The Case of Mayberry Crossing: Part Two (MMMFF/FFF non-con/taunting/sadistic)

[ThePurpleQuill]

She gazes down to her palm, briefly checking her compass before clasping it shut, taking a long glance over the path laid before her: she is standing in the countryside, where a thicket of forest sits just in front of her, its sole footpath having become overgrown with vegetation, without anybody having traversed it for many years due to the challenges that lie ahead. Looking upward, she can see the peak of a mountain just over the tops of the trees, her ultimate destination lying in wait on the other side, having challenged herself to make the daunting trek to the top all on her own. She can feel the tender warmth of the radiant sun atop her cheeks, basking her in its glow on this pristine spring morning. A light breeze caresses the sweat atop her brow, wiping it away with the back of her hand as she takes those first steps towards destiny. Her heavy hiking boots begin to stomp their way over the unworn path, with dried leaves and dead grass crumpling noisily underneath her feet. Having prepared herself for the long and arduous trip, she carries with her a large hiking pack which, nonetheless, feels light on her back, almost as if it wasn’t even there, surely a byproduct of the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

The silence of the forest was always something that drew her to this secluded environment, a repose from the worries that were waiting for her in civilized society. Here, she could bask in the scattered chirping of birds high overhead, the tussling of leaves in the canopy, and...thunder? Surely that was not right, she thought, having dutifully checked the weather beforehand, making sure it was clear enough at the start of her journey. However, as she tries once again to resume her travels, she is struck by the same sound, now finding herself paralyzed in indecision, not knowing how to proceed. She looks up, peering through the openings in between the trees, only to catch the sight of the sky above growing dark, with the noise growing louder and louder to an almost deafening degree. She tries to cover her ears, but finds herself unable to, her arms seemingly locked at her sides as the thunderous roar soon consumes her senses. Wishing to run out of the forest, she finds the pack atop her back growing heavier, locking her knees to prevent herself from toppling over, only to find herself slowly sinking into the ground. It is then, as the thunder turns to rattling, and the darkness above is replaced by light, that Elizabeth Wiley figures herself experiencing nothing but a dream.

Her eyes begin to gently peel open, acclimating themselves to the light of her new surroundings, as she gradually rouses herself from an unexpected slumber. She groans, displaying a mixture of discomfort and exhaustion as she feels her way around her new predicament: she lays atop a metal cot, one attached by chains to the wall, with a thin layer of padding laid on top of it. Metal shackles bind her at the wrists and ankles, those that are attached to chains extending from beneath her cot, jingling when she makes even the slightest motion in any direction. As if that weren’t enough, peering upward towards her hands, she finds her fingers encased once again in duct tape, fully unable to move them in even the slightest bit, now realizing that her chances of escape have been completely rendered null in void.

Poor Elizabeth: one moment, the 26-year-old German and Sport teacher was tightly bound naked across a wooden table, with three of her captors tickling her feet and nipples with wild abandon, and the next, she was lying all by her lonesome in this desolate cell, left only to imagine what other horrors just might be waiting for her on the other side of that door. Gazing down at her person, she is confronted again with the sight of her nude body strewn across her bed, the prospect of her being awarded a scrap of clothing by her captors at any point during her stay a luxury they were not willing to give her. She can see her nipples, usually a shade of milky tan, now having been turned dark and hard, the result of such extensive teasing over those several hours. She can see the marks across her body where she had been bound before last night, with the bruises around her hips and ribs demonstrating where they had gone hog wild with her most vulnerable of spots to toy with. A small mirror hangs adjacent to her, giving her a glimpse of the bottoms of her usually supple size seven feet, having reddened from an onslaught of dual hair brushes rounding out her session before falling unconscious the third and final time, with her long toes being no match for their prying grip keeping her soles fully accessible to them.

Her dark caramel locks still cling to her forehead, matted to her brow from the physical exertion of what amounted to several hours of continuous torment, the exact duration of which she doesn’t even wish to know. Her muscles, conditioned through several hiking excursions and marathons in her free time, now hang limp like wet noodles all around her, rendered useless as though she had just finished her 25th mile, with no finish line anywhere in sight. Had she the ability to, she would wipe away the dried tears lining both of her eyes, remnants of the flood of waterworks she shed during her torments. She can still feel the bottoms of her feet tingling from their horrid fingernail scraping up and down her tender soles, matching the vigor of the rubbing of her nipples from above, a continuous stimulation that melted her senses together into such a hellish ordeal. She wishes to cry, but finds herself unable to, be it the sense of emotional drain having come over her, or the utter fear that someone is lying in wait nearby, waiting to hear her having reached her breaking point only to affirm their victory over her.

