “Subject shows classic hysterical response. Laughter volume at maximum. Begin dual-tool escalation.”
The assistants picked up electric toothbrushes. The low buzzing filled the room as the spinning bristles touched her oiled soles at the same time.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! NO! NO! THAT’S WORSE! HAHAHAHAHA! I’LL DIE! PLEASE TURN THEM OFF!”
The brushes whirred relentlessly — one on her left arch, the other attacking the base of her toes on the right. Ana screamed with laughter, her voice cracking into high-pitched squeals. Her toes curled and spread involuntarily, offering no protection.
After ten straight minutes of foot torture, Ana was already a mess — face flushed, chest heaving, saliva dripping from her chin.
Dr. Voss stepped closer. “Excellent data so far. Now upper body.”
The two remaining assistants moved in. One targeted her ribs and sides, the other her underarms and belly.
Fingers dug into her ribcage with spider-like precision, while another set scribbled wildly in her smooth, sensitive armpits.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA! NOT THERE! NOT MY RIBS! AAAAHAHAHAHA! MY ARMPITS ARE KILLING ME! HAHAHAHAHAHA! STOP TICKLING ME THERE!”
They oiled her torso as well. The slick fingers glided faster, finding the exact spots that made her jerk and spasm. One assistant used a long feather to tease the sides of her breasts and the hollows under her arms simultaneously.
Ana’s laughter turned desperate and broken.
“PLEASE! I’LL BE YOUR SLAVE! I’LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT! JUST STOP TICKLING ME! HAHAHAHAHAHA! I CAN’T TAKE IT!”
Dr. Voss smiled for the first time. “You will be our slave, Ana. That’s the point. But the tickling doesn’t stop until we say so.”
They worked her body for another twenty minutes — ribs, belly button (they poured oil directly into it and used a thin brush to swirl inside), hip bones, and the ultra-sensitive crease where thigh met torso.
Ana came for the first time without any direct genital stimulation — just from the overwhelming tickling and the constant helpless laughter. Her orgasm hit hard, body convulsing as she screamed with laughter and pleasure at the same time.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA! I’M CUMMING! OH GOD I’M CUMMING FROM BEING TICKLED! HAHAHAHAHA! PLEASE NO MORE!”
The team didn’t pause. They simply noted the timestamp and continued.
Phase Two began with the machine.
The vertical frame tilted backward until Ana was almost horizontal, still spread-eagle. A large, automated tickling apparatus lowered from the ceiling — dozens of articulated arms tipped with different tools: feathers, silicone brushes, vibrating nubs, and small rotating pads.
Dr. Voss explained calmly while the machine positioned itself. “This device can tickle you for hours without fatigue. We’ve programmed it based on your real-time reactions. It learns what breaks you fastest.”
The first arms descended.
Soft feathers began swirling over her inner thighs and the soles of her feet at the same time. Two vibrating pads locked onto her nipples. A pair of spinning brushes targeted her underarms. Another set attacked her belly and sides.
Ana lost her mind.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOOOOOO! IT’S EVERYWHERE! HAHAHAHAHA! TURN IT OFF! I BEG YOU! MERCY! MERCY! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
The machine was merciless and precise. It varied speed and intensity, never letting her adapt. When her laughter started to die down from exhaustion, it would switch to a new combination that sent her right back into hysterics.
For the next hour, Ana was tickled non-stop by the machine while the human team watched and took detailed notes. She came three more times — once from the feathers on her inner thighs brushing dangerously close to her pussy, once when the machine focused exclusively on her feet for twenty straight minutes, and once when they added ice cubes to her oiled belly while the brushes kept going.
Between orgasms she could only beg incoherently.
“Please… ha… ha… I can’t… anymore… my body… too ticklish… I’ll do anything… just five minutes… please…”
Dr. Voss leaned over her sweat-soaked face. “You’re doing beautifully, Subject 24. Your endurance is above average. We’re only at hour three.”
