RobertWalton
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This is the second Chapter in my Story "The Forge"
Chapter one is here:
----
CHAPTER TWO - VIVIAN'S PATH
The first time Vivian left Marcus’s loft, she was sure it was a one-off experiment. She told herself it was absurd, a footnote in her otherwise polished career. Yet on Monday, as she presided over a tense negotiation, something strange happened.
A tough "good old boy" executive, Georgie Hall, tried to reduce her with a sharp remark. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about our side. We're just fine, sunshine."
She felt her nerves spike—ready to retort.
Then something came over her. She waited.
She remembered the helpless laughter, the way Marcus had told her to surrender, not fight. Instead of fighting back, she interpreted the exec's jab as a little tickle to her ribs or a wriggle of a finger under her arms. To her surprise, she exhaled, smiled, and giggled as she said "Well we could all use a little more sunshine around here."
The entire room blinked in surprise. Vivian Hale had made a joke. They all roared with laughter. The moment was defused and Vivian was in command.
The compliments on her performance started rolling in about how she handled Georgie. The men in the room saw her with a new respect. Vivian saw the growth as well.
After that meeting, when she was alone on her office, she picked up her cell phone and dialed.
A man's voice answered. "Hello."
"Hi Marcus. This is Vivian Hale. I'd like to book some more sessions."
"Lovely" came the reply.
--------
It was getting later in the year and the temperature was cooler, but the rules were the same. A top that leaves the midriff and underarms bare and tight pants. Something that would call attention to the body. Vivian went along in the same outfit she did the first time - Dolce and Gabbana white, ribbed sleeveless crop top, that showed her tan, toned abs, skin tight Prada jeans that presented her magnificent posterior and Manolo Blahnik high heels. It was her siguature Forge outfit.
This time, on the way to her session, she enjoyed the looks and stares of the men on the train as they snuck peeks at her. She let her platinum blonde hair be a beacon and her tan body be the object of their desire. Vivian loved leaving these men hungry for her. She purposely reached up to hold the pole as the train sped along and shared a little more of her midriff with them. She was titillated when an old man's eyes found her belly button and he smiled.
She walked into the loft with a renewed sense of confidence.
"You're back." Marcus said with a mischievous grin.
"So are you." Vivian smirked back
"This way, please." Marcus led her to the rack and tied her more securely this time, her arms spread slightly so she couldn’t curl away. "Most women never see me again. Think you can make it through another session?"
She looked at Marcus defiantly and said "Give me your worst."
That was a mistake.
The tickling was relentless along her upper body—along her ribs, her underarms. Vivian forgot how torturous it was, but Marcus remembered how her body reacted in the first session. It's like he made notes and formulated a plan on how to exact the maximum suffering as he exploited every known tickle spot of hers. Under her arms, the small of her back, her sides. He even went for the same spot just below her navel. He scratched lightly, alternating between his left and right hands so the sensation wouldn't let up. It was as if he was doing this strictly for his own enjoyment as she danced under his masterful fingers.
She twisted, gasped, begged for a break. "Please Marcus, it tickles so much!"
But Marcus reminded her, “Your body thinks you can’t take it. Your mind knows you can.” He pressed on, mercilessly.
Vivian struggled against the restraints in a vain attempt to do something as he tickled her. Escape the agony. Fight back. Anything. But she was trapped. Marcus tormented her body exultantly as she suffered. It was a one hour session but it felt like forever.
"What are you feeling?" he asked.
"It isn't fair!" she screamed. "Why do you get to put me though this?"
"Because you let me" He replied as he brought himself closer and ran his fingers up and down her naked sides.
She writhed in anguish. "I hate you" she whispered.
But she didn't. That was just her defense breaking down and Marcus knew it.
"You're supposed to" he said. And he tormented her belly button, eliciting a primal scream.
When it was all over, Vivian left trembling, but exhilarated.
She wasn't sure she would be back.