Lying helpless and alone, Elizabeth begins to recall the circumstances that led up to this point: it began roughly one week ago, as she was backpacking through the surrounding woods on her way to a retreat held roughly a hundred miles down the road. Always one for adventure, Elizabeth had set out early all by her lonesome, hoping to traverse the unexplored areas of this part of the country for a sure challenge. With her life dedicated to physical fitness as a sports instructor, Elizabeth was always finding new ways to push her body beyond its absolute limits, much to the admiration of her colleagues who could only think of more ways as to let their bodies wither away right before them. She had even once started a blog dedicated to her frequent travels, documenting the extensive nature of her hiking endeavors for a small yet dedicated audience, a detail that would prove crucial in proving just who could have taken her later down the line. Well, it just so happened that, one day on her journey trekking the border of Mayberry Crossing, she caught the vigilant eye of the procurement specialist himself, just happening to run into her out in the middle of nowhere much to her surprise.

It was during this initial meeting that he had warned her of the impending rainstorm that was sure to come in later that night, one which would surely flood the creek and douse the surrounding forest with several inches of flooding waters. Elizabeth was dumbfounded by this revelation, having carefully documented the weather forecast for the surrounding region several weeks in advance. However, believing her technology was no match for the insight of the local population, Elizabeth bent towards the stranger’s offer to provide her lodging for the night, given that it would be at a reduced rate for a teacher like herself, and other than the strange smell emanating from his person, she had nothing to be concerned about, or so she thought.

It was that very night she checked into the motel room, given the assurance of Old Lady Turnbauer herself that she would keep an eye out for her in case of stray critters. Unfortunately for her, that didn’t exactly mean she could feel safe, as when she was awakened by the sound of a creaking hinge, she was met with the sight of several townsfolk lurking in her room, pouncing on her before she could even push off her covers. Pinning her down onto the bed, the townsfolk took this opportunity to try out their newly procured method of victim suppression, as one of them pressed the chloroform-soaked cloth over her mouth and nose, watching as she slowly succumbed to unconsciousness with each of her limbs growing limp under their grip. However, unlike what they had used on Marcy and Jessica a week later, the potency of the chloroform they had on hand for that week had proven less than sufficient in keeping Elizabeth completely unconscious for the entire duration of playing with her, finding herself waking up every so often to catch a glimpse of yet another part of her predicament.

It comes back in fragments, usually when she is lying half asleep in her cot does she get fleeting pictures of what they did to her that night, all coming together in the end as to illuminate their sick and twisted desires. She can remember them slipping off her hiking boots, followed by the image of one of them sticking their nose deep into them as another takes hold of the bottom of her shirt, pulling it upward right below her bra as they cackle in obvious delight. She can feel the sensation of saliva atop her belly button, along with the same feeling in between her toes, as she catches sight of one of them enveloping them in their mouth as though they were tiny popsicles. She sees a pair of scissors, then a hunting knife, swiftly slicing away at her clothing that soon just barely clings to her body in tatters, with her captors holding up piece after piece of her now useless garments, exposing yet another spot they could tickle and tease to their heart’s delight as their victim could only watch on during every few moments of consciousness. It must have been two hours before she was able to fully regain her senses, but by that time, they were already transitioning to the second phase of her torments. Binding her to her own bed that night, they played with her body like nothing she had experienced before, giving her merely a taste of what she would experience in full as the new plaything of their sexual desires. By the break of dawn the next morning, as she lie atop her bed, stripped naked as the day she was born poor Elizabeth was given the news even now she can hear as though it were yesterday:

“Yer naht goin’ anywher li’l lady. We got special plans for yuh!”

So began a continuous cycle of torments the moment the chloroform-soaked rag fell over her nose, rendering her helpless as they brought her into the fold of their perverted games all at her expense. Such a process might have continued forever had events not transpired as they had recently: it began three nights ago, when she was placed into her cell, given time to rest until another hellish day was waiting for her. It was the usual procedure Elizabeth experienced day in and day out: wake up, experience a hellish suffering consisting of relentless tickle torture and horrible sexual torments, go to bed, only to rinse and repeat the next morning. The last step was usually executed for her, as she would most often fall unconscious due to the overstimulation coming to a head by the time evening would roll around. It would only be by next morning that she would be awoken lying in her cell, having been brought there by one of her tormentors on a wheelbarrow of all the undignified modes of transportation.

