ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 18
The low rumble of an industrial cooling unit stirs in the distance, slowly enticing modern dancer Naomi Watson from an unexpected slumber. Cooing as she rouses herself from her soothingly deep sleep, she gently peels her eyes open, adjusting to the bright fluorescence flooding the room. However, taking but a preliminary glance at her predicament, her eyelids spring open, confronted with a fate the likes of which she could never imagine. She is seated upright, bound atop a large wooden device, with her legs sticking out right in front of her. She is clad in a straitjacket, the exact kind one would find in an insane asylum, with her arms bound crisscrossed over her chest. Letting out a hearty shriek of terror, Naomi is dumbfounded to find it rendered a muffled heap, the product of a thick leather panel gag placed atop the rubber ball nestled between her teeth. Glancing further down her person, she finds at least a dozen thick leather straps binding her to the seat in all directions, from across her chest, down to her hips, over her bare ebony legs. Peering down towards her feet, she finds her ankles encased in a set of padded leather stocks, those she could only recognize from watching medieval episodes of old cartoons as a kid, but having never seen a set in real life, let alone be locked in one. Wriggling her toes, having only the ability to see their very tips over the top of the device, she can feel them wrapped in some type of fuzzy material, stretching her soles taut being attached to the front of the board.
As she is confronted by the perilous nature of her situation, the details of the events leading up to her confinement begin flooding back into her mind: the crisp early morning air kissing her cheeks, her shoes clasping atop the parking lot behind the dance studio where she works, the sudden sound of a van door sliding open right behind her, with seemingly dozens of arms wrapping themselves around her person as she struggles to get free, wailing and screaming into a thick white rag stuffed over her face, with a pungently sweet scent invading her nostrils until all but darkness remains. Putting every detail together, it was obvious she had been kidnapped in what could only be described as a nightmare scenario, but for all she knew, there wasn’t a soul present to witness it. Just how long was it going to take to report her missing? Where had she been taken, having blacked out the moment she was tossed into the van? And why was she bound in such a strange position? All these questions came to a screeching halt the moment a lone figure walked into the room.
“And just who is my patient today?” a feminine voice emanates through the space, as Naomi swiftly peers into the corner to find an approaching figure, obscured by shadows. “Ah yes: Miss Watson. Welcome!” A chill runs down her spine, that tone of familiarity from an unknown person disturbing her even further. Seeing her exit from the darkness into the brightly lit room, Naomi scans every detail of this unknown woman, trying with all her might to see if she recognizes her: Caucasian, most likely in her early 40s, medium height with short black hair and shimmering green eyes, all details which do not ring any bells much to her dismay. Clad in a doctor’s coat and stethoscope, the woman begins dictating to Naomi from a wooden clipboard nestled in her left arm just as her primary care physician would.
“Hmm, let’s see what brings you in here today,” she says, tracing her finger over the contents of the clipboard, that which is completely out of Naomi’s view. “It says here that you have been experiencing a bout of anxiety and depression lately, a common occurrence for those making careers in the arts, and that you have voluntarily admitted yourself to our treatment program for an indefinite period.” Naomi is stunned: was she really sitting in a psychiatric hospital at this very moment? That would explain the straitjacket, right? But why would they take her in broad daylight? That doesn’t make any sense, does it? The questions begin flooding her mind once again, making her question every last element of her ordeal as she sees fit, but one thing she knows for certain: at no level was any of this was her choice, and she was going to make that loud and clear.
“Nnn nnmmph!” she grunts, shaking her head side to side. “Thmt’s nht thruuuugh!” Her gag does nothing to help her cause, rendering every syllable a gurgled heap from which it can barely be considered language. She twists and turns, hoping to find some nonverbal way of proving that she is not consenting to this treatment, only to elicit a tender smile from the “doctor.”
“I know sweetie: the first session is always the hardest!” the woman reassures the distraught girl, placing the clipboard on the floor, seating herself before the helpless dancer in a swiveling stool just before her vulnerable feet. “Well, let’s not waste any more time, shall we?” How vulnerable Naomi feels, not knowing anything about where she is or what is going to happen to her, but having a gut feeling that she isn’t going to enjoy any part of it. Pinching the fingertip of the glove atop her right index finger, the woman begins pulling it away one digit at a time, forcing Naomi to look on in suspended horror. As the latex material slides off her hands, a wave of terror washes over Naomi’s person, confronted with the sight of ten bright red nails, each sharpened to the point of resembling talons, all merely inches away from her hyper ticklish soles. She gazes up at the woman’s face, a cool demeanor suppressing the absolute pleasure underneath that professional façade. Watching their wriggling points make their gradual approach, Naomi suddenly realized just what exactly was going to happen to her: she was going to be tickled.
