Previous Chapter (3) - Clement | First Chapter - Camila
The rain outside the Weissman residence in Highland Park wasn’t a deluge like the storm battering the crumbling brickwork of the Old Print Works. Here, hundreds of miles away from the industrial rot, it was a gentle, rhythmic patter against the double-paned, argon-filled windows. It was a soothing sound, a natural white noise for a neighborhood where lawns were manicured to the millimeter and crime was something that happened on the news, to other people.
Inside, the kitchen was a sanctuary of warm light and stainless steel. The smell of roasted chicken and lemon still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the aroma of the brewing herbal tea Linda liked before bed.
Gordon Weissman stood at the granite island, drying a wine glass with a lint-free cloth. He was forty-two, with the soft, approachable face of a man who coached Little League and paid his taxes early. He wore a cable-knit beige cardigan over a button-down shirt, the uniform of a comfortable, harmless existence.
"Did Tyler finish that college application essay?" he asked, placing the crystal glass carefully into the overhead cabinet.
Linda was leaning against the counter, scrolling through her iPad. She looked up, smiling. "Take a wild guess. He had one paragraph done and told me ‘it'll do.’ I told him to make a proper effort. When he went up I heard him chatting with his friends on Fortnite."
Gordon chuckled, a warm, practiced sound. "Well, he gets his procrastination from my side of the family. I'll go through it with him in the morning."
He wiped his hands on a hand towel, folding it neatly and hanging it over the oven handle. The kitchen was spotless. Everything in its place. Order. Structure. Safety.
"I'm heading up," Linda said, stifling a yawn. "Are you coming? I recorded that new show on HBO."
Gordon glanced at the microwave clock. 10:45 PM.
"You go ahead, hon," he said, walking over to kiss her on the forehead. His lips were dry, his touch gentle. "I've got a little bit of work to catch up on. The Tokyo markets are opening soon, and with that volatility in the yen, I need to make sure the clients' portfolios are balanced."
It was a lie he had told a hundred times. It was effortless. Smooth as silk.
Linda sighed sympathetically. "You work too hard, Gordy. Don't be too late."
"I won't. Just an hour or so."
He watched her walk out of the kitchen and listened to her footsteps recede up the carpeted stairs. He waited until he heard the distant thud of the bedroom door closing.
The smile on Gordon’s face didn’t vanish instantly; it dissolved slowly, like ice melting in warm water. The warmth left his eyes. His posture shifted, the slight slouch of the tired father straightening into something sharper, more alert.
He turned off the kitchen lights. The room plunged into shadows, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the microwave display and the streetlights filtering through the rain-streaked window.
He walked through the silent living room, his socks padding softly on the carpet. As he passed the fireplace, he paused. The mantelpiece was crowded with framed memories—camping trips at Lake Geneva, Tyler's middle school graduation, a candid shot of Linda laughing on their honeymoon.
Gordon’s gaze lingered on a photo of the three of them from last Christmas. They looked so happy. So normal. A sharp, familiar pang of guilt twisted in his gut. He loved them fiercely. He did. Everything he built, this house, the college funds, the safe suburban life—it was all for them.
I am a good father, he told himself, the mantra automatic. I provide. I protect.
But then, the itch started. A low, persistent hum at the back of his skull. The anticipation of what waited in his study. It was a hunger that had nothing to do with love or family, a dark, private cavern in his soul that demanded to be filled.
He looked away from the photo, pushing the guilt down into a small, locked box in his mind. Just one hour, he bargained with his conscience. Just a little release. It doesn't hurt them. They'll never know.
He walked past the mantelpiece, his steps quickening slightly. He reached the heavy oak door of his study at the back of the house. He stepped inside and closed the door with a satisfying click.
The study was his true domain. Soundproofed walls lined with unread leather-bound books. A humidor he rarely opened. And in the center, dominating the heavy mahogany desk, was his rig. A custom-built PC with dual 4K monitors, a high-fidelity sound system, and a dedicated fiber-optic line that existed separate from the family Wi-Fi.
Gordon sat down in his Herman Miller Aeron chair. The leather creaked as he settled in. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of lemon polish and old paper.
He wasn't Gordon the Dad anymore. He wasn't the loving husband.
He reached out and pressed the power button. The fans whirred to life with a low, predatory hum.
He put on his Sennheiser noise-canceling headphones, the plush cups sealing around his ears, shutting out the rain, the house, and the sleeping family upstairs. The silence was absolute.
His fingers danced across the mechanical keyboard, typing in a complex, 16-character password. The screen flared to life. He ignored his work email. He ignored the stock tickers.
He opened a specialized browser, the onion icon appearing in the corner.
Gordon Weissman was gone. User734 had logged on.
He navigated the dark corridors of the web with the ease of a man walking through his own home. He bypassed the lower-tier sites—the drug markets, the weapon sellers. Amateur hour. He was looking for something curated. Something refined.
He typed the URL from memory. It was a string of nonsense characters to the uninitiated, but to him, it was the key to the candy store.
The page loaded. Dark background. sleek, minimalist gold font.
THE GIGGLE ROOM
STATUS: LIVE
A slow, hungry smile spread across Gordon's face, wide and eager, transforming his soft features into something grotesque in the blue light of the monitor. He checked the time.
"Just in time for the debut," he whispered.
The landing page for The Giggle Room didn't look like a dungeon. It didn't look illegal. That was part of the allure.
If someone glanced over Gordon's shoulder, they might mistake it for a high-end online casino or an exclusive pay-per-view boxing portal. The design was impeccable—sleek charcoal grey backgrounds, minimalist gold typography, and crisp, professional layout. It screamed legitimacy. It whispered implied consent. It allowed men like Gordon to maintain the fiction that this was just… entertainment.