“Three hours?! HAHAHAHAHA! No! I’ll go crazy! Please stop the machine!”
Instead, Dr. Voss nodded to the team. “Manual intervention on the most sensitive zones.”
Two assistants sat on either side of her spread legs. They poured more warm oil directly onto her exposed pussy and inner thighs. Then, with gloved hands, they began the most diabolical tickling yet — feather-light strokes along her labia, circling her clit without ever fully touching it, while other fingers skittered over her asshole and the ultra-sensitive skin just behind her knees.
At the same time, the machine continued its assault on her upper body and feet.
Ana’s laughter became a continuous, broken wail.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOT MY PUSSY! PLEASE NOT THERE! I’M TOO TICKLISH! AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA! I’LL SQUIRT! DON’T MAKE ME SQUIRT AGAIN! HAHAHAHAHA!”
She did. Hard. The orgasm ripped through her so violently that she actually lifted her hips off the frame for a second, screaming with laughter as clear fluid sprayed from her.
The team applauded lightly.
Dr. Voss spoke into her recorder: “Subject 24 achieved squirting orgasm purely from tickle stimulation of genitals and surrounding areas. Recommend extending genital tickling protocol to four hours daily.”
Ana was sobbing and laughing at the same time, voice hoarse.
“I can’t… I can’t take any more… my feet… my ribs… my pussy… everything is too sensitive… please let me go… I’ll never tell anyone… just stop tickling me…”
Dr. Voss stroked her hair almost tenderly. “Sweet girl. You still don’t understand. This is your life now. Every day we will strap you down and tickle you until you break. Then we’ll let you rest just enough to recover sensitivity, and we’ll start again. By the end of the month you’ll be begging us to tickle you even when we stop.”
She signaled the machine again.
This time it focused on a single devastating combination: rapid vibrating brushes on both soles, feathers swirling deep in her armpits, and two soft spinning pads directly on her swollen, hypersensitive clit and labia.
Ana’s eyes rolled back. Her laughter became silent for several seconds — just her mouth open in a silent scream of hysterical ecstasy — before exploding back at full volume.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I’M BREAKING! YOU’RE BREAKING ME! HAHAHAHAHA! I’M YOUR TICKLE TOY! PLEASE! I’LL BE GOOD! JUST LET ME CUM AGAIN! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
She came twice more in quick succession, body shaking violently in the restraints, tears streaming down her face.
Hours blurred together.
By the time the session reached the six-hour mark, Ana was a wreck — covered in oil and her own juices, voice almost gone, every muscle twitching from endless laughter and forced orgasms. The machine was still going, slower now but no less effective, keeping her in a constant state of ticklish agony and pleasure.
Dr. Voss finally stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Ana’s heaving stomach.
“Phase One complete. You lasted longer than 87% of our previous subjects. Congratulations, Ana.”
Ana could barely speak. “Please… no more today… I’m destroyed…”
Dr. Voss smiled. “Today? Oh no, darling. We’re just getting started. The machine will continue on low intensity while you sleep. Tomorrow we introduce the full-body oil submersion tank and the tickling tentacles. You’re going to be our star subject for a very, very long time.”
She leaned down and whispered directly into Ana’s ear as the machine kept lightly teasing her soles and inner thighs:
“Laugh for me one more time, little tickle slave.”
The brushes on her feet sped up just enough.
Ana’s broken, exhausted laughter filled the room once again.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA… please… HAHAHAHA… mercy…”
Dr. Voss straightened up, satisfied.
“Data collection continuing. Subject 24 — tickle endurance: exceptional. Psychological breaking point: imminent.”
She turned off the main lights, leaving only the soft glow of the monitors and the quiet, relentless whir of the machine as it continued its work on Ana’s helpless, twitching body.
In the darkness, Ana’s hoarse, desperate laughter echoed endlessly.
“HAHAHAHAHA… I beg you… HAHAHAHAHA… no more…”
But the tickling never stopped.