However, had she not fallen unconscious by the end of her session, she would be administered a serving of chloroform, one that would knock her out long enough to be taken back to her cell anyways. Yet because of this, her consistent exposure to the substance had made her less reactive to it, meaning she would periodically be awakened on her way back to her cell, opting to play asleep to gain intel as to her surroundings. Even from those short glimpses, she knew for sure she was still within proximity of the town, making it impossible that she had not been seen by anyone passing by since. By the looks of the exterior of the building in which she was being held, it seemed as though she were locked in a converted horse barn, with her cell a former stall of all things, just remote enough for her to scream for help with nobody around to hear her. It was with this information that she began to formulate a plan for escape, one which would rely on one more element to secure: pure human error.

Every night, no matter who took it upon themselves to toy with her body, she was visited by the indescribable Lester Maxwell, who would come in to “tuck her in” for the night, as he put it, but instead of blankets, he would employ several coils of rope strewn all across her body, fully immobilizing her atop her cot. Before doing so, however, regardless of how much strain she had already been put through that day, Lester would take advantage of her precarious position for his own pleasure, knocking her out with chloroform as he indulged in her lustful body for a few hours before leaving her to rest. At this point in time, Elizabeth had become accustomed to the chemical, able to remain conscious after breathing it in for several moments, but nonetheless feigned being knocked out as to make them all think they had the right dosage for her, giving her the advantage just in case she had to use it to escape. She would have to hold it together as he played with her bare breasts, lapping at her nipples just as he did with her toes, his disgusting perversion Elizabeth had to resist the urge to vomit as a result of. He would even go into his lust for her by talking endlessly as he felt up her vagina, caressing her sex as he detailed just what a perfect housewife she would make for him once convinced of his sex appeal, something that would make Elizabeth laugh in horror if she wasn’t supposed to be unconscious.

After these unabridged late night sessions together, Lester would finally do his one duty for the night and secure Elizabeth to her cot, supposedly while she was still unconscious. Most of the time, he would bind her arms crossed over her chest, towards opposite corners of the cot, with her legs bound slightly apart, enough to dip his hand between her legs and feel her up a bit more as usual. However, feeling himself the comedian he never was, he decided one night to bind her lengthwise across the cot, with her hands bound in front of her chest in the shape of a prayer form, noting that she should “start praying” if she knew what was coming for her in the morning. Such a choice opted to sacrifice functionality for humor, as after several minutes of tugging, Elizabeth was able to push her wrists close enough to her head to take hold of the rope with her teeth, utilizing the anchor to begin slipping one hand out, followed by the other. Thirty minutes after Lester had left, she had completely untied herself, and feeling the coast was clear, Elizabeth made her first, and possibly last, escape attempt.

Unfortunately for Elizabeth, Lester had just that night rigged a makeshift alarm system to the door at Old Lady Turnbauer’s request, one fashioned out of an old car alarm and pulley system activated once the door was opened from the inside. By the time Elizabeth cracked the door enough to slip out, she was accompanied by the blaring horn waking up half the countryside, with her escape now more perilous than ever. She booked it, her bare feet pounding the dirt and grass as she slipped into the woods, hoping to wait out the search party until morning. Her foot bottoms, tenderized from several days of torments, forced her to find a smoother path in the woods, opting for a footpath she found to freedom. Unfortunately for her, that was the exact path that Lester had also installed a trap snare, one consisting of a loop of rope covered in leaves, invisible on the forest floor right up until it ensnared her ankle, pulling her up into the tree kicking and screaming just loud enough for the search party to be led right to her.

The next few nights would be utter hell for her, as her usual four hour sessions were doubled in length, with several members rotating throughout the day to ensure a continuous punishment for the escapee. Most vindictive of them all was Lester, whose pride as the town knot expert was injured when their catch wriggled her way out of them, mercilessly teased by his lifelong neighbors as though he had no idea what he was doing. Part of the roughly 12 hours each day she’d spend suffering in ticklish torments was the four hours Lester would visit her in her cell, now immobilized in this new fashion, as a means of interrogating her as to how she managed to escape his bonds. These hours Lester spent with her alone were a hell seemingly worse than what she would endure with the whole group, the utter fear she experienced knowing he could do anything he wished with her keeping her on edge even after he left, deathly afraid he might take it upon himself to come back and stay with her the entire night. However, what also scared her was the sensation that Lester believed her to be his personal plaything, a direct result of his efforts having captured her both times, now treating her as though he has some undeniable claim over her tender body to use as he pleases.