A countdown clock dominated the top of the screen:
SPECIAL EVENT: THE REPORTER'S DEBUT
LIVE IN: 04:32
Below the timer, the "Community Hub" was already buzzing. The chat window scrolled rapidly on the right side of his secondary monitor, a waterfall of usernames and neon text.
Gordon cracked his knuckles and leaned forward, his eyes scanning the chatter. It was the usual crowd. The whales. The connoisseurs.
SlickRick: Heard the new girl is a fighter. Word is she actually swung at Knuckles during the intake.
TickleKing: Bullshit. Nobody swings at Knuckles and keeps their teeth.
SlickRick: I'm telling you, she’s got fire. Just means she'll break louder.
FeatherLuver_88: I hope she’s got sensitive feet. The last couple have been dead soles. I want to see some twitching tonight.
CryptoBaron: Betting 500 she taps out in under ten minutes. Who wants action?
Gordon smirked. He loved the pre-show buzz. It was like the tailgate party before the Super Bowl, a shared excitement among men who understood the… nuance.
He placed his fingers on the keyboard and joined the fray.
User734: Good evening, gentlemen. Long time no see. Is the hype real on this one?
The responses came almost instantly. User734 was a known entity here. A "Platinum Subscriber." A whale who tipped heavy and voted smart.
TickleKing: 734! You’re alive! Thought the wife caught you.
SlickRick: The hype is real. Check the 'Talent' tab. Her updated stats just dropped. Atkins did the prep personally.
Gordon felt a thrill of intrigue. Atkins didn't do the prep unless it was a main event. The Doctor was an artist. If he had primed the canvas, the results would be spectacular.
Gordon’s eyes drifted to a flashing banner ad running across the bottom of the feed.
TONIGHT'S BROADCAST SPONSORED BY ATKINS & ASSOCIATES - "Precision Care for the Discerning Collector."
A dark, inside joke. Gordon chuckled softly. The production values were getting better every month.
He tabbed over to his crypto wallet. He had a dedicated ledger for this—hidden, untraceable. He checked his balance. Healthy. He transferred 0.2 BTC into his Giggle Room account. The transaction confirmed in seconds.
Ping.
ACCOUNT BALANCE UPDATED. WELCOME BACK, USER734.
He felt a rush of dopamine. The power of it. With a few keystrokes, he had just spent more money than his family’s grocery budget for six months. He rationalizes it instantly—it was a hobby. Some men bought vintage cars. Some men gambled on horses. He bought moments of control.
"Let's see what we're buying tonight," he murmured.
He clicked on the "Talent" tab. The page refreshed, displaying a gallery of high-resolution, professional headshots. They looked like model composites.
JOLENE
Alias:The Believer
Attributes:Melodic Vocalizations (Southern Accent), High Pain Tolerance but Low Tickle Resistance, Prone to Bargaining/Pleading.
Market Note:A unique psychological profile. Subject often invokes prayer during sessions, creating a compelling narrative of faith vs. sensation for our viewers. Her pleas offer a distinct and engaging audio experience.
Status: On Rotation.
ELENA
Alias:The Veteran
Attributes:High Endurance, fights back, Deep Arch Sensitivity.
Status:Resting (Maintenance Mode).
SARAH
Alias: The Void
Attributes: Catatonic State, unresponsive to commands, pure physiological response only.
Market Note: For the connoisseur of pure sensation. Subject offers zero personality interference. It is like painting on a blank canvas—the viewer projects their own desires onto a subject who is physically present but mentally absent. The thrill lies in forcing the body to scream while the mind remains silent.
Status: On Rotation.
CHLOE
Alias:The Screamer
Attributes:Vocal, Expressive, Low Pain Threshold.
Status:Recovering (Post-Op Care).
PRIYA
Alias:The Desi-rable
Attributes:Ankle/Instep Hypersensitivity, Highly Vocal (Crying/Pleading), Low Stamina.
Market Note:Fresh acquisition. Still in the "breaking-in" phase. Easily overwhelmed, providing quick and satisfying results for viewers who prefer less resistance. Ideal for feather and soft brush work.
Status:Available for Scheduled Sessions.
And there, in the prime spot, was the new entry. There was no photo yet, just a grey silhouette with a question mark. The mystery was a marketing tactic, and it was working.
CAMILA
Alias:The Reporter
Origin:Urban/Professional
Resistance Level:High (Flight Risk Protocols Active)
Prep Note:“Subject has undergone Dr. Atkins’ ‘Glass Sole’ treatment. Callus removal 100%. Capsaicin sensitization applied. Skin integrity: Pristine.”
Gordon read the prep note twice. "Glass Sole." That meant zero friction. Maximum reactivity.
His mouth went dry. He reached for his glass of sparkling water, taking a long sip to cool the sudden heat in his throat.
The countdown clock hit 01:00.
The chat room exploded with activity.
TickleKing: HERE WE GO BOYS!
SlickRick: Get your votes ready!
FeatherLuver_88: showtime!
Gordon adjusted his headphones, turning on the noise cancellation feature. The world outside—the rain, the house, the sleeping wife—ceased to exist. There was only the screen. Only the waiting.
He typed one last message into the chat.
User734: Let’s see if she can handle the spotlight.
The timer hit 00:00.
The screen went black.
The black screen held for a dramatic three seconds, just long enough to let the anticipation spike. Then, the "Giggle Room" logo exploded onto the monitor—a neon pink feather crossed with a stylized laughing mouth—spinning and dissolving into the live feed.
The video quality was breathtaking. 4K resolution, sixty frames per second. It was crisp, fluid, and so real it felt like a window had been punched through his monitor.
Gordon leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes drinking in the scene.
The feed opened on a wide shot of the set. To Gordon, sitting in his temperature-controlled office, it looked nothing like the dank, terrifying factory floor Camila had experienced.