----
Vivian toyed with the idea of not showing up again, but one thing she never could bring herself to do was admit defeat.
She arrived for session three on time, but entered the loft with more caution. Marcus, a master at reading people, took another angle using her trepidation against her. This time, he introduced long stretches of silence between tickling, making her sit with the promise of torture.
That was almost worse.
“Anticipation is a form of control,” Marcus said. “Trust yourself to feel in the moment. The more you anticipate, the more you deny yourself the calm between the torture.”
Vivian realized how much of her life she spent bracing for impact—at work, in relationships, even in solitude.
She stood helpless and restrained. As the moments drew longer between Marcus' touches, she could feel the leather of the restraints against her hands. She looked up to see the ropes run through a pulley to hold her back. Then, when she started to relax, she could hear the clicks of a winch as Marcus pulled the rope a little tighter, stretching her more.
She was his puppet. Unarmed. Every ticklish area unprotected. Her underarms. Her belly button. Her midriff. Her sides. All his. Her body was no longer her own.
"You're still thinking where I'm going to tickle you next." Marcus chuckled to himself. "It won't help you."
"I can prepare myself if I know what's coming" she replied.
"That's a fallacy too many people believe." Marcus said as he stepped closer. "Living the torture before it happens, only increases the amount of torture you experience." He let her dangle in her restraints a little longer. "Plan, but don't anticipate." he said. "Let the space between the torture give you strength to make it through the next torture."
When the tickling finally came, she burst into laughter not just from the sensation, but from the release of that built-up tension. Marcus grilled her more, sometimes standing behind her so she didn't know when or from where it would come. Sometimes he attacked hard, wriggling all his fingers on her sides. Other times he'd gently caress under her arms. In every case there was no pattern to how long he would wait or when he would strike. The cruelty of it all consumed her.
But she started to get it. And she existed more in the moment. She was calm and composed up until Marcus let loose on the final volley of tickle torture. When it was over, she had learned a new strategy.
------
The changes bled into her professional life. Her team noticed she was looser in meetings, quicker to laugh, less punishing when mistakes happened. Instead of ruling through sheer intimidation, she had more empathy. When she saw someone struggle, she no longer saw a weak link on the team. She saw herself strung up, ready to be tortured. Her employee was symbolically her. The problem the employee was up against was symbolically Marcus. She began to disarm others the way Marcus had disarmed her: not by overpowering, but by creating space where they could drop their masks too.
She coached her staff to "plan but not anticipate. Let the space between the battle give you strength to make it through the next battle." Naturally she changed the saying to match the corporate world.
At a women's leadership retreat months later, a colleague asked how she had changed so much. Vivian just smiled, thinking of Marcus’s calm voice, the straps, and the unstoppable laughter.
“Unconventional training,” she said. And she left it at that.
One Saturday morning as she arrived at the loft, she was surprised to see Marcus in a more casual outfit. A T shirt and sweats. He looked more like a personal trainer than a corporate coach.
"New approach today,” Marcus said as his eyes danced over her. "Nice new outfit."
She rolled her shoulders and tugged down the hem of her white crop top. The jeans were shorts this time. More Daisy duke style. Something she'd always wanted to dress like, and could never bring herself to wear. But his was a safe space where she could try something new. The thought amused her.
Yeah, tied up and tickle tortured by this guy is my safe space.
She had enjoyed a bubble bath in the morning and took the time to shave her legs. Earlier, Vivian caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror in the foyer. She wasn't just a successful exec. Not just a new free spirit at work. She was hot again. And she started to feel that too.
Marcus guided her into position. Wrists secured above her head, arms stretched enough to expose the tender hollows beneath and pull her crop top higher. She had experienced Marcus' fingers before. Still, every time she allowed herself to be strung up, it was as if the temperature of the room dropped. Vivian could feel the cool air against her naked stomach and now against her nude legs. She tensed even before he touched her.