“Nrrrrmph!” she groans, jerking at her restraints with renewed vigor, unable to stop those ominous appendages from reaching their final destination. There was no fate more cruel in this world than for her to be tickled: even with her feet having been hardened through years on the dance floor, Naomi knew just how dreadfully ticklish she was, always lamenting her weekly pedicure necessary to keep her feet free from damage and cracking. Swearing off foot massages, unable to even rub her own feet due to the unbearable sensation, Naomi was now confronted with the reality of having no escape from her ultimate weakness. But, as the dastardly implements finally sink into the tender flesh of her feet, having been rendered in such a compromising position, she can only experience the sensation as even worse than she had imagined it to be.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!!” she shrieks into her gag, muffling her cries as she descends into a whirlwind of ticklish proportions the moment they make contact. The woman wastes no time, going full speed as she skitters the tips of her nails across the full length of her soles, ravaging their extended form with wild abandonment. “RRRRRRRRRRRRRMMPHPHPHPHPH MMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
“That’s quite the reaction,” the woman dictates to herself, barely audible over Naomi’s wild cackles regardless of her gag. Her buttery soft soles give no resistance to the woman’s dastardly nails, carving deep into her supple flesh with absolute ease. Through her heels, she traces a hellish portrait of a woman’s unyielding suffering, as no amount of padded skin could deter her from capitalizing on her ticklish state indifferent to consent.
“MMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she bellows forth, an endless guffaw of forced laughter the poor girl has never experienced. Even in her youth, a quick tickle of her feet would result in someone’s shin being bruised, the punishment so swift and severe that no one would dare tread into such dangerous waters. Now, rendered completely immobile, the fight-or-flight mechanism she had perfected until now had suddenly transformed into the laugh-or-cry complex much to her dismay.
“I believe we’ve found the most effective treatment for you Miss Watson, wouldn’t you agree?” she asks the girl, gazing upon the distraught state she has put her in the moment she arrived. The balls of her feet prove to be her downfall: having spent her formative years on them as a ballerina, they ultimately betray her with their hypersensitive form. Shaking her head vigorously left and right, she hopes to once again try and convince the woman that she had no say in this “treatment” of hers. Yet she is left unphased: this deranged woman, caressing them with her sharpened claws with the focused virtuosity of a true expert, cannot help but extract the most horrid of sounds from the young lady wherever she goes.
“Let’s try right…here,” she prefaces before thrusting her nails underneath Naomi’s flailing toes, sending shockwaves through her body like never before.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” Her shriek echoes off the walls, the supple skin atop the stems of her long toes the worst punishment of them all. Gripping down with all her might, she has but the unfortunate fate of trapping the woman’s wriggling fingers against her strained toes, something which elicits a chuckle of delight from the good doctor, but does not sway her from pushing her even further. Digging deep in between her toes, flossing her way underneath the strings that bind them taut, she elicits a forceful cry from her captive once again. “GRRRRRRT OOOOOPHPHPHPHPH MMMMRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!”
“Well, if you like this spot so much, then why didn’t you just say so?” the woman notes, pulling her fingers out of her grasp, only to descend straight unto the toe pads themselves. By this point, Naomi finds herself livid: tears streaming down her cheeks, a mixture of anguish and frustration flowing through her system, she is being driven out of her mind by such a continuous onslaught that could have never been approved as “medically sound.” She can only take solace in the failing fidelity of her bonds, as little by little, she feels the ties around her toes slowly loosening, freeing her to fully cover one foot with the other much to the woman’s growing frustrations. Now, it seems, she will at least have to be given a break, even if it were for the purpose of tying them back up as before...
…oh, if only.
“Well, aren’t you the strong one?” the woman asks her, finding her fingers once again locked into place in between her toes. “Luckily, I planned for someone as resistant as you.” Taking her hands from Naomi’s feet, she lets the dancer take a breath, hoping that surely this would be long enough for her to think up a way to find a way out of this situation. However, that is not to happen: keeping close eye of the woman, Naomi watches intensely as she reaches below the stocks, followed by the sound of a clicking noise coming from underneath. Much to her dismay, little by little, Naomi finds the binds around her toes slowly tightening, pulling them back to the board even tighter than before.
“Just a little crank I had installed, you naughty girl!” the woman exclaims, taking Naomi aback, the callous regard for her plight making her skin crawl. Now, having been pushed to the absolute brink, she feels all but completely empowered to do the following:
“FFFFFFFFFUUUUUCCCKKK HHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!” Naomi screams, wrenching once again against her bonds, now in a state even more stalwart than previous. Sinking her teeth deep into her gag, she tries with all her might to suppress the desire to break down in helpless tears right front of her nameless captor, all but wanting to given just how helpless she has been made to feel through a mere thirty minutes of torture.