Through the lens of the high-end cameras and the color-grading filters applied in real-time, the "Giggle Room" looked like a moody, industrial-chic studio. The rust on the beams looked like texture. The concrete floor looked like polished slate. The lighting was warm and directed, creating a theatrical spotlight in the center of the darkness.
"Production value is up," Gordon noted approvingly. "Nice contrast."
Two figures walked into the frame.
First came Slick Navarro. In the high-def feed, his shiny suit looked less like polyester and more like silk. He smiled at the camera, a charming, roguish host.
"Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, I am your host Luis Navarro, and I am joined with my co-host Tony Grimaldi" Slick’s voice came through the headphones, rich and clear, mixed perfectly over a low, thrumming bass track. "Tonight, we have a very special treat. A guest who thought she could expose our little club… but decided to join the membership instead."
The chat room scrolled with laughing emojis and thumbs-up icons.
Then, Knuckles Grimaldi entered. He was leading the girl.
Gordon leaned closer, squinting slightly.
Camila.
She didn't look like a prisoner being dragged to an execution. The way Knuckles held her arm looked firm but guiding. Her struggle—the way she pulled back and shook her head—was framed as reluctance, shyness. The "damp, distressed" hair Atkins had insisted on looked artfully tousled, giving her a raw, gritty appeal.
They brought her to the table. The camera work was dynamic, switching angles seamlessly.
Cut to Close-Up: Camila's face.
She was shouting something, her eyes wide. Gordon couldn't really hear the words. The audio mix prioritized the host's voice and the background music. Her protests were just background noise, muted and indistinct. To Gordon, it looked like hyped-up anxiety, the nerves of a performer before a big stunt.
When she screamed "NO!", the subtitles on the stream read: [Subject Expressing Hesitation].
It was a masterpiece of reframing.
Knuckles lifted her onto the table. The camera operator knew exactly what the subscribers wanted. The lens panned down, ignoring her thrashing upper body, and focused intently on her legs.
Zoom In: The Feet.
Gordon let out a low breath. Atkins had outdone himself.
Under the studio lights, Camila's feet were mesmerizing. They were a vivid, healthy pink, the skin appearing impossibly smooth and soft. The clear coat on her nails caught the light like diamonds. They didn't look like feet that had walked miles on city pavement; they looked like porcelain sculptures.
He could see the slight tremor in her arches as the cool air of the studio hit them. The sensitivity was palpable even through the screen.
"Excellent prep work," Gordon murmured, typing quickly into the chat.
User734: Look at that shine. Atkins is a genius. 10/10 prep.
The chat agreed.
FeatherLuver_88: flawless.
TickleKing: looks like glass. She's gonna feel everything.
On screen, Knuckles was securing the ankle straps. The leather cuffs looked plush and comfortable in the warm light. Camila was kicking, but to the audience, it was just "resistance play." The more she fought, the more the chat cheered.
Slick walked into the frame, holding a microphone. He gestured to Camila's exposed, glistening soles.
"As you can see, the Doctor has prepared a blank slate for us tonight," Slick purred. "Zero friction. Maximum sensation. But the question is… how should we warm her up?"
A graphic overlaid the video feed. It was a sleek, semi-transparent poll window.
AUDIENCE VOTE: WARM-UP TOOL
Gordon sat up straighter. This was the moment. The interactivity. The illusion of control.
Three options appeared on his screen, each with a live bar graph showing the votes tallying in real-time.
[ ] THE FEATHERS (Classic tickle)
[ ] THE ELECTRIC TOOTHBRUSH (Vibration)
[ ] THE SPECULA (Toe Spreaders) & BABY OIL
Gordon drummed his fingers on his desk.
Feathers were too gentle for a "fighter" like this. The toothbrush was good, but a bit clinical.
He looked at Camila's face on the screen. She was panting, her chest heaving, her eyes darting around in panic. She looked defiant still. She needed to be opened up. She needed to be humbled.
The Specula.
It was aggressive. It was revealing. It forced the toes apart, exposing the sensitive webbing, stretching the skin tight so there was nowhere to hide from the touch.
Gordon moved his mouse. He hovered over the third option.
Click.
VOTE SUBMITTED.
He watched the bar graph jump. The community was with him. The third bar surged ahead, turning green.
WINNER: THE SPECULA & BABY OIL
On screen, Slick looked at a monitor off-camera and grinned. He turned back to Camila.
"Well, chica," Slick said, his voice smooth. "Looks like they want to see everything."
He reached for a tray and picked up the plastic toe spreaders.
Gordon watched as Camila’s eyes went wide. She saw the tool. She started shaking her head violently.
"No! Please! Not those!"
Through Gordon's speakers, her plea was clear this time. But he didn't feel pity. He didn't feel horror. He reached for the volume knob on his interface and turned it down slightly, just to take the edge off the pitch.
He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking comfortably. He took a sip of his sparkling water, the bubbles bursting on his tongue.
"Show me," he whispered to the screen.
On screen, the scene was chaos.
Slick and Knuckles had finished applying the specula. Camila’s toes were splayed wide, locked open by the rigid blue plastic spacers. The skin between them was stretched taut, pink and glistening with a fresh coat of oil. She was bound, helpless, and utterly exposed.
And the chat had just voted for the "Dual Attack."
Knuckles was on her left foot, using a stiff-bristled hairbrush. Slick was on her right, using his fingers and nails.
The sound coming through Gordon's headphones was a wall of noise. The rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch of the brush. The wet slap of oil. And above it all, Camila.
She wasn't just screaming anymore. She was making sounds that were barely human—a jagged, hyperventilating mixture of sobbing and high-pitched, desperate laughter.
"NO-HA-HAHA! ST-STOP! PLEASE-GOD-NO-AHA-HA-HA!"