The first flick of fingers under her arms sent her bucking. The brushes along her ribs made her screech. He alternated light scratches along her sides and taps at her stomach, making her laugh until her muscles burned.
“You’ll notice,” Marcus said between bursts, “your core is engaged, your diaphragm is working, your shoulders are stabilizing. You’re exercising—without choosing the movements yourself.”
She realized he was right. One of the reasons she looked so good is because she was actually getting her heart rate up when he tickled her.
Vivian could barely breathe through the laughter, but she understood. It was training—psychological and physical.
Her abs ached like she’d done planks, her shoulders quivered from being pulled taut, her lungs expanded and compressed with every involuntary laugh.
"Let's start with some crunches" Marcus pinched at her sides forcing Vivian to contract her abs and closed her eyes tighter as she laughed. "hahaha, what?"
He knew her reaction to flicking his index and middle fingers on her hips, so he tormented her there until the excruciating tease made her legs wobble. "Now let's go for a jog" Vivian grimaced and grunted as he kept her moving.
Torturing her underarms made her pull against the restraints, which simulated a bicep and tricep curl, so he stayed on that spot for about ten minutes as Vivian squealed with rage.
"Enjoying your tickle training?" Marcus taunted.
"This is...aaaaaahhhhhhhh...sick!" Vivian shrieked. "You're AHHH!! YOU'RE sick!"
But Marcus knew what he was doing. "No pain, no gain" he yelled over her shouts of protest. For the next hour, he chose a different part of her body to work out until she was physically exhausted. "OK. Time's up."
Marcus brought in a mirror so she could see how much of a workout he had given her. "You've just burned more calories than if you'd worked out for three hours."
That struck a chord. She saw herself exhausted, but she didn't have to exert any energy on her own. He did all the work for her. As Marcus untied Vivian she groaned and pressed a hand to her stomach. “You’re turning me into an athlete by tickle torture?”
Marcus smiled, unruffled as always. “Not just torture. Challenge. You give up control, and your body takes over. That’s strength.”
Vivian began to also understand why it was called "The Forge." Marcus was helping her but he was also reshaping her. The tickle torture created a fire that allowed herself to be, bent, shaped, even molded. She was iron in the fire of his hands. And she loved it.
Over the next few months, their sessions built into a rhythm. Upper-body circuits: Marcus tickled her in intervals—2 minutes under the arms, 2 minutes along her ribs, 2 minutes tapping her stomach, 2 minutes under her navel, 2 minutes break—then repeat for one full hour, like rounds of an unconventional workout. Vivian began to treat each burst like a high-intensity set, laughing until she was breathless, then recovering, then laughing again. Endurance sets: Marcus would stretch her arms aloft longer, focusing only on her sides, forcing her to find composure through the torment and unfairness. Her core and upper back grew stronger without her realizing it. Trust drills: He’d pause, fingers hovering near her skin, waiting until she relaxed before striking suddenly. The anticipation broke her every time—but it also taught her to let go of bracing.
The bond between Marcus and Vivian was unique. Marcus never pushed beyond her limits, yet always nudged her further than she thought she could go. Because of that, she trusted him. She began to crave not just the laughter, but the clarity afterward—the way her body hummed with energy, the way her chest felt open.
At work, colleagues commented more and more on her new vitality. She was sharper, yet softer. Tough, yet approachable. She started leading team “fitness breaks,” though no one knew the secret workouts that inspired her stamina.
Vivian never planned to share her sessions with anyone. At first, they felt too strange, too personal. The thought of telling her colleagues, “I’ve been getting tied up and tickled every weekend by a guy to build resilience,” sounded ludicrous.
But after months of training, the changes were undeniable. She was fitter—her arms and core toned from the involuntary “workouts.” She was calmer in the boardroom, quicker to laugh, more magnetic as a leader. And she noticed something else: the women on her team, brilliant as they were, carried the same armor she once did.