“Tsk tsk,” the woman responds, a condescending reaction as though she were merely reacting to a young child’s temper tantrum. “Normally I wouldn’t even think of doing this but, since you have been a most disrespectful patient, I’m afraid I have no choice.” She gazes into Naomi’s eyes, watching that slight hint of regret enter them, knowing she had ultimately dug her own grave. Reaching down once again underneath the stocks, she activates a small switch placed just adjacent to the crank, its unassuming form not reflective of its power as she hears the sounds of mechanistic churning coming from behind her feet.
“WWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!” Naomi wails at the tops of her lungs, confronted with the sensation akin to that of a thousand caterpillars crawling in between her helpless toes. Little could she know of what had become of her toe bondage, now rotating around the flesh of her elongated appendages, fed through a motor placed just behind them. Now she knows just why they were made of such a fuzzy material, seemingly invading every crease and crevice with tiny tendrils that drive her short of bonkers. If this continues, she believes, then she is going to truly have to be sent to the insane asylum.
“I’m glad to see you’re enjoying it,” the woman notes, having left out of Naomi’s awareness to retrieve a large duffle bag strapped over her shoulder. “Now the real treatment can begin.” Through her tear-drenched eyes, Naomi can barely see her retrieve a small bottle of baby oil, taking a puddle in her hand before smearing the warm liquid over the length of her soles. Even with the ties ravaging her toes, she can still feel the viscous solution coat every inch of her immovable soles. Little could she imagine what the woman would be wielding next: a hard-bristled hairbrush, something that surely had never been taught in medical school.
“MMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!” her chortles spew out, now drenched in her own desperation, feeling the brunt of a hundred bristles descend deep into her writhing flesh. Though the randomized patterns of the madwoman’s fingers she felt were too much to bear, the directed assault of the hairbrush proves even more horrid, knowing what each and every one of them is going to do, yet having no ability to stop them.
“Are we going to behave now, young lady?” the woman asks, her patronizing tone accompanied by a swift swipe over Naomi’s heels in tandem.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMPHPHPPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!!” she cries out, now nodding her head in an attempt at agreeing to anything she says for the hopes of receiving a well-deserved break.
“You’ll have to do better than that!” the woman exclaims, reaching down to retrieve a large pink comb from her duffle bag of horrors. Inserting it in between Naomi’s flailing toes, already being taken to town by the pulsating toe ties, she begins sawing the dreaded teeth right into the most tender flesh, driving the poor girl wild.
What amounts to the next thirty minutes Naomi couldn’t clearly recall, the oxygen depletion rendering her memory of the ordeal foggy at best. She has fleeting recollections of it: the whirr of a hairdryer toasting her soles to excruciating sensitivity, the feeling of two metal spinning wheels poking into her feet, the taunting and teasing of just how helpless she was, memories that are soon melded into fantasies as she is left for an extended period for rest. However, for how long she could not tell you, as no amount of time seemed long enough to recuperate from such an extensive tickle session. Even with her body primed for such abuse, both physically and mentally she had nothing left to give. Having left the room, the woman once again returns, a devious grin scrawled across her face, holding in her hands a cordless vibrating wand as she comes close to the exhausted young woman.
“Naomi,” she says tenderly, stroking a tear from her cheek as she bends down to address her. “Did you know you have the sexiest feet I’ve ever seen? It must have been hard being a dancer, having to be so nimble on such big tender soles. But, had you not had such big sexy feet, then you wouldn’t be here, sharing them with me! So, to reward you, I’ll be sharing my toys with you. Like so!” Removing a small hatch just above Naomi’s womanhood, she reveals a small compartment, displaying a bright pink butterfly atop her panties. Placing the wand in this compartment, nestling it against Naomi’s underlying clit, the woman pecks her on the cheek with a kiss before turning it on half speed.
Naomi jerks, tensing up every muscle in her body before slowly slumping back into position. Given her all-encompassing dance lifestyle, her sex life had been put on the backburner, amounting to nearly a year void of intimate contact. Now, rendered completely submissive from her ordeal, it would now be rearing its ugly head.
“And, while you’re occupied up there, I guess I should occupy myself down here,” the woman notes, pulling her hair behind her head as she seats herself back in front of Naomi’s bound feet. Leaning forward, she slowly extends her tongue out before, in one motion, running it up the length of Naomi’s left sole. “Mmmm, that’s more like it.” The oil having dried on her soles, this new sensation was proving even more sensitizing than the last. She clenches her toes, a reflexive reaction given her nimble tongue’s gradual approach, defensive to say the least. Such only leads the woman to playfully nibble atop one of her toe pads the minute she gets to them, forcing them to retreat back to full attention, eliciting a playful giggle from her captor.