Gordon was entranced. He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped over his mouth. His heart rate was elevated. His breathing was shallow. He watched the way her arch spasmed under the brush. He watched the tears streaming down her face, catching the studio lights. It was visceral. It was raw.
His cock hardened in his pants, tenting his trousers, and he slowly reached for the box of tissues on the little table beside the computer table
He forgot to lock the door.
He didn't hear the door handle turn
He didn't hear the heavy oak door creak open behind him.
Tyler, his seventeen-year-old son, stood in the doorway. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep. He held a phone in one hand.
"Dad?" Tyler said, his voice groggy.
Gordon's fingers found the opening of the box of tissues. On screen, Slick dug his thumbs into Camila's solar plexus point on her sole. She arched her back, letting out a shriek that peaked the audio meters.
"Dad?" Tyler said again, louder. He stepped into the room.
Nothing. Gordon was locked in, muttering something under his breath.
Tyler walked closer, frowning. He moved around the side of the desk, stepping into his father's peripheral vision.
"Dad, the Wi-Fi is—"
At that moment, facing the screen, Tyler saw it.
For a split second, the image burned into the teenager's retinas. A woman, strapped to a table. Men looming over her. Her face twisted, mouth open in a scream.
Gordon caught the movement.
The spell shattered.
He ripped the headphones off his head with a violent jerk, and pulled his hand away from the box of tissues like it had electrocuted him, spinning his chair around. His elbow slammed into the desk, knocking his sparkling water over.
"JESUS!" Gordon shouted, his heart leaping into his throat.
Tyler jumped back, startled by his father's sudden movement. "Whoa! Dad! I knocked like three times!"
Gordon’s hand scrambled for the mouse behind his back. Alt-Tab. Minimize. Minimize.
He clicked blindly. The window vanished, replaced instantly by a spreadsheet full of incomprehensible numbers and graphs—the Tokyo market report he kept open as a decoy.
Gordon’s chest was heaving. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his veins. Had he seen? How much?
"Tyler," Gordon gasped, forcing a smile that felt like it was made of cracking plaster. "You scared the life out of me, son. I told you, Dad is working."
Tyler looked at him, confused. Then his eyes drifted past Gordon to the screen. To the spreadsheet.
"Sorry," Tyler mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… the internet's really laggy. I can't load my game."
Gordon scanned his son’s face. No horror. No disgust. Just teenage annoyance and sleepiness.
He hadn't processed it. It was just a flash of color and movement. Maybe he thought it was a movie. Maybe a pop-up ad. Or maybe, please God, he just hadn't looked closely enough.
Gordon let out a slow, shaky breath. "It's probably the storms," he lied smoothly. "Or maybe I'm hogging the bandwidth with these market downloads. Let me… let me pause the transfer."
He turned back to the screen, pretending to click a few buttons on the spreadsheet. Behind the window, "The Giggle Room" was still running, muted now, invisible.
"Try it in five minutes," Gordon said, turning back. "Should be faster."
"Okay. Thanks." Tyler turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Was that a horror movie?"
Gordon froze. His blood turned to ice.
"What?"
"On the screen. Before you switched it. Looked like Saw or something."
Gordon swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. "Oh. That. Just a… a news report. From overseas. Pretty graphic stuff. Didn't want you to see it."
Tyler shrugged. "Cool. Night, Dad."
"Goodnight, Tyler."
The door clicked shut.
Gordon sat in the silence for a long time. The leaked water from his glass dripped onto the carpet.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He was trembling. That was too close. Way too close.
He should log off. He should go upstairs, kiss his wife, and count his blessings. A normal man would stop.
But Gordon Weissman wasn't a normal man. Not in this room.
Slowly, his hand reached out. He righted the glass. He picked up the headphones. He hesitated for a second, looking at the door… he stood, locked the door and sat back down, then put his headphones back on.
Alt-Tab.
The spreadsheet vanished. The Giggle Room returned.
The show hadn't stopped. In fact, it had escalated.
Since he’d looked away, they had moved on to the finale.
In the chat, the text was scrolling so fast it was a blur.
TickleKing: SHE'S CRACKING!
SlickRick: LOOK AT HER EYES! NOBODY'S HOME!
Gordon looked at the video feed.
Camila had stopped fighting the straps. Her body had gone limp, drained of all physical resistance. But her feet… her feet were still being tormented.
Knuckles had abandoned the tools. He was using his massive, calloused hands now. He had both of her feet gripped tight, his thumbs digging ruthlessly into the center of her arches, kneading the flesh like dough.
And Camila?
She wasn't screaming anymore.
Her head was lolling from side to side on the table. Her eyes were rolled back, showing the whites. Her mouth hung open, drool pooling at the corner of her lips.
And from her throat came a sound that chilled Gordon to the bone, even through the safety of the screen.
It was a low, continuous, broken wheeze. A ghost of a laugh.
"h-huh… h-h-huh… hhhhaaah…"
She was gone. Her mind had retreated. She had essentially passed out from the sensory overload, her body present but her consciousness fled to somewhere safe.
Slick noticed it too. He leaned in, waved a hand in front of her face. She didn't blink.
"And… that's a wrap, ladies and gentlemen!" Slick announced, grinning at the camera. "Looks like the reporter has officially signed off."
The screen faded to black. The Giggle Room logo appeared.
BROADCAST ENDED.
Gordon sat there in the silence of his office. The adrenaline from Tyler's intrusion mixed with the dark satisfaction of the finale. He felt drained. Empty.
He took off the headphones and laid them gently on the desk. He closed the browser. He cleared the cache. He shut down the computer.
He stood up, his legs slightly shaky. He walked to the door and unlocked it.
Click.
He stepped out into the hallway. The house was quiet. The rain tapped against the windows.
Gordon Weissman, the loving father, the devoted husband, walked up the stairs to bed, leaving User734 in the dark, waiting for the next show.