With him he always brought his exclusive supply of tickling tools at his disposal, those which he will use to convince her that another escape attempt would be a mistake not worth taking if one has resulted in this suffering, including his homemade batch of itching powder much to her dismay, one which he would regularly implement upon her naked body if still unsatisfied, which he always was. Binding her in a manner that would reveal her perky breasts in full, Lester would proceed to coat her stiffened nipples with the dastardly substance, watching on in obvious delight as it would slowly take effect, making Elizabeth squirm tirelessly in her bonds trying to wipe it off to no avail. Only when she would beg him to tickle her there would he relent by wiping it off, usually with a painter’s brush, or anything else that would send her shrieking in laughter due to the now ultra sensitive surface of her areolas. However, having felt herself satisfyingly punished for trying to escape, Elizabeth would be subject to yet another form of revenge from the devilish man, as he would once again bind her in the same prayer position he had when she escaped. But this time, with her hands wrapped in duct tape, fully secured and out of reach from her mouth now stuffed with her tattered panties, she finds herself fully incapable of escaping her torments this time, and what torments they would turn out to be.

With a devilish smile scrawled across his face, he reveals to her an anal plug, one which he forcibly inserts into her despite her muffled protests. Engaging a switch at the top of the device, Lester watches as Elizabeth reacts to the sensation of the device vibrating inside of her, consisting of a continuous stream of sustained and pulsating vibrations she counts out to be a minute long in full. It is then that he leaves her for the night, making her believe that the device had fizzled out already and run out of battery, a relief to her believing Lester to be as inept at technology as he is at knot tying. However, it is only to surprise her ten minutes later by vibrating again, keeping her on edge for the exact same duration as before, throwing her into a wave of confusion. Over and over, the anal plug works like clockwork, stirring her awake every ten minutes with that unbearable sensation, only to die back down again, proving itself capable of keeping her awake this entire night through such simple means. Her muffled screams of frustration never penetrate the facility walls, with her voice having turned hoarse by the time Lester returns to her the following morning, removing the anal plug from her cavity before turning her over to the townsfolk for her regular torments to commence.

Had Lester found himself displeased with Elizabeth during her regular torments, he would again visit her to subject her to another night of the vibrating anal plug, such as he did during the night before. However, due to a larger than usual dosage of chloroform administered to her that day as she was being transported back to her cell, Elizabeth found herself able to sleep through the night regardless of the dastardly device. This has been the first night she has been able to sleep all the way through, with Lester currently occupied with the two new residents out of her awareness, unable to partake in his nightly rituals as he had done so before. However, now it seems she is going to experience another hellish bout, this time at the hands of the Master Tickler himself, being the father of Lester, Enis, and Buzz having taught them everything he can, one she had been spared from experiencing the true nature of suffering.

The cell door opens, revealing the hunched silhouette of the elderly man who has overseen her torments since the first time she was brought to the barn. She had been spared from his method, but not from his legend, with every one of her tormentors teasing and taunting her on what she has to look forward to once the Master Tickler gets a hold of her. Over and over, they warned her about his endless cruelty, his boundless creativity, all melding into a mind perfectly shaped to inflict a horrendous torment upon her person, and with every words she was forced to absorb, she found herself completely immersed in the myth that surrounded him, only hoping deep within her that she would never be forced to experience such a fate as that. Unfortunately for her, she is now faced with that prospect, and it was all due to the fact that she couldn’t escape.

“No, no, no please!” she begins to beg, wriggling in her bonds as she tries to inch her way away from him, yet having absolutely nowhere to go. “Please, don’t do this to me! I’ll be good! I’ll never run away again, just please! PLRMPH!” Her desperate pleas give way to muffled huffs, as she is smothered by a thick cloth, one drenched in an extra potent mixture of chloroform, having been found out regarding her growing immunity. It only takes a few seconds of fighting before Elizabeth feels the world around her growing foggy, with the figure standing before her becoming a dark splotch, as she loses consciousness with her final breath.