“Oooh, I like this game!” the woman exclaims, repeating the same on her right foot: dragging her tongue from heel to toe, only to nibble on a random toe pad the moment they clench down, forcing them to fan back open once again. Such a back-and-forth process continues on, Naomi having lost complete control of herself, falling into such a demeaning little game despite being forced to watch it unfold again and again. Maybe had she been given more time for recuperation, then she would have regained enough of her faculties to fight such erotic attention befalling her. However, with the vibrating wand pressed firmly against her crotch, her defenses have been rendered all but complete mush in the process.
“How’s my girl doing up there?” the woman asks, glancing upward as she wipes the saliva from her lips. The very idea of such a demeaning exercise inflicted upon an upstanding straight woman like Naomi would make her sneer in absolute disgust. However, having been forced to live through it, she has no choice but to accept every moment of her erotic torments. Poor Naomi is in ruins: chest heaving, eyes glancing all over the place, she has been pushed to the very brink of orgasmic bliss, having been held there dear indefinitely by her deranged captor. Hoisting herself from her perch, the woman approaches the tormented starlet, setting her hand atop the front of her panties to feel the flood of erotic juices they have absorbed.
“Promise me you’ll be a good girl, and I’ll give you your present,” she whispers into her ear, turning to see the look of utter desperation in Naomi’s eyes. Having her womanly desires churn in endless fashion in her loins, the miserable dancer finds herself lost in a helpless trance, completely at the mercy of this unknown captor. Swallowing the very last fragment of her pride and modesty, Naomi early nods her head, earning another tender kiss atop her cheek. “That’s my girl!” She reaches down, turning the intensity of the device up to maximum, the whirring motor now fully audible as it echoes through the chamber.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRMMMPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” Naomi groans uncontrollably, throwing her head back as far as it can go, accepting every last vibration as it courses through her system. Placing herself once again in front of her feet, watching them clench and wrinkle in orgasmic fashion, the woman begins again indulging in their angelic form. Nibbling and gnawing across their surface, lapping up every inch of their milk chocolate form, the vigorous nature of her pleasure is driving Naomi closer evermore to that much-needed release. Sinking her teeth into her ball gag underneath, Naomi can only prepare herself for the impending bliss, only wishing she could free her hands to stimulate herself further. What had begun as that which drove her absolutely livid has transformed into the vehicle of her pleasure, pushing her over the brink as her feet are coated in a layer of her saliva.
“UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMPHPHPHPHPH!!!” she wails at the top of her lungs, tensing up every muscle in her body to a horrendous degree as an earth-shattering release rocking every fiber of her being, slumping backward after a full thirty seconds of endless pleasure. The wand continues its job, indifferent to its host not even flinching from its presence, with every ounce of her energy having been extracted from her person. As the woman hoists herself up one last time from her perch, she reaches towards the device, shutting it off as Naomi gently leans forward, having finally submitted to her fate.
“Gentleman?!” the woman calls out, waiting three seconds before a trio of masked figures enter the room, having been waiting just outside the door. “Take her to my suite. Prepare her to the given specifications, and make sure I am not interrupted for the rest of the evening.” They nod, silently synchronized as they unbuckle every restraint from Naomi’s person, fully awake yet completely unable to resist as she is carried away. From the control room above, her entire ordeal has been watched closely by Headmistress Orion and her assistant Darcy, satisfied in the result of one of their new girls.
“Wow, she really is something, isn’t she?” Darcy notes, stopping the video recorder, cataloging the file of the session in a folder on a separate laptop.
“You don’t recognize her, do you?” Headmistress asks, grasping at her tablet as Darcy shakes her head. “Greta Parsons: widow of Nathaniel Parsons, former hedge fund manager on Wall Street. Their empty marriage was no problem for Greta, as little did he know of her lesbianic tendencies, using her weekly allowance to have a night out with one high-priced call girl after another. I ran into her a few times as one of my clients: a nice young woman, with quite the penchant for tickling the living daylights out of my girls.”
“Was she the one that you said gave you the first loan to build this place?” Darcy asks her, a look of childlike wonder in her eyes.
“The very same,” Headmistress answers her, scrolling through stills of all the sessions she has hosted for her longest client. “Once her husband died of throat cancer last year, she became a prominent patron of the arts, trading up from the common ***** to any of the aspiring painters, musicians, sculptors, whoever she could find that would do anything to get ahead in their field. You don’t hear about her often, as she keeps her donations anonymous, and for good reason too: once she finds a girl she’s most attracted to, she’ll give us a call, requesting we acquire them for a more intimate session together. You’d be surprised just how many careers have skyrocketed with just one night with her, whether they knew it or not.”
“Well, that was quite the episode, I must say,” Darcy says, taking a sip from her tea.
“And it’s just about to get even better!” exclaims Headmistress. “We have a group session with our last new girl coming up.”
“What room am I bringing up?” Darcy asks, cycling through the dozens of camera feeds that permeate against the control room wall.
“The basement,” she answers, met with a look of bewilderment from her assistant. “We needed the room to build a custom request, and let me tell you, it’s all going to be worth it…”
(to be continued in A Lesson in Self-Defense, coming next week)
As she is confronted by the perilous nature of her situation, the details of the events leading up to her confinement begin flooding back into her mind: the crisp early morning air kissing her cheeks, her shoes clasping atop the parking lot behind the dance studio where she works, the sudden sound of a van door sliding open right behind her, with seemingly dozens of arms wrapping themselves around her person as she struggles to get free, wailing and screaming into a thick white rag stuffed over her face, with a pungently sweet scent invading her nostrils until all but darkness remains. Putting every detail together, it was obvious she had been kidnapped in what could only be described as a nightmare scenario, but for all she knew, there wasn’t a soul present to witness it. Just how long was it going to take to report her missing? Where had she been taken, having blacked out the moment she was tossed into the van? And why was she bound in such a strange position? All these questions came to a screeching halt the moment a lone figure walked into the room.
“And just who is my patient today?” a feminine voice emanates through the space, as Naomi swiftly peers into the corner to find an approaching figure, obscured by shadows. “Ah yes: Miss Watson. Welcome!” A chill runs down her spine, that tone of familiarity from an unknown person disturbing her even further. Seeing her exit from the darkness into the brightly lit room, Naomi scans every detail of this unknown woman, trying with all her might to see if she recognizes her: Caucasian, most likely in her early 40s, medium height with short black hair and shimmering green eyes, all details which do not ring any bells much to her dismay. Clad in a doctor’s coat and stethoscope, the woman begins dictating to Naomi from a wooden clipboard nestled in her left arm just as her primary care physician would.
“Hmm, let’s see what brings you in here today,” she says, tracing her finger over the contents of the clipboard, that which is completely out of Naomi’s view. “It says here that you have been experiencing a bout of anxiety and depression lately, a common occurrence for those making careers in the arts, and that you have voluntarily admitted yourself to our treatment program for an indefinite period.” Naomi is stunned: was she really sitting in a psychiatric hospital at this very moment? That would explain the straitjacket, right? But why would they take her in broad daylight? That doesn’t make any sense, does it? The questions begin flooding her mind once again, making her question every last element of her ordeal as she sees fit, but one thing she knows for certain: at no level was any of this was her choice, and she was going to make that loud and clear.
“Nnn nnmmph!” she grunts, shaking her head side to side. “Thmt’s nht thruuuugh!” Her gag does nothing to help her cause, rendering every syllable a gurgled heap from which it can barely be considered language. She twists and turns, hoping to find some nonverbal way of proving that she is not consenting to this treatment, only to elicit a tender smile from the “doctor.”
“I know sweetie: the first session is always the hardest!” the woman reassures the distraught girl, placing the clipboard on the floor, seating herself before the helpless dancer in a swiveling stool just before her vulnerable feet. “Well, let’s not waste any more time, shall we?” How vulnerable Naomi feels, not knowing anything about where she is or what is going to happen to her, but having a gut feeling that she isn’t going to enjoy any part of it. Pinching the fingertip of the glove atop her right index finger, the woman begins pulling it away one digit at a time, forcing Naomi to look on in suspended horror. As the latex material slides off her hands, a wave of terror washes over Naomi’s person, confronted with the sight of ten bright red nails, each sharpened to the point of resembling talons, all merely inches away from her hyper ticklish soles. She gazes up at the woman’s face, a cool demeanor suppressing the absolute pleasure underneath that professional façade. Watching their wriggling points make their gradual approach, Naomi suddenly realized just what exactly was going to happen to her: she was going to be tickled.