Next Chapter (5) - Jack
The rain outside the Weissman residence in Highland Park wasn’t a deluge like the storm battering the crumbling brickwork of the Old Print Works. Here, hundreds of miles away from the industrial rot, it was a gentle, rhythmic patter against the double-paned, argon-filled windows. It was a soothing sound, a natural white noise for a neighborhood where lawns were manicured to the millimeter and crime was something that happened on the news, to other people.
Inside, the kitchen was a sanctuary of warm light and stainless steel. The smell of roasted chicken and lemon still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the aroma of the brewing herbal tea Linda liked before bed.
Gordon Weissman stood at the granite island, drying a wine glass with a lint-free cloth. He was forty-two, with the soft, approachable face of a man who coached Little League and paid his taxes early. He wore a cable-knit beige cardigan over a button-down shirt, the uniform of a comfortable, harmless existence.
"Did Tyler finish that college application essay?" he asked, placing the crystal glass carefully into the overhead cabinet.
Linda was leaning against the counter, scrolling through her iPad. She looked up, smiling. "Take a wild guess. He had one paragraph done and told me ‘it'll do.’ I told him to make a proper effort. When he went up I heard him chatting with his friends on Fortnite."
Gordon chuckled, a warm, practiced sound. "Well, he gets his procrastination from my side of the family. I'll go through it with him in the morning."
He wiped his hands on a hand towel, folding it neatly and hanging it over the oven handle. The kitchen was spotless. Everything in its place. Order. Structure. Safety.
"I'm heading up," Linda said, stifling a yawn. "Are you coming? I recorded that new show on HBO."
Gordon glanced at the microwave clock. 10:45 PM.
"You go ahead, hon," he said, walking over to kiss her on the forehead. His lips were dry, his touch gentle. "I've got a little bit of work to catch up on. The Tokyo markets are opening soon, and with that volatility in the yen, I need to make sure the clients' portfolios are balanced."
It was a lie he had told a hundred times. It was effortless. Smooth as silk.
Linda sighed sympathetically. "You work too hard, Gordy. Don't be too late."
"I won't. Just an hour or so."
He watched her walk out of the kitchen and listened to her footsteps recede up the carpeted stairs. He waited until he heard the distant thud of the bedroom door closing.
The smile on Gordon’s face didn’t vanish instantly; it dissolved slowly, like ice melting in warm water. The warmth left his eyes. His posture shifted, the slight slouch of the tired father straightening into something sharper, more alert.
He turned off the kitchen lights. The room plunged into shadows, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the microwave display and the streetlights filtering through the rain-streaked window.
He walked through the silent living room, his socks padding softly on the carpet. As he passed the fireplace, he paused. The mantelpiece was crowded with framed memories—camping trips at Lake Geneva, Tyler's middle school graduation, a candid shot of Linda laughing on their honeymoon.
Gordon’s gaze lingered on a photo of the three of them from last Christmas. They looked so happy. So normal. A sharp, familiar pang of guilt twisted in his gut. He loved them fiercely. He did. Everything he built, this house, the college funds, the safe suburban life—it was all for them.
I am a good father, he told himself, the mantra automatic. I provide. I protect.
But then, the itch started. A low, persistent hum at the back of his skull. The anticipation of what waited in his study. It was a hunger that had nothing to do with love or family, a dark, private cavern in his soul that demanded to be filled.
He looked away from the photo, pushing the guilt down into a small, locked box in his mind. Just one hour, he bargained with his conscience. Just a little release. It doesn't hurt them. They'll never know.
He walked past the mantelpiece, his steps quickening slightly. He reached the heavy oak door of his study at the back of the house. He stepped inside and closed the door with a satisfying click.
The study was his true domain. Soundproofed walls lined with unread leather-bound books. A humidor he rarely opened. And in the center, dominating the heavy mahogany desk, was his rig. A custom-built PC with dual 4K monitors, a high-fidelity sound system, and a dedicated fiber-optic line that existed separate from the family Wi-Fi.
Gordon sat down in his Herman Miller Aeron chair. The leather creaked as he settled in. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of lemon polish and old paper.
He wasn't Gordon the Dad anymore. He wasn't the loving husband.
He reached out and pressed the power button. The fans whirred to life with a low, predatory hum.
He put on his Sennheiser noise-canceling headphones, the plush cups sealing around his ears, shutting out the rain, the house, and the sleeping family upstairs. The silence was absolute.
His fingers danced across the mechanical keyboard, typing in a complex, 16-character password. The screen flared to life. He ignored his work email. He ignored the stock tickers.
He opened a specialized browser, the onion icon appearing in the corner.
Gordon Weissman was gone. User734 had logged on.
He navigated the dark corridors of the web with the ease of a man walking through his own home. He bypassed the lower-tier sites—the drug markets, the weapon sellers. Amateur hour. He was looking for something curated. Something refined.
He typed the URL from memory. It was a string of nonsense characters to the uninitiated, but to him, it was the key to the candy store.
The page loaded. Dark background. sleek, minimalist gold font.
THE GIGGLE ROOM
STATUS: LIVE
A slow, hungry smile spread across Gordon's face, wide and eager, transforming his soft features into something grotesque in the blue light of the monitor. He checked the time.
"Just in time for the debut," he whispered.
The landing page for The Giggle Room didn't look like a dungeon. It didn't look illegal. That was part of the allure.
If someone glanced over Gordon's shoulder, they might mistake it for a high-end online casino or an exclusive pay-per-view boxing portal. The design was impeccable—sleek charcoal grey backgrounds, minimalist gold typography, and crisp, professional layout. It screamed legitimacy. It whispered implied consent. It allowed men like Gordon to maintain the fiction that this was just… entertainment.