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She gazes blankly about her surroundings, blinking incessantly as to try and wake herself from what could only be the worst dream of her entire adult life, finding the world around her having suddenly transformed into a hellish nightmare the moment she opened her eyes. From her perilous predicament, hogtied atop the mattress, stripped of her bra as her breasts are laid out on full display for the leering eyes of strangers, with her wrists bound tightly to her ankles just inches away from her fingertips, Marcy is able to see Old Lady Turnbauer standing a few feet in front of her, the decrepit husk of a woman seemingly the person overseeing everything that is happening to them, with a look of unsuppressed delight atop her face showing just how proud she is to have subjected these two ladies to such a fate regardless of whether or not they were aware of what was happening to them. Just at either of her sides, she is just able to catch a glimpse of the disgusting facades of two men, Buzz and Lester Maxwell, both of whom are in possession of cheap handheld cameras to document whatever perverted pleasures they are to subject them to, possessing a mixture of unbridled satisfaction and delight in their eyes, those same exact looks on their faces as when they pinned Marcy and Jessica down to their beds, clasping the chloroform soaked rags over their mouths and noses as they fell unconscious.

Turning her head slightly to the left, she can see the third of the men, Enis Maxwell, out of the corner of her eye, slightly leaning to his side, a remnant of the decisive kick in the leg she gave him as a last ditch measure of securing their escape. Looking down at the obvious bulge protruding from the front of his pants, she can almost hear the sound of his flaccid erection throbbing underneath his jeans, assuring herself she would soon bite it off if he brought it anywhere near her or her daughter. And, speaking of, turning her head now to the right, Marcy sees her step-daughter Jessica directly across from her on the other bed, bound helplessly with ropes in a spread eagle, lying with much of her clothing having been stripped from her. She is surrounded on both sides by a pair of twins, Dacey and Tracey Carlyle, gazing lustfully upon her body as they contemplate the endless torments to inflict upon the meek girl, a look that makes Marcy’s blood boil knowing just how they may have played with her body right in front of her, and she had no ability to stop them.

Poor Marcy, paralyzed in suppressed fear and indecision as she tries to internalize just what she had been told by Old Lady Turnbauer moments ago: tickling, such a simple word, with not so simple implications, especially within the context of the layers of preparation and execution they are being treated to this very moment. Such a threat of being rendered docile in the process, implying that a strong and power-driven business woman like Marcy was to be treated as she were a horse being broken in on the prairie, began to undermine the formidable layers of toughness she had built up for herself having climbed the corporate ladder so many years. Combine that with the idea of spending weeks trapped within a hellish cycle of torments in this isolated part of the countryside, and you have a recipe for complete and utter dismantling of Marcy’s well-tempered nerves.

However, it was that last part that most disturbs her, a mention of another victim who had been ensnared by them, the one who might have inhabited that hotel room they passed by after checking in, snatched up unexpectedly in the middle of the night by those goons just as they had. But if they had gotten a hold of one person, who’s to say they hadn’t gotten their hands on more than one victim? It is then that the floodgates open, and Marcy is inundated with a constant stream of questions out of her inner psyche: just how many other victims had these freakish perverted sexual fiends gotten a hold of before Marcy and Jessica came around this neck of the woods? Why had she not gotten any word of missing travelers in this part of the country so she could be more prepared in dealing with strangers? How many times had they perfected the art of boobytrapping the country road, only to miraculously appear from an unmarked road much to any traveler’s delight? Could there be another victim still there, being treated to the same torments they had experienced unknowingly up until this point?

Having regained much of her senses, Marcy is now made aware of the sensory input she had not noticed beforehand, such as the slimy substance coating her soles and toes, that which matches in location the shimmering surface of Jessica’s bare feet. As well, just as her nipples are pulsating from what could only be a rough attempt at pleasuring her, something she was unfortunately familiar with per her husband’s lack of expertise, so too do Jessica’s nipples seem to be perpetually erect, with Marcy having once accidentally walked in on Jessica coming out of the shower one morning informing her that they are not usually like that one bit. Just what could they have been doing to them as they lay unconscious for that indeterminable amount of time? How could these people come to the conclusion together that they could actually get away with something like this? What will it take to convince these insane townsfolk that they have had their fun, and should release the two before any more ways to sentence them to life in prison are initiated? Over and over these questions dart back and forth within Marcy’s mind, all the while her captors look on in delight knowing just how easy it is to toy with a powerful woman such as she with nothing but a bit of rope and a whole lot of anticipation.

“Y’all ready fur it?” Old Lady Turnbauer asks, stirring Marcy out of her trance, as she quickly realizes it is neither her nor Jessica that is being addressed, but everyone else in the room. “Welp, let’s git’r started up ‘n here!” Marcy can hear the moans of satisfaction echo throughout the room, as though the old witch had stirred the demons hiding within the townsfolk with a simple phrase. She watches as Old Lady Turnbauer steps her way across the room, approaching Jessica as she looks the poor girl square in the face, licking her lips before addressing the twins.