That was when the idea sparked.
Chapter one is here:
----
CHAPTER TWO - VIVIAN'S PATH
The first time Vivian left Marcus’s loft, she was sure it was a one-off experiment. She told herself it was absurd, a footnote in her otherwise polished career. Yet on Monday, as she presided over a tense negotiation, something strange happened.
A tough "good old boy" executive, Georgie Hall, tried to reduce her with a sharp remark. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about our side. We're just fine, sunshine."
She felt her nerves spike—ready to retort.
Then something came over her. She waited.
She remembered the helpless laughter, the way Marcus had told her to surrender, not fight. Instead of fighting back, she interpreted the exec's jab as a little tickle to her ribs or a wriggle of a finger under her arms. To her surprise, she exhaled, smiled, and giggled as she said "Well we could all use a little more sunshine around here."
The entire room blinked in surprise. Vivian Hale had made a joke. They all roared with laughter. The moment was defused and Vivian was in command.
The compliments on her performance started rolling in about how she handled Georgie. The men in the room saw her with a new respect. Vivian saw the growth as well.
After that meeting, when she was alone on her office, she picked up her cell phone and dialed.
A man's voice answered. "Hello."
"Hi Marcus. This is Vivian Hale. I'd like to book some more sessions."
"Lovely" came the reply.
--------
It was getting later in the year and the temperature was cooler, but the rules were the same. A top that leaves the midriff and underarms bare and tight pants. Something that would call attention to the body. Vivian went along in the same outfit she did the first time - Dolce and Gabbana white, ribbed sleeveless crop top, that showed her tan, toned abs, skin tight Prada jeans that presented her magnificent posterior and Manolo Blahnik high heels. It was her siguature Forge outfit.
This time, on the way to her session, she enjoyed the looks and stares of the men on the train as they snuck peeks at her. She let her platinum blonde hair be a beacon and her tan body be the object of their desire. Vivian loved leaving these men hungry for her. She purposely reached up to hold the pole as the train sped along and shared a little more of her midriff with them. She was titillated when an old man's eyes found her belly button and he smiled.
She walked into the loft with a renewed sense of confidence.
"You're back." Marcus said with a mischievous grin.
"So are you." Vivian smirked back
"This way, please." Marcus led her to the rack and tied her more securely this time, her arms spread slightly so she couldn’t curl away. "Most women never see me again. Think you can make it through another session?"
She looked at Marcus defiantly and said "Give me your worst."
That was a mistake.
The tickling was relentless along her upper body—along her ribs, her underarms. Vivian forgot how torturous it was, but Marcus remembered how her body reacted in the first session. It's like he made notes and formulated a plan on how to exact the maximum suffering as he exploited every known tickle spot of hers. Under her arms, the small of her back, her sides. He even went for the same spot just below her navel. He scratched lightly, alternating between his left and right hands so the sensation wouldn't let up. It was as if he was doing this strictly for his own enjoyment as she danced under his masterful fingers.
She twisted, gasped, begged for a break. "Please Marcus, it tickles so much!"
But Marcus reminded her, “Your body thinks you can’t take it. Your mind knows you can.” He pressed on, mercilessly.
Vivian struggled against the restraints in a vain attempt to do something as he tickled her. Escape the agony. Fight back. Anything. But she was trapped. Marcus tormented her body exultantly as she suffered. It was a one hour session but it felt like forever.
"What are you feeling?" he asked.
"It isn't fair!" she screamed. "Why do you get to put me though this?"
"Because you let me" He replied as he brought himself closer and ran his fingers up and down her naked sides.
She writhed in anguish. "I hate you" she whispered.
But she didn't. That was just her defense breaking down and Marcus knew it.
"You're supposed to" he said. And he tormented her belly button, eliciting a primal scream.
When it was all over, Vivian left trembling, but exhilarated.
She wasn't sure she would be back.