A countdown clock dominated the top of the screen:
SPECIAL EVENT: THE REPORTER'S DEBUT
LIVE IN: 04:32
Below the timer, the "Community Hub" was already buzzing. The chat window scrolled rapidly on the right side of his secondary monitor, a waterfall of usernames and neon text.
Gordon cracked his knuckles and leaned forward, his eyes scanning the chatter. It was the usual crowd. The whales. The connoisseurs.
SlickRick: Heard the new girl is a fighter. Word is she actually swung at Knuckles during the intake.
TickleKing: Bullshit. Nobody swings at Knuckles and keeps their teeth.
SlickRick: I'm telling you, she’s got fire. Just means she'll break louder.
FeatherLuver_88: I hope she’s got sensitive feet. The last couple have been dead soles. I want to see some twitching tonight.
CryptoBaron: Betting 500 she taps out in under ten minutes. Who wants action?
Gordon smirked. He loved the pre-show buzz. It was like the tailgate party before the Super Bowl, a shared excitement among men who understood the… nuance.
He placed his fingers on the keyboard and joined the fray.
User734: Good evening, gentlemen. Long time no see. Is the hype real on this one?
The responses came almost instantly. User734 was a known entity here. A "Platinum Subscriber." A whale who tipped heavy and voted smart.
TickleKing: 734! You’re alive! Thought the wife caught you.
SlickRick: The hype is real. Check the 'Talent' tab. Her updated stats just dropped. Atkins did the prep personally.
Gordon felt a thrill of intrigue. Atkins didn't do the prep unless it was a main event. The Doctor was an artist. If he had primed the canvas, the results would be spectacular.
Gordon’s eyes drifted to a flashing banner ad running across the bottom of the feed.
TONIGHT'S BROADCAST SPONSORED BY ATKINS & ASSOCIATES - "Precision Care for the Discerning Collector."
A dark, inside joke. Gordon chuckled softly. The production values were getting better every month.
He tabbed over to his crypto wallet. He had a dedicated ledger for this—hidden, untraceable. He checked his balance. Healthy. He transferred 0.2 BTC into his Giggle Room account. The transaction confirmed in seconds.
Ping.
ACCOUNT BALANCE UPDATED. WELCOME BACK, USER734.
He felt a rush of dopamine. The power of it. With a few keystrokes, he had just spent more money than his family’s grocery budget for six months. He rationalizes it instantly—it was a hobby. Some men bought vintage cars. Some men gambled on horses. He bought moments of control.
"Let's see what we're buying tonight," he murmured.
He clicked on the "Talent" tab. The page refreshed, displaying a gallery of high-resolution, professional headshots. They looked like model composites.
JOLENE
Alias:The Believer
Attributes:Melodic Vocalizations (Southern Accent), High Pain Tolerance but Low Tickle Resistance, Prone to Bargaining/Pleading.
Market Note:A unique psychological profile. Subject often invokes prayer during sessions, creating a compelling narrative of faith vs. sensation for our viewers. Her pleas offer a distinct and engaging audio experience.
Status: On Rotation.
ELENA
Alias:The Veteran
Attributes:High Endurance, fights back, Deep Arch Sensitivity.
Status:Resting (Maintenance Mode).
SARAH
Alias: The Void
Attributes: Catatonic State, unresponsive to commands, pure physiological response only.
Market Note: For the connoisseur of pure sensation. Subject offers zero personality interference. It is like painting on a blank canvas—the viewer projects their own desires onto a subject who is physically present but mentally absent. The thrill lies in forcing the body to scream while the mind remains silent.
Status: On Rotation.
CHLOE
Alias:The Screamer
Attributes:Vocal, Expressive, Low Pain Threshold.
Status:Recovering (Post-Op Care).
PRIYA
Alias:The Desi-rable
Attributes:Ankle/Instep Hypersensitivity, Highly Vocal (Crying/Pleading), Low Stamina.
Market Note:Fresh acquisition. Still in the "breaking-in" phase. Easily overwhelmed, providing quick and satisfying results for viewers who prefer less resistance. Ideal for feather and soft brush work.
Status:Available for Scheduled Sessions.
And there, in the prime spot, was the new entry. There was no photo yet, just a grey silhouette with a question mark. The mystery was a marketing tactic, and it was working.
CAMILA
Alias:The Reporter
Origin:Urban/Professional
Resistance Level:High (Flight Risk Protocols Active)
Prep Note:“Subject has undergone Dr. Atkins’ ‘Glass Sole’ treatment. Callus removal 100%. Capsaicin sensitization applied. Skin integrity: Pristine.”
Gordon read the prep note twice. "Glass Sole." That meant zero friction. Maximum reactivity.
His mouth went dry. He reached for his glass of sparkling water, taking a long sip to cool the sudden heat in his throat.
The countdown clock hit 01:00.
The chat room exploded with activity.
TickleKing: HERE WE GO BOYS!
SlickRick: Get your votes ready!
FeatherLuver_88: showtime!
Gordon adjusted his headphones, turning on the noise cancellation feature. The world outside—the rain, the house, the sleeping wife—ceased to exist. There was only the screen. Only the waiting.
He typed one last message into the chat.
User734: Let’s see if she can handle the spotlight.
The timer hit 00:00.
The screen went black.
The black screen held for a dramatic three seconds, just long enough to let the anticipation spike. Then, the "Giggle Room" logo exploded onto the monitor—a neon pink feather crossed with a stylized laughing mouth—spinning and dissolving into the live feed.
The video quality was breathtaking. 4K resolution, sixty frames per second. It was crisp, fluid, and so real it felt like a window had been punched through his monitor.
Gordon leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes drinking in the scene.
The feed opened on a wide shot of the set. To Gordon, sitting in his temperature-controlled office, it looked nothing like the dank, terrifying factory floor Camila had experienced.
Through the lens of the high-end cameras and the color-grading filters applied in real-time, the "Giggle Room" looked like a moody, industrial-chic studio. The rust on the beams looked like texture. The concrete floor looked like polished slate. The lighting was warm and directed, creating a theatrical spotlight in the center of the darkness.
"Production value is up," Gordon noted approvingly. "Nice contrast."
Two figures walked into the frame.
First came Slick Navarro. In the high-def feed, his shiny suit looked less like polyester and more like silk. He smiled at the camera, a charming, roguish host.
"Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, I am your host Luis Navarro, and I am joined with my co-host Tony Grimaldi" Slick’s voice came through the headphones, rich and clear, mixed perfectly over a low, thrumming bass track. "Tonight, we have a very special treat. A guest who thought she could expose our little club… but decided to join the membership instead."
The chat room scrolled with laughing emojis and thumbs-up icons.
Then, Knuckles Grimaldi entered. He was leading the girl.
Gordon leaned closer, squinting slightly.
Camila.
She didn't look like a prisoner being dragged to an execution. The way Knuckles held her arm looked firm but guiding. Her struggle—the way she pulled back and shook her head—was framed as reluctance, shyness. The "damp, distressed" hair Atkins had insisted on looked artfully tousled, giving her a raw, gritty appeal.
They brought her to the table. The camera work was dynamic, switching angles seamlessly.
Cut to Close-Up: Camila's face.
She was shouting something, her eyes wide. Gordon couldn't really hear the words. The audio mix prioritized the host's voice and the background music. Her protests were just background noise, muted and indistinct. To Gordon, it looked like hyped-up anxiety, the nerves of a performer before a big stunt.
When she screamed "NO!", the subtitles on the stream read: [Subject Expressing Hesitation].
It was a masterpiece of reframing.
Knuckles lifted her onto the table. The camera operator knew exactly what the subscribers wanted. The lens panned down, ignoring her thrashing upper body, and focused intently on her legs.
Zoom In: The Feet.
Gordon let out a low breath. Atkins had outdone himself.
Under the studio lights, Camila's feet were mesmerizing. They were a vivid, healthy pink, the skin appearing impossibly smooth and soft. The clear coat on her nails caught the light like diamonds. They didn't look like feet that had walked miles on city pavement; they looked like porcelain sculptures.
He could see the slight tremor in her arches as the cool air of the studio hit them. The sensitivity was palpable even through the screen.
"Excellent prep work," Gordon murmured, typing quickly into the chat.
User734: Look at that shine. Atkins is a genius. 10/10 prep.
The chat agreed.
FeatherLuver_88: flawless.
TickleKing: looks like glass. She's gonna feel everything.
On screen, Knuckles was securing the ankle straps. The leather cuffs looked plush and comfortable in the warm light. Camila was kicking, but to the audience, it was just "resistance play." The more she fought, the more the chat cheered.
Slick walked into the frame, holding a microphone. He gestured to Camila's exposed, glistening soles.
"As you can see, the Doctor has prepared a blank slate for us tonight," Slick purred. "Zero friction. Maximum sensation. But the question is… how should we warm her up?"
A graphic overlaid the video feed. It was a sleek, semi-transparent poll window.
AUDIENCE VOTE: WARM-UP TOOL
Gordon sat up straighter. This was the moment. The interactivity. The illusion of control.
Three options appeared on his screen, each with a live bar graph showing the votes tallying in real-time.
[ ] THE FEATHERS (Classic tickle)
[ ] THE ELECTRIC TOOTHBRUSH (Vibration)
[ ] THE SPECULA (Toe Spreaders) & BABY OIL
Gordon drummed his fingers on his desk.
Feathers were too gentle for a "fighter" like this. The toothbrush was good, but a bit clinical.
He looked at Camila's face on the screen. She was panting, her chest heaving, her eyes darting around in panic. She looked defiant still. She needed to be opened up. She needed to be humbled.
The Specula.
It was aggressive. It was revealing. It forced the toes apart, exposing the sensitive webbing, stretching the skin tight so there was nowhere to hide from the touch.
Gordon moved his mouse. He hovered over the third option.
Click.
VOTE SUBMITTED.
He watched the bar graph jump. The community was with him. The third bar surged ahead, turning green.
WINNER: THE SPECULA & BABY OIL
On screen, Slick looked at a monitor off-camera and grinned. He turned back to Camila.
"Well, chica," Slick said, his voice smooth. "Looks like they want to see everything."
He reached for a tray and picked up the plastic toe spreaders.
Gordon watched as Camila’s eyes went wide. She saw the tool. She started shaking her head violently.
"No! Please! Not those!"
Through Gordon's speakers, her plea was clear this time. But he didn't feel pity. He didn't feel horror. He reached for the volume knob on his interface and turned it down slightly, just to take the edge off the pitch.
He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking comfortably. He took a sip of his sparkling water, the bubbles bursting on his tongue.
"Show me," he whispered to the screen.
On screen, the scene was chaos.
Slick and Knuckles had finished applying the specula. Camila’s toes were splayed wide, locked open by the rigid blue plastic spacers. The skin between them was stretched taut, pink and glistening with a fresh coat of oil. She was bound, helpless, and utterly exposed.
And the chat had just voted for the "Dual Attack."
Knuckles was on her left foot, using a stiff-bristled hairbrush. Slick was on her right, using his fingers and nails.
The sound coming through Gordon's headphones was a wall of noise. The rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch of the brush. The wet slap of oil. And above it all, Camila.
She wasn't just screaming anymore. She was making sounds that were barely human—a jagged, hyperventilating mixture of sobbing and high-pitched, desperate laughter.
"NO-HA-HAHA! ST-STOP! PLEASE-GOD-NO-AHA-HA-HA!"
Gordon was entranced. He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped over his mouth. His heart rate was elevated. His breathing was shallow. He watched the way her arch spasmed under the brush. He watched the tears streaming down her face, catching the studio lights. It was visceral. It was raw.
His cock hardened in his pants, tenting his trousers, and he slowly reached for the box of tissues on the little table beside the computer table
He forgot to lock the door.
He didn't hear the door handle turn
He didn't hear the heavy oak door creak open behind him.
Tyler, his seventeen-year-old son, stood in the doorway. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep. He held a phone in one hand.
"Dad?" Tyler said, his voice groggy.
Gordon's fingers found the opening of the box of tissues. On screen, Slick dug his thumbs into Camila's solar plexus point on her sole. She arched her back, letting out a shriek that peaked the audio meters.
"Dad?" Tyler said again, louder. He stepped into the room.
Nothing. Gordon was locked in, muttering something under his breath.
Tyler walked closer, frowning. He moved around the side of the desk, stepping into his father's peripheral vision.
"Dad, the Wi-Fi is—"
At that moment, facing the screen, Tyler saw it.
For a split second, the image burned into the teenager's retinas. A woman, strapped to a table. Men looming over her. Her face twisted, mouth open in a scream.
Gordon caught the movement.
The spell shattered.
He ripped the headphones off his head with a violent jerk, and pulled his hand away from the box of tissues like it had electrocuted him, spinning his chair around. His elbow slammed into the desk, knocking his sparkling water over.
"JESUS!" Gordon shouted, his heart leaping into his throat.
Tyler jumped back, startled by his father's sudden movement. "Whoa! Dad! I knocked like three times!"
Gordon’s hand scrambled for the mouse behind his back. Alt-Tab. Minimize. Minimize.
He clicked blindly. The window vanished, replaced instantly by a spreadsheet full of incomprehensible numbers and graphs—the Tokyo market report he kept open as a decoy.
Gordon’s chest was heaving. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his veins. Had he seen? How much?
"Tyler," Gordon gasped, forcing a smile that felt like it was made of cracking plaster. "You scared the life out of me, son. I told you, Dad is working."
Tyler looked at him, confused. Then his eyes drifted past Gordon to the screen. To the spreadsheet.
"Sorry," Tyler mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… the internet's really laggy. I can't load my game."
Gordon scanned his son’s face. No horror. No disgust. Just teenage annoyance and sleepiness.
He hadn't processed it. It was just a flash of color and movement. Maybe he thought it was a movie. Maybe a pop-up ad. Or maybe, please God, he just hadn't looked closely enough.
Gordon let out a slow, shaky breath. "It's probably the storms," he lied smoothly. "Or maybe I'm hogging the bandwidth with these market downloads. Let me… let me pause the transfer."
He turned back to the screen, pretending to click a few buttons on the spreadsheet. Behind the window, "The Giggle Room" was still running, muted now, invisible.
"Try it in five minutes," Gordon said, turning back. "Should be faster."
"Okay. Thanks." Tyler turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Was that a horror movie?"
Gordon froze. His blood turned to ice.
"What?"
"On the screen. Before you switched it. Looked like Saw or something."
Gordon swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. "Oh. That. Just a… a news report. From overseas. Pretty graphic stuff. Didn't want you to see it."
Tyler shrugged. "Cool. Night, Dad."
"Goodnight, Tyler."
The door clicked shut.
Gordon sat in the silence for a long time. The leaked water from his glass dripped onto the carpet.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He was trembling. That was too close. Way too close.
He should log off. He should go upstairs, kiss his wife, and count his blessings. A normal man would stop.
But Gordon Weissman wasn't a normal man. Not in this room.
Slowly, his hand reached out. He righted the glass. He picked up the headphones. He hesitated for a second, looking at the door… he stood, locked the door and sat back down, then put his headphones back on.
Alt-Tab.
The spreadsheet vanished. The Giggle Room returned.
The show hadn't stopped. In fact, it had escalated.
Since he’d looked away, they had moved on to the finale.
In the chat, the text was scrolling so fast it was a blur.
TickleKing: SHE'S CRACKING!
SlickRick: LOOK AT HER EYES! NOBODY'S HOME!
Gordon looked at the video feed.
Camila had stopped fighting the straps. Her body had gone limp, drained of all physical resistance. But her feet… her feet were still being tormented.
Knuckles had abandoned the tools. He was using his massive, calloused hands now. He had both of her feet gripped tight, his thumbs digging ruthlessly into the center of her arches, kneading the flesh like dough.
And Camila?
She wasn't screaming anymore.
Her head was lolling from side to side on the table. Her eyes were rolled back, showing the whites. Her mouth hung open, drool pooling at the corner of her lips.
And from her throat came a sound that chilled Gordon to the bone, even through the safety of the screen.
It was a low, continuous, broken wheeze. A ghost of a laugh.
"h-huh… h-h-huh… hhhhaaah…"
She was gone. Her mind had retreated. She had essentially passed out from the sensory overload, her body present but her consciousness fled to somewhere safe.
Slick noticed it too. He leaned in, waved a hand in front of her face. She didn't blink.
"And… that's a wrap, ladies and gentlemen!" Slick announced, grinning at the camera. "Looks like the reporter has officially signed off."
The screen faded to black. The Giggle Room logo appeared.
BROADCAST ENDED.
Gordon sat there in the silence of his office. The adrenaline from Tyler's intrusion mixed with the dark satisfaction of the finale. He felt drained. Empty.
He took off the headphones and laid them gently on the desk. He closed the browser. He cleared the cache. He shut down the computer.
He stood up, his legs slightly shaky. He walked to the door and unlocked it.
Click.
He stepped out into the hallway. The house was quiet. The rain tapped against the windows.
Gordon Weissman, the loving father, the devoted husband, walked up the stairs to bed, leaving User734 in the dark, waiting for the next show.
Next Chapter (5) - Jack
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