“Nrrrrmph!” she groans, jerking at her restraints with renewed vigor, unable to stop those ominous appendages from reaching their final destination. There was no fate more cruel in this world than for her to be tickled: even with her feet having been hardened through years on the dance floor, Naomi knew just how dreadfully ticklish she was, always lamenting her weekly pedicure necessary to keep her feet free from damage and cracking. Swearing off foot massages, unable to even rub her own feet due to the unbearable sensation, Naomi was now confronted with the reality of having no escape from her ultimate weakness. But, as the dastardly implements finally sink into the tender flesh of her feet, having been rendered in such a compromising position, she can only experience the sensation as even worse than she had imagined it to be.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!!” she shrieks into her gag, muffling her cries as she descends into a whirlwind of ticklish proportions the moment they make contact. The woman wastes no time, going full speed as she skitters the tips of her nails across the full length of her soles, ravaging their extended form with wild abandonment. “RRRRRRRRRRRRRMMPHPHPHPHPH MMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
“That’s quite the reaction,” the woman dictates to herself, barely audible over Naomi’s wild cackles regardless of her gag. Her buttery soft soles give no resistance to the woman’s dastardly nails, carving deep into her supple flesh with absolute ease. Through her heels, she traces a hellish portrait of a woman’s unyielding suffering, as no amount of padded skin could deter her from capitalizing on her ticklish state indifferent to consent.
“MMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she bellows forth, an endless guffaw of forced laughter the poor girl has never experienced. Even in her youth, a quick tickle of her feet would result in someone’s shin being bruised, the punishment so swift and severe that no one would dare tread into such dangerous waters. Now, rendered completely immobile, the fight-or-flight mechanism she had perfected until now had suddenly transformed into the laugh-or-cry complex much to her dismay.
“I believe we’ve found the most effective treatment for you Miss Watson, wouldn’t you agree?” she asks the girl, gazing upon the distraught state she has put her in the moment she arrived. The balls of her feet prove to be her downfall: having spent her formative years on them as a ballerina, they ultimately betray her with their hypersensitive form. Shaking her head vigorously left and right, she hopes to once again try and convince the woman that she had no say in this “treatment” of hers. Yet she is left unphased: this deranged woman, caressing them with her sharpened claws with the focused virtuosity of a true expert, cannot help but extract the most horrid of sounds from the young lady wherever she goes.
“Let’s try right…here,” she prefaces before thrusting her nails underneath Naomi’s flailing toes, sending shockwaves through her body like never before.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” Her shriek echoes off the walls, the supple skin atop the stems of her long toes the worst punishment of them all. Gripping down with all her might, she has but the unfortunate fate of trapping the woman’s wriggling fingers against her strained toes, something which elicits a chuckle of delight from the good doctor, but does not sway her from pushing her even further. Digging deep in between her toes, flossing her way underneath the strings that bind them taut, she elicits a forceful cry from her captive once again. “GRRRRRRT OOOOOPHPHPHPHPH MMMMRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!”
“Well, if you like this spot so much, then why didn’t you just say so?” the woman notes, pulling her fingers out of her grasp, only to descend straight unto the toe pads themselves. By this point, Naomi finds herself livid: tears streaming down her cheeks, a mixture of anguish and frustration flowing through her system, she is being driven out of her mind by such a continuous onslaught that could have never been approved as “medically sound.” She can only take solace in the failing fidelity of her bonds, as little by little, she feels the ties around her toes slowly loosening, freeing her to fully cover one foot with the other much to the woman’s growing frustrations. Now, it seems, she will at least have to be given a break, even if it were for the purpose of tying them back up as before...
…oh, if only.
“Well, aren’t you the strong one?” the woman asks her, finding her fingers once again locked into place in between her toes. “Luckily, I planned for someone as resistant as you.” Taking her hands from Naomi’s feet, she lets the dancer take a breath, hoping that surely this would be long enough for her to think up a way to find a way out of this situation. However, that is not to happen: keeping close eye of the woman, Naomi watches intensely as she reaches below the stocks, followed by the sound of a clicking noise coming from underneath. Much to her dismay, little by little, Naomi finds the binds around her toes slowly tightening, pulling them back to the board even tighter than before.
“Just a little crank I had installed, you naughty girl!” the woman exclaims, taking Naomi aback, the callous regard for her plight making her skin crawl. Now, having been pushed to the absolute brink, she feels all but completely empowered to do the following:
“FFFFFFFFFUUUUUCCCKKK HHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!” Naomi screams, wrenching once again against her bonds, now in a state even more stalwart than previous. Sinking her teeth deep into her gag, she tries with all her might to suppress the desire to break down in helpless tears right front of her nameless captor, all but wanting to given just how helpless she has been made to feel through a mere thirty minutes of torture.
“Tsk tsk,” the woman responds, a condescending reaction as though she were merely reacting to a young child’s temper tantrum. “Normally I wouldn’t even think of doing this but, since you have been a most disrespectful patient, I’m afraid I have no choice.” She gazes into Naomi’s eyes, watching that slight hint of regret enter them, knowing she had ultimately dug her own grave. Reaching down once again underneath the stocks, she activates a small switch placed just adjacent to the crank, its unassuming form not reflective of its power as she hears the sounds of mechanistic churning coming from behind her feet.
“WWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!” Naomi wails at the tops of her lungs, confronted with the sensation akin to that of a thousand caterpillars crawling in between her helpless toes. Little could she know of what had become of her toe bondage, now rotating around the flesh of her elongated appendages, fed through a motor placed just behind them. Now she knows just why they were made of such a fuzzy material, seemingly invading every crease and crevice with tiny tendrils that drive her short of bonkers. If this continues, she believes, then she is going to truly have to be sent to the insane asylum.
“I’m glad to see you’re enjoying it,” the woman notes, having left out of Naomi’s awareness to retrieve a large duffle bag strapped over her shoulder. “Now the real treatment can begin.” Through her tear-drenched eyes, Naomi can barely see her retrieve a small bottle of baby oil, taking a puddle in her hand before smearing the warm liquid over the length of her soles. Even with the ties ravaging her toes, she can still feel the viscous solution coat every inch of her immovable soles. Little could she imagine what the woman would be wielding next: a hard-bristled hairbrush, something that surely had never been taught in medical school.
“MMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!” her chortles spew out, now drenched in her own desperation, feeling the brunt of a hundred bristles descend deep into her writhing flesh. Though the randomized patterns of the madwoman’s fingers she felt were too much to bear, the directed assault of the hairbrush proves even more horrid, knowing what each and every one of them is going to do, yet having no ability to stop them.
“Are we going to behave now, young lady?” the woman asks, her patronizing tone accompanied by a swift swipe over Naomi’s heels in tandem.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMPHPHPPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPH!!!” she cries out, now nodding her head in an attempt at agreeing to anything she says for the hopes of receiving a well-deserved break.
“You’ll have to do better than that!” the woman exclaims, reaching down to retrieve a large pink comb from her duffle bag of horrors. Inserting it in between Naomi’s flailing toes, already being taken to town by the pulsating toe ties, she begins sawing the dreaded teeth right into the most tender flesh, driving the poor girl wild.
What amounts to the next thirty minutes Naomi couldn’t clearly recall, the oxygen depletion rendering her memory of the ordeal foggy at best. She has fleeting recollections of it: the whirr of a hairdryer toasting her soles to excruciating sensitivity, the feeling of two metal spinning wheels poking into her feet, the taunting and teasing of just how helpless she was, memories that are soon melded into fantasies as she is left for an extended period for rest. However, for how long she could not tell you, as no amount of time seemed long enough to recuperate from such an extensive tickle session. Even with her body primed for such abuse, both physically and mentally she had nothing left to give. Having left the room, the woman once again returns, a devious grin scrawled across her face, holding in her hands a cordless vibrating wand as she comes close to the exhausted young woman.
“Naomi,” she says tenderly, stroking a tear from her cheek as she bends down to address her. “Did you know you have the sexiest feet I’ve ever seen? It must have been hard being a dancer, having to be so nimble on such big tender soles. But, had you not had such big sexy feet, then you wouldn’t be here, sharing them with me! So, to reward you, I’ll be sharing my toys with you. Like so!” Removing a small hatch just above Naomi’s womanhood, she reveals a small compartment, displaying a bright pink butterfly atop her panties. Placing the wand in this compartment, nestling it against Naomi’s underlying clit, the woman pecks her on the cheek with a kiss before turning it on half speed.
Naomi jerks, tensing up every muscle in her body before slowly slumping back into position. Given her all-encompassing dance lifestyle, her sex life had been put on the backburner, amounting to nearly a year void of intimate contact. Now, rendered completely submissive from her ordeal, it would now be rearing its ugly head.
“And, while you’re occupied up there, I guess I should occupy myself down here,” the woman notes, pulling her hair behind her head as she seats herself back in front of Naomi’s bound feet. Leaning forward, she slowly extends her tongue out before, in one motion, running it up the length of Naomi’s left sole. “Mmmm, that’s more like it.” The oil having dried on her soles, this new sensation was proving even more sensitizing than the last. She clenches her toes, a reflexive reaction given her nimble tongue’s gradual approach, defensive to say the least. Such only leads the woman to playfully nibble atop one of her toe pads the minute she gets to them, forcing them to retreat back to full attention, eliciting a playful giggle from her captor.
“Oooh, I like this game!” the woman exclaims, repeating the same on her right foot: dragging her tongue from heel to toe, only to nibble on a random toe pad the moment they clench down, forcing them to fan back open once again. Such a back-and-forth process continues on, Naomi having lost complete control of herself, falling into such a demeaning little game despite being forced to watch it unfold again and again. Maybe had she been given more time for recuperation, then she would have regained enough of her faculties to fight such erotic attention befalling her. However, with the vibrating wand pressed firmly against her crotch, her defenses have been rendered all but complete mush in the process.
“How’s my girl doing up there?” the woman asks, glancing upward as she wipes the saliva from her lips. The very idea of such a demeaning exercise inflicted upon an upstanding straight woman like Naomi would make her sneer in absolute disgust. However, having been forced to live through it, she has no choice but to accept every moment of her erotic torments. Poor Naomi is in ruins: chest heaving, eyes glancing all over the place, she has been pushed to the very brink of orgasmic bliss, having been held there dear indefinitely by her deranged captor. Hoisting herself from her perch, the woman approaches the tormented starlet, setting her hand atop the front of her panties to feel the flood of erotic juices they have absorbed.
“Promise me you’ll be a good girl, and I’ll give you your present,” she whispers into her ear, turning to see the look of utter desperation in Naomi’s eyes. Having her womanly desires churn in endless fashion in her loins, the miserable dancer finds herself lost in a helpless trance, completely at the mercy of this unknown captor. Swallowing the very last fragment of her pride and modesty, Naomi early nods her head, earning another tender kiss atop her cheek. “That’s my girl!” She reaches down, turning the intensity of the device up to maximum, the whirring motor now fully audible as it echoes through the chamber.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRMMMPHPHPHPHPHPH!!” Naomi groans uncontrollably, throwing her head back as far as it can go, accepting every last vibration as it courses through her system. Placing herself once again in front of her feet, watching them clench and wrinkle in orgasmic fashion, the woman begins again indulging in their angelic form. Nibbling and gnawing across their surface, lapping up every inch of their milk chocolate form, the vigorous nature of her pleasure is driving Naomi closer evermore to that much-needed release. Sinking her teeth into her ball gag underneath, Naomi can only prepare herself for the impending bliss, only wishing she could free her hands to stimulate herself further. What had begun as that which drove her absolutely livid has transformed into the vehicle of her pleasure, pushing her over the brink as her feet are coated in a layer of her saliva.
“UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMPHPHPHPHPH!!!” she wails at the top of her lungs, tensing up every muscle in her body to a horrendous degree as an earth-shattering release rocking every fiber of her being, slumping backward after a full thirty seconds of endless pleasure. The wand continues its job, indifferent to its host not even flinching from its presence, with every ounce of her energy having been extracted from her person. As the woman hoists herself up one last time from her perch, she reaches towards the device, shutting it off as Naomi gently leans forward, having finally submitted to her fate.
“Gentleman?!” the woman calls out, waiting three seconds before a trio of masked figures enter the room, having been waiting just outside the door. “Take her to my suite. Prepare her to the given specifications, and make sure I am not interrupted for the rest of the evening.” They nod, silently synchronized as they unbuckle every restraint from Naomi’s person, fully awake yet completely unable to resist as she is carried away. From the control room above, her entire ordeal has been watched closely by Headmistress Orion and her assistant Darcy, satisfied in the result of one of their new girls.
“Wow, she really is something, isn’t she?” Darcy notes, stopping the video recorder, cataloging the file of the session in a folder on a separate laptop.
“You don’t recognize her, do you?” Headmistress asks, grasping at her tablet as Darcy shakes her head. “Greta Parsons: widow of Nathaniel Parsons, former hedge fund manager on Wall Street. Their empty marriage was no problem for Greta, as little did he know of her lesbianic tendencies, using her weekly allowance to have a night out with one high-priced call girl after another. I ran into her a few times as one of my clients: a nice young woman, with quite the penchant for tickling the living daylights out of my girls.”
“Was she the one that you said gave you the first loan to build this place?” Darcy asks her, a look of childlike wonder in her eyes.
“The very same,” Headmistress answers her, scrolling through stills of all the sessions she has hosted for her longest client. “Once her husband died of throat cancer last year, she became a prominent patron of the arts, trading up from the common ***** to any of the aspiring painters, musicians, sculptors, whoever she could find that would do anything to get ahead in their field. You don’t hear about her often, as she keeps her donations anonymous, and for good reason too: once she finds a girl she’s most attracted to, she’ll give us a call, requesting we acquire them for a more intimate session together. You’d be surprised just how many careers have skyrocketed with just one night with her, whether they knew it or not.”
“Well, that was quite the episode, I must say,” Darcy says, taking a sip from her tea.
“And it’s just about to get even better!” exclaims Headmistress. “We have a group session with our last new girl coming up.”
“What room am I bringing up?” Darcy asks, cycling through the dozens of camera feeds that permeate against the control room wall.
“The basement,” she answers, met with a look of bewilderment from her assistant. “We needed the room to build a custom request, and let me tell you, it’s all going to be worth it…”
(to be continued in A Lesson in Self-Defense, coming next week)
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