----
Vivian toyed with the idea of not showing up again, but one thing she never could bring herself to do was admit defeat.
She arrived for session three on time, but entered the loft with more caution. Marcus, a master at reading people, took another angle using her trepidation against her. This time, he introduced long stretches of silence between tickling, making her sit with the promise of torture.
That was almost worse.
“Anticipation is a form of control,” Marcus said. “Trust yourself to feel in the moment. The more you anticipate, the more you deny yourself the calm between the torture.”
Vivian realized how much of her life she spent bracing for impact—at work, in relationships, even in solitude.
She stood helpless and restrained. As the moments drew longer between Marcus' touches, she could feel the leather of the restraints against her hands. She looked up to see the ropes run through a pulley to hold her back. Then, when she started to relax, she could hear the clicks of a winch as Marcus pulled the rope a little tighter, stretching her more.
She was his puppet. Unarmed. Every ticklish area unprotected. Her underarms. Her belly button. Her midriff. Her sides. All his. Her body was no longer her own.
"You're still thinking where I'm going to tickle you next." Marcus chuckled to himself. "It won't help you."
"I can prepare myself if I know what's coming" she replied.
"That's a fallacy too many people believe." Marcus said as he stepped closer. "Living the torture before it happens, only increases the amount of torture you experience." He let her dangle in her restraints a little longer. "Plan, but don't anticipate." he said. "Let the space between the torture give you strength to make it through the next torture."
When the tickling finally came, she burst into laughter not just from the sensation, but from the release of that built-up tension. Marcus grilled her more, sometimes standing behind her so she didn't know when or from where it would come. Sometimes he attacked hard, wriggling all his fingers on her sides. Other times he'd gently caress under her arms. In every case there was no pattern to how long he would wait or when he would strike. The cruelty of it all consumed her.
But she started to get it. And she existed more in the moment. She was calm and composed up until Marcus let loose on the final volley of tickle torture. When it was over, she had learned a new strategy.
------
The changes bled into her professional life. Her team noticed she was looser in meetings, quicker to laugh, less punishing when mistakes happened. Instead of ruling through sheer intimidation, she had more empathy. When she saw someone struggle, she no longer saw a weak link on the team. She saw herself strung up, ready to be tortured. Her employee was symbolically her. The problem the employee was up against was symbolically Marcus. She began to disarm others the way Marcus had disarmed her: not by overpowering, but by creating space where they could drop their masks too.
She coached her staff to "plan but not anticipate. Let the space between the battle give you strength to make it through the next battle." Naturally she changed the saying to match the corporate world.
At a women's leadership retreat months later, a colleague asked how she had changed so much. Vivian just smiled, thinking of Marcus’s calm voice, the straps, and the unstoppable laughter.
“Unconventional training,” she said. And she left it at that.
One Saturday morning as she arrived at the loft, she was surprised to see Marcus in a more casual outfit. A T shirt and sweats. He looked more like a personal trainer than a corporate coach.
"New approach today,” Marcus said as his eyes danced over her. "Nice new outfit."
She rolled her shoulders and tugged down the hem of her white crop top. The jeans were shorts this time. More Daisy duke style. Something she'd always wanted to dress like, and could never bring herself to wear. But his was a safe space where she could try something new. The thought amused her.
Yeah, tied up and tickle tortured by this guy is my safe space.
She had enjoyed a bubble bath in the morning and took the time to shave her legs. Earlier, Vivian caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror in the foyer. She wasn't just a successful exec. Not just a new free spirit at work. She was hot again. And she started to feel that too.
Marcus guided her into position. Wrists secured above her head, arms stretched enough to expose the tender hollows beneath and pull her crop top higher. She had experienced Marcus' fingers before. Still, every time she allowed herself to be strung up, it was as if the temperature of the room dropped. Vivian could feel the cool air against her naked stomach and now against her nude legs. She tensed even before he touched her.