“Le’sa start wit dis ‘un,” she utters, enticing high pitched giggles from the women that sound more like hyenas cackling than the laughter of humans. “Git ur warmed up a bit, she’s got a whole lot uh fun befur her.” It begins with the flicking of fingertips atop the inside of her biceps, dancing atop the tender flesh of her toned arms as they start to flex and pull against the length of her restraints that do not budge. In response to this, unable to protect herself from the gradual onslaught of tickling that is soon to come, Jessica’s tender eyes can only dart back and forth between her arms, trying to make sense of these utterly new sensations befalling her. Panicked gasps of terror slowly but surely begin to morph into scattered laughter, as the dastardly women begin to extract the ticklish sensations straight from deep within the poor girl like she has never experienced before much to their utter delight.

“Nohohohoho don’t touch me!” Jessica is just barely able to utter, finding it impossible to keep composure with such a foreign sensation taking hold of her outside of her consent. “Ihehehe don’t like that! No dohohon’t please! Plehehehease!” It was a well kept secret that Jessica was a desperately ticklish person across almost every part of her body, a secret so well kept that not even Jessica herself knew the full extent of it. Having not been part of a touchy feely kind of family, even when her mother was around, Jessica was not exposed to the types of playful touches that most kids experience throughout the early stages of life, with physical affection limited to the occasional hug or peck on the cheek from either of her parents. Even drawing from her earliest childhood memories, Jessica couldn’t recall a time in which she was tickled by anyone in her family, having no siblings to torment her with her apparent weakness, with her more distant relatives too remote to have spent any time with her growing up. In fact, it was only due to the insistence of Marcy that the two bond together one day by going to get pedicures that she had even come to the realization that she was that ticklish.

“Get the hell away from my daughter!” Marcy suddenly commands, having finally built up the confidence to address the group so bluntly despite their desperate situation. “Just...do what you want with me, so long as you leave her alone!” A small part of her wished at that very moment that she had stopped herself from uttering those very words, knowing they could spell her ultimate doom in the process. However, it was her knowing just how much Jessica couldn’t stand being tickled in the slightest amount that drove Marcy to sacrifice herself, recalling that very day she had dragged Jessica out of the house that Wednesday morning to get a pedicure at the local mall. Such an innocuous activity struck Marcy as nothing more than a way for the two to get closer to one another, even believing for a moment that Jessica was going to enjoy some well needed girl time with her. However, the moment the brush hit the bottom of Jessica’s left foot, Marcy saw the poor girl nearly going into uncontrollable convulsions atop the chair. Sinking her nails into the plush padding of the chair, Jessica fought with all her willpower to stop herself from running out barefoot into the mall, opting only to kick against the technician’s grasp as two more staff were called over to physically restrain her for the process. Marcy can still hear the huffing squeals of laughter coming out of Jessica’s mouth, the look of dismay across her face as she was forcibly held down through the scrubbing, with the elder of the two women finding the whole display an example of a drama queen if there ever was one. It is only now, gazing at the terrified look on Jessica’s face as she is once again restrained and tickled against her will, that Marcy recognizes just what suffering she must be experiencing.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Old Lady Turnbauer responds, turning towards Enis without even acknowledging their mouthy guest for one second. “Someun’s gotta show uh how ta behave, riht Enis?” He glances over at Marcy, sporting a depraved look in his eye that sends a shiver down Marcy’s spine, yet not showing it in the least. The professional that she is, Marcy has walked into enough board meetings dressed to the nines to know when even the most esteemed of her colleagues are stripping her naked with their eyes, and having been sexually propositioned by those ranging from busboys to CFOs, Marcy is no stranger to keeping composure in even the most uncomfortable of circumstances. Even as he begins silently walking over to her, wrapping himself around her bound form until he is just behind her legs, she is not one to give away just how much the very sight of this worthless peon makes her want to vomit. Climbing up unto the bed with her, he proceeds to place himself just behind her, inserting her bound legs in between his, as he is given a bird’s eye view of her prominent bound feet, their smooth surface and supple form reinvigorating his erection that is now pressing against the tops of Marcy’s feet much to her still suppressed disgust and dismay.

“Le’s git these puppies a bit more ‘cessible,” he says, reaching into his pocket as he reveals a length of thick twine, one that he recently used on Elizabeth with effectiveness. “Hol’ still naw, else yer sister there’ll git sum help.” A venomous threat was just about to eject itself from Marcy’s lips, only stopped as she quickly bit her tongue, opting to make the situation more manageable than it could be with her obedience. She can feel the rough material snake its way in between her second and big toes, with Enis pinching her big toes together with his left hand as he begins looping the twine around with his right. Round and round, the twine begins to bind her big toes together, tight enough as not to have them pull apart, while still leaving enough slack so as not to have them lose sensation. She can feel the twine coming to its end, as Enis triple knots the final length of twine behind her big toes, securing her fate as having been rendered that much less capable of resisting the tickling that will ultimately ensue.

It is a tactical move, engaging in anything that could stall for time long enough as to find herself a way out of this perilous situation, knowing there must be some way of securing their escape. She glances about the room, noting not one of them is in the position to quickly stifle her screams if she decided to begin screaming for dear life, knowing she has the pipes to clear almost to the next town over if necessary. But what would she scream? Would she scream for help, knowing someone might not want to get involved in what could potentially be just a simple mugging? Would she shout that there was a fire, thinking that anybody would take it upon themselves to try and fight the blaze? All of these options and more begin swirling around in her head, one seemingly more risky than the next, all of which possibly failing at a moment’s notice. However, as she looks back at Jessica, Marcy realizes that things for her stepdaughter are already becoming desperate, seeing the two women beginning to skitter their nails into the hollows of her underarms, all the while pulsating at her ribs and stomach that is starting to dismantle the poor girl’s resolve.

“Nooooohohohohoho plehehehease!” Jessica pleads with them, rocking back and forth as much as she can, unable to escape even the tiniest bit of her torments. “Youhuhuhuhuhu have to stop! STAHAHAHAP PLEASE!” It was destined that she would not last long underneath their fingers, as by the time her eyes peeled open from her slumber, Jessica’s resolve was already on the verge of crumbling. It is in this state, bound helpless atop the mattress, stripped almost half naked, with two vile women teasing her body like she was their plaything, that the volleyball captain finds herself in the worst possible circumstances, and with her stepmother having to watch her torments unfold helpless to save her, Jessica feels more helpless that she ever has before, a detail that the terrible twins start to verbally exploit.

“Awww is a widdle baby ticklish, is yuh?” Tracey asks Jessica, dancing her nails over her quivering belly, eliciting a hapless squeal from her victim. “You’s can tell us li’l missy! We promise it’ll be ahr li’l secret. Ain’t that right sis?” She turns towards Dacey, watching her pulsate her thumbs into Jessica’s ribs, sending the poor girl into convulsions of corrosive cackles in an instant.

“Das right sis, but we naw da baby needs uh li’l ticklin’ ev’ry once in uh while,” Darcy answers, licking her lips as she indulges herself in the sights and sounds of yet another of their victims underneath her fingers. “Guess what li’l girlie? If y’all stop laughin’ and such, den we’s right be thinkin’ yo ain’t ticklish no mo, an we be leavin’ you alone. You jus’ think ‘bout it girlie, n le’ us know when yous ain’t ticklish no mo!” It is a cruel prospect, one Marcy recognizes as sheer manipulation, knowing Jessica hasn’t the ability to control any part of what is happening to her. Her suspicions are quickly confirmed, as the moment she sees Jessica trying to purse her lips in a desperate attempt to keep her from laughing anymore, both Dacey and Tracey pounce upon Jessica’s tender body, thrusting their fingers into her sides and belly in tande, eliciting a hapless wail as Jessica dissolves into pitiful stream of crying laughter, all accompanied by the wicked cackles of the two sisters. At this point, it is becoming too much for Marcy, taking it upon herself to get them to stop by any means necessary.

“Da widdle baby still ticklish sis!” Darcy exclaims, using her nails to caress the sides of Jessica’s belly, playing with the poor girl’s quivering flesh that jiggles from her shrieking laughter despite the tone on top. “Betcha she gonna be ticklish all night, I reckon!” They cackle amongst one another in tandem, playing a perpetual game of cat and mouse with the poor girl, but instead of them being the cats and Jessica being the mouse, it is they who are the cruel ticklers, and it is Jessica’s sanity who is trying to escape their tickling claws before being lost forever.

“Now that’s enough!” Marcy barks at them, as she receives both of their attention, still tickling her stepdaughter anyways. “She’s just a kid! You’d better stop messing with her or else I’ll...mmmhmhmhm!” She purses her lips, trying to suppress the sudden sensation befalling the soles of her feet, having forgotten about the disgusting figure looming behind her this entire time who is now dragging his nails across her tender soles.

“Das right pretty lady: laugh for me,” Enis dictates, having finally gotten his hands on the one person that bested him, now hellbent on breaking down her resolve no matter how long it takes. Little does he know that Marcy is a tough nut to crack, but that even so, she has a long road ahead of her, and right now, she is desperate for a reprieve. The muscles at the sides of her face begin to pull at her lips, being forced into a pucker as she resists displaying just how much effect the tickling is having on her. She can feel their jagged surface scrape across the bottoms of her feet, their uneven form making the sensations that much more unbearable, seemingly as though there are three sets of hands skittering their nails across her tender flesh. Unlike Jessica, Marcy was one who experienced being tickled ever since she can remember, be it from her older brothers who couldn’t help but watch their little sister squirm, or her cousins who wished only to bring her down a peg from time to time. She never really minded it so long as her screams for it to stop attracted the nearest adult to intervene, and even when her past relationships would take things a little too far from time to time, Marcy would always be the magnanimous party, knowing that nothing was meant of it. However, here she is bound helpless, with a group of strangers tormenting her as well as her stepdaughter simultaneously, and the torments for her are as much psychological as they were physical.

With every swipe of his nails across her bare soles, their smooth surface giving no resistance to his less than tender touch, Marcy can feel just a tiny sliver of her resistance being stripped away, the thought of a worthless peon touching even the bottoms of her feet a feeling she cannot even stomach the thought of. With every snap of the camera from the likes of Buzz and Lester, documenting what is probably the only instance of Enis getting his hands on another woman, Marcy finds her ability to keep composure slowly eluding her grasp. She cannot picture just what they will do with the photos once they have been developed, knowing they might just be keeping them in a shoebox underneath their mattress along with a dirty sock and a bottle of hand lotion. However, it is what they could do with them that disturbs her the most, thinking that they will share these photographs online with the other perverted sex fiends across the world, enjoying the suffering of a woman of her stature next to the hellish fate of her daughter. Poor Marcy could only feel that it is this option that would be the most ideal, given the fact that a woman of her title would not have gone missing unnoticed, having left people waiting for her just one town over. To think that someone, no matter how ill-willed they might have been, would recognize her and her daughter as missing persons and duly notify law enforcement turns out to be the only silver lining she can think of regarding this entire ordeal.

As Marcy suffers in near silence, sputtering from time to time as she attempts to suppress even the most minute of ticklish expressions, it is Enis that is possibly growing more frustrated than anyone else in the room, finding his best efforts falling flat time and time again. He began with her tender soles, the scribbling of his nails only eliciting brief flashes of ticklishness from the helpless woman, nothing like the hysterical laughter he had hoped. Gunning for the sides of her feet, thinking she had only become desensitized on her foot bottoms from those high heels she must be wearing day in and day out, Enis finds himself yet again bested by the bound professional, with not even a giggle coming out of her lips. If that weren’t enough, by the time he gets to her long slender toes, digging his nails into their supple toe pads, weaving in between the stems whenever he can he is distraught to find this too having not nearly the impact he had wanted, with Marcy only emitting a few muted groans into the bedspread underneath. With his best efforts, utilizing every trick in the book he has in him, he finds himself completely inept when it comes to tickling Marcy into hysteria, something he believed to be the indisputable master of having learned from his father. He looks over, seeing the dire straits Jessica is in, all the while he can’t even get even a chuckle out of Marcy. Just what has he ever done to her to cause him to experience such embarrassment by not even getting her to do exactly what she is supposed to do?

“Y’all havin sum trouble there Enis?” Old Lady Turnbauer calls out to him, noting the reddened portion of his face, with his frustration now apparent to everyone else in the room. “Maybe Buzz’ll hop in n help yuh a li’l bit. We all need a li’l help frum time tuh time, idn’t that right?” Enis looks up, watching as his brother takes another picture before placing the camera in his back pocket, preparing himself to jump in once his middle brother gives up and throws in the towel just like any time he has ever failed at anything in life. Whatever pride Enis once had before taking it upon himself to try and break the bound professional lying helpless in front of him has almost been completely wiped out, now telling him that it might be time to just give up and leave.

However, it is then that an evil smile makes its way across Enis’s face, denoting that he has just gotten a most devilish idea, an idea that surely will be the answer to his troubles, and that which will teach Marcy once and for all just who is in control, and who is the one being controlled.

End of Part Three