The first flick of fingers under her arms sent her bucking. The brushes along her ribs made her screech. He alternated light scratches along her sides and taps at her stomach, making her laugh until her muscles burned.
“You’ll notice,” Marcus said between bursts, “your core is engaged, your diaphragm is working, your shoulders are stabilizing. You’re exercising—without choosing the movements yourself.”
She realized he was right. One of the reasons she looked so good is because she was actually getting her heart rate up when he tickled her.
Vivian could barely breathe through the laughter, but she understood. It was training—psychological and physical.
Her abs ached like she’d done planks, her shoulders quivered from being pulled taut, her lungs expanded and compressed with every involuntary laugh.
"Let's start with some crunches" Marcus pinched at her sides forcing Vivian to contract her abs and closed her eyes tighter as she laughed. "hahaha, what?"
He knew her reaction to flicking his index and middle fingers on her hips, so he tormented her there until the excruciating tease made her legs wobble. "Now let's go for a jog" Vivian grimaced and grunted as he kept her moving.
Torturing her underarms made her pull against the restraints, which simulated a bicep and tricep curl, so he stayed on that spot for about ten minutes as Vivian squealed with rage.
"Enjoying your tickle training?" Marcus taunted.
"This is...aaaaaahhhhhhhh...sick!" Vivian shrieked. "You're AHHH!! YOU'RE sick!"
But Marcus knew what he was doing. "No pain, no gain" he yelled over her shouts of protest. For the next hour, he chose a different part of her body to work out until she was physically exhausted. "OK. Time's up."
Marcus brought in a mirror so she could see how much of a workout he had given her. "You've just burned more calories than if you'd worked out for three hours."
That struck a chord. She saw herself exhausted, but she didn't have to exert any energy on her own. He did all the work for her. As Marcus untied Vivian she groaned and pressed a hand to her stomach. “You’re turning me into an athlete by tickle torture?”
Marcus smiled, unruffled as always. “Not just torture. Challenge. You give up control, and your body takes over. That’s strength.”
Vivian began to also understand why it was called "The Forge." Marcus was helping her but he was also reshaping her. The tickle torture created a fire that allowed herself to be, bent, shaped, even molded. She was iron in the fire of his hands. And she loved it.
Over the next few months, their sessions built into a rhythm. Upper-body circuits: Marcus tickled her in intervals—2 minutes under the arms, 2 minutes along her ribs, 2 minutes tapping her stomach, 2 minutes under her navel, 2 minutes break—then repeat for one full hour, like rounds of an unconventional workout. Vivian began to treat each burst like a high-intensity set, laughing until she was breathless, then recovering, then laughing again. Endurance sets: Marcus would stretch her arms aloft longer, focusing only on her sides, forcing her to find composure through the torment and unfairness. Her core and upper back grew stronger without her realizing it. Trust drills: He’d pause, fingers hovering near her skin, waiting until she relaxed before striking suddenly. The anticipation broke her every time—but it also taught her to let go of bracing.
The bond between Marcus and Vivian was unique. Marcus never pushed beyond her limits, yet always nudged her further than she thought she could go. Because of that, she trusted him. She began to crave not just the laughter, but the clarity afterward—the way her body hummed with energy, the way her chest felt open.
At work, colleagues commented more and more on her new vitality. She was sharper, yet softer. Tough, yet approachable. She started leading team “fitness breaks,” though no one knew the secret workouts that inspired her stamina.
Vivian never planned to share her sessions with anyone. At first, they felt too strange, too personal. The thought of telling her colleagues, “I’ve been getting tied up and tickled every weekend by a guy to build resilience,” sounded ludicrous.
But after months of training, the changes were undeniable. She was fitter—her arms and core toned from the involuntary “workouts.” She was calmer in the boardroom, quicker to laugh, more magnetic as a leader. And she noticed something else: the women on her team, brilliant as they were, carried the same armor she once did.
That was when the idea sparked.
Last edited:
