ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 18
“SSSTTAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPP!!!”
In a secluded chamber, its layout akin to that of a medieval torture dungeon, a young woman’s hapless cries echo off its concrete walls, far away from the interruption of prying eyes and ears. Thick nylon ropes encase her wrists and ankles, stretching her lengthwise across a padded leather table, without even an inch of slack to give. Her rippling muscles strain against these stalwart bonds as, perched just above her helpless form, stands a masked figure, watching on in stark silence as he inflicts a perpetual onslaught of ravenous tickles upon her person. Clad in a mere tank top and workout shorts, she is utterly helpless to prevent his nimble fingers from invading even the most sensitive of spots across the length of her entire body.
“THIHIHIHIHIS IS SOOOOHOHOHO WROOOOOHOHOHONG!!” she is barely able to utter, immersed in the torrent of utterly despicable torments that befall her without repose. Dancing his fingers atop the surface of her toned flesh, he devours every shriek and cackle emanating from her strained gullet, her flailing figure flopping just as frantic as the moment he began. It might have just been a bit shy of an hour since beginning her torments, but from her perspective, it seems as though days have passed right before her eyes. Her long raven hair sits matted atop her forehead, having been tossed side to side in desperate fashion, trying to wake herself from what could only be a horrid nightmare. Her shimmering chocolate eyes stare blankly into the dismal ceiling, unable to find it within herself to take one glance at what is happening to her.
“PLEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEASE!! NOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOO!!” she pleads upon deaf ears, the thought of the tickling lasting one more second too much to bear. What has transpired over the course of this measly stretch of time is beyond compare, as little could she imagine the endless ways she was to be bound for the tortures that would follow: be it straight against a pole, her hands tied high above her head, leaving her underarms completely exposed to be exploited, or in a strict hogtie, her hands just inches away from her upturned feet but too far away to protect them, every harrowing ordeal seemed just as sadistically effective as the last. Yet this time, with merely two lengths of rope, she has been rendered more vulnerable than ever, leaving everything from her ears right down to the tips of her toes wide open for the masked assailant to capitalize on.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she cackles through her gleaming white teeth, her shrieks of forced mirth ascending yet another octave the moment he begins digging his nails into her supple soles yet again. Tears stream down the sides of her face, accompanied by the beads of sweat accumulating across her body through such strenuous tortures. For all intents and purposes, this man is an expert in his craft, driving this sensuous beauty out of her pretty little head with the minimum amount of effort needed to do so. Had she only known just how many women came before her, leaving him experienced enough to deliver upon her person a ravenous tickling like none she had experienced before, then maybe she would have thought twice before responding to the online posting.
“And…CUT!” a woman’s voice calls out from behind the camera, with the man immediately lifting his fingers from her quivering form, leaving the buxom beauty breathless atop the table. “Good work Sandra! Just wait there: we’ll until you shortly!” She holds her thumbs up as high as they will go, a look of relief scrawled across her face as the off-screen assistant approaches her, unlacing the ropes in a near instant, something she was unable to do regardless of her frantic struggles. Rising from the table, she slowly makes her way towards a small office adjacent, no easy task given her limbs feeling like jell-o after such a strenuous ordeal.
How strange, she thought along the way, to respond so readily to a name that is not even hers: Sandra Blake, the designation they referred to her as for the sake of anonymity once the video is listed online. True, the prospect alone of being tied and tickled on camera for an adult-oriented website called “Two of a Feather” was already a strange one at that. Still, even being the aspiring 22-year-old actress she was, she found it to be a strange set of circumstances either way: having been given no backstory, no dialogue, nothing to embody her character other than her name, yet required to maintain this façade as she is tickled beyond all hope and reason for an audience she will most likely never meet. She wonders if this was all a waste of time, given that she couldn’t even put this on her paltry list of acting credits, unable to even slip it in as “Girl Who Nearly Pisses Herself #1”. However, by the time she makes it into the office, the reason as to why she is even here is made perfectly clear: to pay her rent.
“Well, that was quite the shoot, wasn’t it?” the man asks her, now unmasked and sitting behind a disheveled heap of a work desk. Reaching into the drawer, he reveals an envelope with the name “Demi Lee Jameson” scrawled atop it, thumbing through the small wad of $20 bills inside.
“Yes, if you could call it that,” she quips, sharing a chuckle with the man with whom she would not have thought twice about passing on the street, yet who moments earlier had full access to the entirety of her body like it was nothing.
“Yeah, that’s the usual reaction we get from first-time models,” he responds. “But, if you get the chance to do it again, the second time isn’t nearly as awkward.” Her eyebrows raise near up to the ceiling, utterly shocked at the prospect of someone willing to endure this hell yet again for any amount of money.
“You mean people do this more than once?!” she exclaims, a playful yet truthful spurt of surprise give just how she barely made it through this shoot.
“Sometimes,” he answers calmly. “In fact, some even make a career out of it, if you could believe that.” Feeling her jaw slowly drop to the floor, she composes herself, taking the envelope before shaking his hand, the same one which moments before was ravaging her body the way only her boyfriends could. Speaking of, she was reminded just how her life had been in a slump recently: her relationship with her longtime boyfriend Marcus had taken a downturn, and her last audition went sour when they asked her to take her top off, two events which left her alone and broke enough to even permit her to do such a shoot. Leaving the building, she reconsiders the premise of doing another video, knowing she may have to given the way her life has been going as of late. Maybe had she been in the same mindset two weeks later when they called to ask her for a second shoot, then all that was to come could have been prevented…
(fifteen years later)
“I wish you could had dressed more conservatively tonight,” Marcus notes, seated behind the wheel of his Lexus, not even turning towards his wife as he pulls up the long driveway. “The guy’s a walking ad for Russian mail-order brides: I don’t want him thinking I’m flaunting what I have and what he could never dream of.”
“Well I’m so sorry for putting in the effort,” Demi moans with false concern, seated in the passenger seat next to him, polishing up her mascara before closing the mirror in front of her. “Next time, I’ll dress myself in overalls and wear a bag over my head. How does that sound?”
“I’m just saying: you tend to bring unwanted attention to yourself,” Marcus notes of his wife, now the Mrs. Demi Lee Mathers, head consultant of Digital Marketing Services in downtown Los Angeles. It’s true that, from the time she was a struggling actress in her early 20s, this tall drink of water has only aged like fine wine into that sultry woman she is today. Her girlish valley girl voice has taken on a sensuously darker hue, its seductive tone having pried millions out of her clients with ease. Her once high-pitched laughter has transformed into that of a subdued chuckle drenched in mystery and intrigue, hidden behind her full pursed lips and inquisitive gaze. Her chiseled features, from her dynamite cheekbones right down to the tone of her mile-high legs, bore the resilience and determination of a woman having reached dominance in her field. She was an absolute bombshell of a woman, something she wishes her husband wouldn’t be so concerned over.
But, such merely contributed to the rocky start in their first two years together, with Marcus’s jealousy only compounded by Demi having caught him on the phone with his ex, breaking off their relationship for a short time as a result. It didn’t help that the demeaning nature of being an aspiring actress was pushing a wedge between them, with Marcus uncomfortable with all these men having say in what parts she gets for displaying what body part. However, the moment he got down on that one knee, thrusting a diamond ring in her face that Valentine’s Day dinner, all that had come before would instantly be wiped away, accepting his proposal to be his wife without pause. Their life together was followed by nothing but upturns: he started his own business, she found her calling in life, and they had just secured his biggest investor, the house of which they were approaching for a celebratory evening this very moment.
They reach the front entrance, the sprawling hillside manor reflective of the massive inferiority complex rumored of the one Marvin P. Eggert, multi-millionaire investor and now Marcus’s boss for all intents and purposes. Stepping out of the convertible, smoothing out the length of her midnight blue cocktail dress, her three-inch stiletto heels clasp against the cobblestone driveway, making their way up the steps as her shoulder-length raven hair is tossed in the night breeze. Taking her by the arm, he not-so-gently leads her up to the door, her insistence on looking her best making them a mere three minutes late to the most important night of his life (besides that of their marriage, of course). They barely even take one step through the massive entryway before being greeted by the host himself, a full head shorter than either of them.
“Hey, it’s Marky Mark!” Marvin exclaims to his guests, a pathetic effort at 90s humor that could only pry laughter out of those most desperate for his pocketbook (as Marcus currently was). “Hey everybody: the guest of honor has arrived!”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be a party without you, Mr. Eggert!” Marcus claps back, attempting to hide his shame from his wife, knowing just how much brown-nosing she never sees him do, let alone to this elvish figure with a scalp the smoothness of a bowling ball.
“Actually, I was talking about your gorgeous wife here,” he says, taking her hand before planting his lips atop the back of her palm. “Delighted, madame.”
“Thank you,” Demi states, keeping professional, trying to suppress her desire to find a bucket of bleach to soak her palm in. “I would just like to congratulate you Mr. Eggert on your savvy business acumen. Your investment in my husband’s company was the wisest decision you could have possibly made.” Had nobody been looking, then Marcus surely would have smacked her across the face, the audacity she has to talk to him like that difficult to stomach if not for the myriad of witnesses sure to finger him for domestic violence.
“Oh, it was an easy decision, let me tell you!” Marvin exclaims, wrapping his arm around Demi’s waist, leading her into the expansive foray of his mansion where the small collective of Marcus’s employees are gathered. “Yes, there was just enough room in my investment portfolio for a majority stockholding in the business of…enemas, right Marcus?”
“Eczema,” Marcus gently corrects his new boss, hoping not to become the butt of any jokes tonight. “A new oral treatment for eczema, one which will surely revolutionize the…”
“Yes, anal cavities will rejoice now that Marcus has his way with them!” Marvin cuts him off, audible to the entire collection of managers and salesmen at his newly procured firm, having not listened to a single thing he had been saying. So, the party continues in said fashion: Marvin gives a tour of his ever-growing collection of high-priced artwork, makes a crass remark on the level of undress each woman is placed in, Marcus reaffirms his lack of manhood with his inability to separate humor from horrid, and the cycle starts all over again. By an hour in, with Demi finishing her second glass of wine (and Marcus surely polishing off his seventh), she turns to Joanna Watson, wife of the Head of Financial Services at her husband’s firm.
“Do you happen to know where the restroom is in this place?” Demi asks as quietly as she can, only for Joanna to be tersely interrupted by their jovial host.
“You need the commode, is it?” Marvin interjects, placing his arm once again around her prominent hips. “Follow me!”
“No, that’s okay,” she tries to deny him, knowing Marcus is watching her every move in relation to his new boss. “You need to entertain your guests: if you could just point me in the…”
“Nonsense, it is my duty to show you!” he cuts her off, taking her by the arm before leading her towards a long hallway to their left. “This place is a labyrinth, let me tell you: once you get lost, you may never find your way out!” They traverse a long hallway, the clamor of the party echoing down its length as though it were happening just feet behind them. Approaching a tall set of double doors, Marvin shoves it open, the creak of the hinges denoting just how old the house truly is. Letting Demi inside, she is treated to the library of all things, with three stories lined with thousands of leather-bound tomes and not a single broken spine to be seen. The moment he shuts the door, all is silent, without even a whisper from the party to be heard, something that does not sit well with Demi as though she already knew what was to come.
“Ah, much better,” he says to her, enjoying the silence he’s paid a king’s ransom to ensure. “I just had to make sure this room would be free of disruption: nothing coming in, and nothing going out. Quite the feat of engineering, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she reluctantly agrees with him, having forgotten just what she had left the room to do, but soon to be reminded. “So, what exactly do you DOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHO?!” Her question is swiftly interrupted by a horridly familiar sensation, that of fingers digging into her bare underarms left exposed by her evening attire. Turning her head around, hoping to discover Marcus drunkenly fondling her as he frequently does, she is shocked to discover Marvin standing right behind her, a look of absolute glee across his face as he tickles down the length of her sides. She thrusts her arms down in a pitiful attempt at protecting herself, only to trap his fingers atop her hypersensitive ribs in the process.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she squeals, her normally full voice breaking from such sheer force, having not laughed like this in years it seems. Trying with all her might to protect herself from his invasive fingers, she finds herself constricting into a ball, shrinking towards the floor right before his eyes. Finding him now at her hips, those same ones he has been obsessed with the moment she arrived, Demi collapses forward atop the plush carpet of the library, that which Marvin has been secretly waiting for he to do this whole time. Sitting atop her back, he places her ankles in a chokehold against his chest, a fate that Demi could only envision as the worst-case scenario.
“MARVIN PLEASE!!” she attempts to reason with him, feeling her shoes being peeled off behind her, reaching behind her just as she feels his stubby nails raking down the length of her soles. “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!! PLEASE, YOU DON’T UNDERSTA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” His nails scrape ravenously across her quivering flesh, throwing her into a maelstrom of ticklish mirth she hasn’t the ability to withstand. Pounding atop the floor in front of her, she is slowly losing all grasp of time and space until, feeling a warm sensation atop her crotch, she realizes that she has relieved herself upon his floor. Rising from his perch, he turns to his employee’s wife, now dazed and disheveled with a darkened splotch atop her dress.
“Oh dear: it seems you’ve had an accident!” he notes, infuriating Demi with his infantile tone of voice.
“Mr. Eggert, this is highly inappropriate!” she exclaims, her desire to remain courteous for her husband’s new boss now abandoning her. “If Marcus was here, then he surely would have something to say about this.”
“Oh I’m sure he would,” Marvin answers, watching as she scrambles to put her shoes back on to leave “But just who wouldn’t want to be treated to laughter as beautiful as yours, isn’t that right Sandra?” Her face turns pale, having not thought of that name for near a decade, now at the center of her attention.
“I…I have no idea who you’re talking about!” she shoots back, stumbling over her words like it was her first post-high school audition.
“I’m sure you don’t Miss Blake,” he says, reaching into his back pocket, bringing up a video atop its screen. “Just like I’m sure you don’t recognize this.” She sees an image of herself, younger but definitely her, bound atop that same table, being tickled in that same way she is now remembering from so many years prior. How eerie it felt to have a third person perspective of that day, being caught by the camerawoman just feet from her, but there she was, in all her pride and glory, and she wasn’t about to let it go.
“How did you…” she begins to ask, only to be abruptly cut off as usual.
“Call it persistence,” he notes, placing his phone back into his pocket. “Unfortunately, the website you were featured on went down only a year after this was made, taking their entire catalog with it. A couple clips were posted online, but the video itself seemed to be lost forever, much to my dismay. But I am a man of means, and having tracked down the site’s owner, offering to pay off his mortgage in exchange for the original footage, I was soon treated to the full experience of Sandra Blake, aka Demi Lee Mathers. You must be flattered, I’m sure.” She glares in his direction, standing up, hoping to end their conversation as quickly as possible.
“Marvin, if this is your pathetic attempt at blackmailing me, then you can just…”
“This is a business opportunity, if you will!” he exclaims, shocking Demi into silence as he slowly approaches her. “You’re quite popular with my online community, if you didn’t know: dozens of people are begging for your return, pleading for more videos from a woman as sexy as yourself. They would pay top dollar for the privilege of seeing Sandra Blake be tickled once again, and so would I. You and your husband would never have to worry about money every again. All it would take is a few weekends of your time, just to get the full Sandra experience. What do you say?” It is then, as she stands a full six inches over this diminutive little man, that she feels the power once again, addressing him in the same manner she had first meeting him.
“Mr. Eggert,” she begins, her sensuous womanly voice coming back to her. “There is no way, in all of creation, that I would ever willingly let another pervert like you touch me like that ever again. Now, here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to be Marcus’s investor, and happily let him do anything he wants with his company, and we’re never going to talk about any of this for the time we know each other. If you ever say one word about this again, I will tell Marcus exactly what happened here tonight, and he will find you, and he will put your head through this fucking wall. Do I make myself crystal clear?”
“Absolutely,” Marvin answers, stepping away from the door, opening it to let her through. “Mrs. Mathers.” She struts out of the room, head held high, walking straight into the crowd of her husband’s employees, reassuring them she had merely spilled water atop her dress.
(three weeks later)
Her glistening white tennis shoes pound against the concrete below, carrying her swiftly down the secluded path of the public park in the earliest hours of the morning. Clad in her gray jacket and sweatpants, nothing got Demi more pumped for the day than a good run, feeling as though she could do anything after traversing a full five miles before anyone else had even had their morning coffee. Not a soul could be found to join her, something that she found extra appealing having the entire park to herself
Or so she thought.
She rounds a tall bush, blindly turning the corner to find nothing but open space in front of her, and four masked figures lying in wait. They spring from out of nowhere, grasping her at all angles, yanking her firm yet light figure into the bushes. Thrusting her atop the soft dirt, she feels every limb grasped hold of, pinned behind her as leather cuffs are wrapped around each wrist and ankle. She screams for dear life, just as one on them inserts a thick rag into her mouth, securing it with a length of rope wrapped around her head. Despite her valiant struggles, she is helpless to get free as the four assailant bundle her up before swiftly carrying her to a large white van sitting idle just 100 yards away. Tossing her into the back, they close her in as the van speeds off into the sunrise without a soul knowing what happened.
(moments after that)
In a small padded room, brightly lit from fluorescent lights above, a frantic Demi struggles to get free. Stripped down to her bra and panties, she is left near naked but the accessories that have been forcibly placed upon her. Her arms are bound, crisscrossed over her chest by the straitjacket encasing her upper body. Thick leather belts wrap themselves around her ankles and thighs, keeping them pressed together, unable to do anything but lift herself atop her knees. A large ball gag is nestled in between her teeth, her screams for help coming out garbled heap, completely absorbed within the soundproofed walls. At the depths of her despair, the door opens, revealing the form of one Marvin P. Eggert much to her dismay.
“So glad I was able to change your mind, Miss Blake!” he says, gazing upon her delectable form, now completely at his mercy. “What do you think?”
“MMMMMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRPHPHPHPHPHUUUUUUUUKKK!!” she screeches at him, her muffled shriek music to his ears.
“Oh don’t worry: you’ll get to experience everything we have to offer here,” he assures her, watching the terror appear across her face. “No expense has been spared for the filming of your new video: The Return of Sandra Blake. You’ll absolutely enjoy yourself.” She tries to answer, only to be cut off as he shuts her in for the night:
“Best get your rest now: we’ll be starting the film at 8 AM prompt…”
In a secluded chamber, its layout akin to that of a medieval torture dungeon, a young woman’s hapless cries echo off its concrete walls, far away from the interruption of prying eyes and ears. Thick nylon ropes encase her wrists and ankles, stretching her lengthwise across a padded leather table, without even an inch of slack to give. Her rippling muscles strain against these stalwart bonds as, perched just above her helpless form, stands a masked figure, watching on in stark silence as he inflicts a perpetual onslaught of ravenous tickles upon her person. Clad in a mere tank top and workout shorts, she is utterly helpless to prevent his nimble fingers from invading even the most sensitive of spots across the length of her entire body.
“THIHIHIHIHIS IS SOOOOHOHOHO WROOOOOHOHOHONG!!” she is barely able to utter, immersed in the torrent of utterly despicable torments that befall her without repose. Dancing his fingers atop the surface of her toned flesh, he devours every shriek and cackle emanating from her strained gullet, her flailing figure flopping just as frantic as the moment he began. It might have just been a bit shy of an hour since beginning her torments, but from her perspective, it seems as though days have passed right before her eyes. Her long raven hair sits matted atop her forehead, having been tossed side to side in desperate fashion, trying to wake herself from what could only be a horrid nightmare. Her shimmering chocolate eyes stare blankly into the dismal ceiling, unable to find it within herself to take one glance at what is happening to her.
“PLEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEASE!! NOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOO!!” she pleads upon deaf ears, the thought of the tickling lasting one more second too much to bear. What has transpired over the course of this measly stretch of time is beyond compare, as little could she imagine the endless ways she was to be bound for the tortures that would follow: be it straight against a pole, her hands tied high above her head, leaving her underarms completely exposed to be exploited, or in a strict hogtie, her hands just inches away from her upturned feet but too far away to protect them, every harrowing ordeal seemed just as sadistically effective as the last. Yet this time, with merely two lengths of rope, she has been rendered more vulnerable than ever, leaving everything from her ears right down to the tips of her toes wide open for the masked assailant to capitalize on.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she cackles through her gleaming white teeth, her shrieks of forced mirth ascending yet another octave the moment he begins digging his nails into her supple soles yet again. Tears stream down the sides of her face, accompanied by the beads of sweat accumulating across her body through such strenuous tortures. For all intents and purposes, this man is an expert in his craft, driving this sensuous beauty out of her pretty little head with the minimum amount of effort needed to do so. Had she only known just how many women came before her, leaving him experienced enough to deliver upon her person a ravenous tickling like none she had experienced before, then maybe she would have thought twice before responding to the online posting.
“And…CUT!” a woman’s voice calls out from behind the camera, with the man immediately lifting his fingers from her quivering form, leaving the buxom beauty breathless atop the table. “Good work Sandra! Just wait there: we’ll until you shortly!” She holds her thumbs up as high as they will go, a look of relief scrawled across her face as the off-screen assistant approaches her, unlacing the ropes in a near instant, something she was unable to do regardless of her frantic struggles. Rising from the table, she slowly makes her way towards a small office adjacent, no easy task given her limbs feeling like jell-o after such a strenuous ordeal.
How strange, she thought along the way, to respond so readily to a name that is not even hers: Sandra Blake, the designation they referred to her as for the sake of anonymity once the video is listed online. True, the prospect alone of being tied and tickled on camera for an adult-oriented website called “Two of a Feather” was already a strange one at that. Still, even being the aspiring 22-year-old actress she was, she found it to be a strange set of circumstances either way: having been given no backstory, no dialogue, nothing to embody her character other than her name, yet required to maintain this façade as she is tickled beyond all hope and reason for an audience she will most likely never meet. She wonders if this was all a waste of time, given that she couldn’t even put this on her paltry list of acting credits, unable to even slip it in as “Girl Who Nearly Pisses Herself #1”. However, by the time she makes it into the office, the reason as to why she is even here is made perfectly clear: to pay her rent.
“Well, that was quite the shoot, wasn’t it?” the man asks her, now unmasked and sitting behind a disheveled heap of a work desk. Reaching into the drawer, he reveals an envelope with the name “Demi Lee Jameson” scrawled atop it, thumbing through the small wad of $20 bills inside.
“Yes, if you could call it that,” she quips, sharing a chuckle with the man with whom she would not have thought twice about passing on the street, yet who moments earlier had full access to the entirety of her body like it was nothing.
“Yeah, that’s the usual reaction we get from first-time models,” he responds. “But, if you get the chance to do it again, the second time isn’t nearly as awkward.” Her eyebrows raise near up to the ceiling, utterly shocked at the prospect of someone willing to endure this hell yet again for any amount of money.
“You mean people do this more than once?!” she exclaims, a playful yet truthful spurt of surprise give just how she barely made it through this shoot.
“Sometimes,” he answers calmly. “In fact, some even make a career out of it, if you could believe that.” Feeling her jaw slowly drop to the floor, she composes herself, taking the envelope before shaking his hand, the same one which moments before was ravaging her body the way only her boyfriends could. Speaking of, she was reminded just how her life had been in a slump recently: her relationship with her longtime boyfriend Marcus had taken a downturn, and her last audition went sour when they asked her to take her top off, two events which left her alone and broke enough to even permit her to do such a shoot. Leaving the building, she reconsiders the premise of doing another video, knowing she may have to given the way her life has been going as of late. Maybe had she been in the same mindset two weeks later when they called to ask her for a second shoot, then all that was to come could have been prevented…
(fifteen years later)
“I wish you could had dressed more conservatively tonight,” Marcus notes, seated behind the wheel of his Lexus, not even turning towards his wife as he pulls up the long driveway. “The guy’s a walking ad for Russian mail-order brides: I don’t want him thinking I’m flaunting what I have and what he could never dream of.”
“Well I’m so sorry for putting in the effort,” Demi moans with false concern, seated in the passenger seat next to him, polishing up her mascara before closing the mirror in front of her. “Next time, I’ll dress myself in overalls and wear a bag over my head. How does that sound?”
“I’m just saying: you tend to bring unwanted attention to yourself,” Marcus notes of his wife, now the Mrs. Demi Lee Mathers, head consultant of Digital Marketing Services in downtown Los Angeles. It’s true that, from the time she was a struggling actress in her early 20s, this tall drink of water has only aged like fine wine into that sultry woman she is today. Her girlish valley girl voice has taken on a sensuously darker hue, its seductive tone having pried millions out of her clients with ease. Her once high-pitched laughter has transformed into that of a subdued chuckle drenched in mystery and intrigue, hidden behind her full pursed lips and inquisitive gaze. Her chiseled features, from her dynamite cheekbones right down to the tone of her mile-high legs, bore the resilience and determination of a woman having reached dominance in her field. She was an absolute bombshell of a woman, something she wishes her husband wouldn’t be so concerned over.
But, such merely contributed to the rocky start in their first two years together, with Marcus’s jealousy only compounded by Demi having caught him on the phone with his ex, breaking off their relationship for a short time as a result. It didn’t help that the demeaning nature of being an aspiring actress was pushing a wedge between them, with Marcus uncomfortable with all these men having say in what parts she gets for displaying what body part. However, the moment he got down on that one knee, thrusting a diamond ring in her face that Valentine’s Day dinner, all that had come before would instantly be wiped away, accepting his proposal to be his wife without pause. Their life together was followed by nothing but upturns: he started his own business, she found her calling in life, and they had just secured his biggest investor, the house of which they were approaching for a celebratory evening this very moment.
They reach the front entrance, the sprawling hillside manor reflective of the massive inferiority complex rumored of the one Marvin P. Eggert, multi-millionaire investor and now Marcus’s boss for all intents and purposes. Stepping out of the convertible, smoothing out the length of her midnight blue cocktail dress, her three-inch stiletto heels clasp against the cobblestone driveway, making their way up the steps as her shoulder-length raven hair is tossed in the night breeze. Taking her by the arm, he not-so-gently leads her up to the door, her insistence on looking her best making them a mere three minutes late to the most important night of his life (besides that of their marriage, of course). They barely even take one step through the massive entryway before being greeted by the host himself, a full head shorter than either of them.
“Hey, it’s Marky Mark!” Marvin exclaims to his guests, a pathetic effort at 90s humor that could only pry laughter out of those most desperate for his pocketbook (as Marcus currently was). “Hey everybody: the guest of honor has arrived!”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be a party without you, Mr. Eggert!” Marcus claps back, attempting to hide his shame from his wife, knowing just how much brown-nosing she never sees him do, let alone to this elvish figure with a scalp the smoothness of a bowling ball.
“Actually, I was talking about your gorgeous wife here,” he says, taking her hand before planting his lips atop the back of her palm. “Delighted, madame.”
“Thank you,” Demi states, keeping professional, trying to suppress her desire to find a bucket of bleach to soak her palm in. “I would just like to congratulate you Mr. Eggert on your savvy business acumen. Your investment in my husband’s company was the wisest decision you could have possibly made.” Had nobody been looking, then Marcus surely would have smacked her across the face, the audacity she has to talk to him like that difficult to stomach if not for the myriad of witnesses sure to finger him for domestic violence.
“Oh, it was an easy decision, let me tell you!” Marvin exclaims, wrapping his arm around Demi’s waist, leading her into the expansive foray of his mansion where the small collective of Marcus’s employees are gathered. “Yes, there was just enough room in my investment portfolio for a majority stockholding in the business of…enemas, right Marcus?”
“Eczema,” Marcus gently corrects his new boss, hoping not to become the butt of any jokes tonight. “A new oral treatment for eczema, one which will surely revolutionize the…”
“Yes, anal cavities will rejoice now that Marcus has his way with them!” Marvin cuts him off, audible to the entire collection of managers and salesmen at his newly procured firm, having not listened to a single thing he had been saying. So, the party continues in said fashion: Marvin gives a tour of his ever-growing collection of high-priced artwork, makes a crass remark on the level of undress each woman is placed in, Marcus reaffirms his lack of manhood with his inability to separate humor from horrid, and the cycle starts all over again. By an hour in, with Demi finishing her second glass of wine (and Marcus surely polishing off his seventh), she turns to Joanna Watson, wife of the Head of Financial Services at her husband’s firm.
“Do you happen to know where the restroom is in this place?” Demi asks as quietly as she can, only for Joanna to be tersely interrupted by their jovial host.
“You need the commode, is it?” Marvin interjects, placing his arm once again around her prominent hips. “Follow me!”
“No, that’s okay,” she tries to deny him, knowing Marcus is watching her every move in relation to his new boss. “You need to entertain your guests: if you could just point me in the…”
“Nonsense, it is my duty to show you!” he cuts her off, taking her by the arm before leading her towards a long hallway to their left. “This place is a labyrinth, let me tell you: once you get lost, you may never find your way out!” They traverse a long hallway, the clamor of the party echoing down its length as though it were happening just feet behind them. Approaching a tall set of double doors, Marvin shoves it open, the creak of the hinges denoting just how old the house truly is. Letting Demi inside, she is treated to the library of all things, with three stories lined with thousands of leather-bound tomes and not a single broken spine to be seen. The moment he shuts the door, all is silent, without even a whisper from the party to be heard, something that does not sit well with Demi as though she already knew what was to come.
“Ah, much better,” he says to her, enjoying the silence he’s paid a king’s ransom to ensure. “I just had to make sure this room would be free of disruption: nothing coming in, and nothing going out. Quite the feat of engineering, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she reluctantly agrees with him, having forgotten just what she had left the room to do, but soon to be reminded. “So, what exactly do you DOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHO?!” Her question is swiftly interrupted by a horridly familiar sensation, that of fingers digging into her bare underarms left exposed by her evening attire. Turning her head around, hoping to discover Marcus drunkenly fondling her as he frequently does, she is shocked to discover Marvin standing right behind her, a look of absolute glee across his face as he tickles down the length of her sides. She thrusts her arms down in a pitiful attempt at protecting herself, only to trap his fingers atop her hypersensitive ribs in the process.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she squeals, her normally full voice breaking from such sheer force, having not laughed like this in years it seems. Trying with all her might to protect herself from his invasive fingers, she finds herself constricting into a ball, shrinking towards the floor right before his eyes. Finding him now at her hips, those same ones he has been obsessed with the moment she arrived, Demi collapses forward atop the plush carpet of the library, that which Marvin has been secretly waiting for he to do this whole time. Sitting atop her back, he places her ankles in a chokehold against his chest, a fate that Demi could only envision as the worst-case scenario.
“MARVIN PLEASE!!” she attempts to reason with him, feeling her shoes being peeled off behind her, reaching behind her just as she feels his stubby nails raking down the length of her soles. “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!! PLEASE, YOU DON’T UNDERSTA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” His nails scrape ravenously across her quivering flesh, throwing her into a maelstrom of ticklish mirth she hasn’t the ability to withstand. Pounding atop the floor in front of her, she is slowly losing all grasp of time and space until, feeling a warm sensation atop her crotch, she realizes that she has relieved herself upon his floor. Rising from his perch, he turns to his employee’s wife, now dazed and disheveled with a darkened splotch atop her dress.
“Oh dear: it seems you’ve had an accident!” he notes, infuriating Demi with his infantile tone of voice.
“Mr. Eggert, this is highly inappropriate!” she exclaims, her desire to remain courteous for her husband’s new boss now abandoning her. “If Marcus was here, then he surely would have something to say about this.”
“Oh I’m sure he would,” Marvin answers, watching as she scrambles to put her shoes back on to leave “But just who wouldn’t want to be treated to laughter as beautiful as yours, isn’t that right Sandra?” Her face turns pale, having not thought of that name for near a decade, now at the center of her attention.
“I…I have no idea who you’re talking about!” she shoots back, stumbling over her words like it was her first post-high school audition.
“I’m sure you don’t Miss Blake,” he says, reaching into his back pocket, bringing up a video atop its screen. “Just like I’m sure you don’t recognize this.” She sees an image of herself, younger but definitely her, bound atop that same table, being tickled in that same way she is now remembering from so many years prior. How eerie it felt to have a third person perspective of that day, being caught by the camerawoman just feet from her, but there she was, in all her pride and glory, and she wasn’t about to let it go.
“How did you…” she begins to ask, only to be abruptly cut off as usual.
“Call it persistence,” he notes, placing his phone back into his pocket. “Unfortunately, the website you were featured on went down only a year after this was made, taking their entire catalog with it. A couple clips were posted online, but the video itself seemed to be lost forever, much to my dismay. But I am a man of means, and having tracked down the site’s owner, offering to pay off his mortgage in exchange for the original footage, I was soon treated to the full experience of Sandra Blake, aka Demi Lee Mathers. You must be flattered, I’m sure.” She glares in his direction, standing up, hoping to end their conversation as quickly as possible.
“Marvin, if this is your pathetic attempt at blackmailing me, then you can just…”
“This is a business opportunity, if you will!” he exclaims, shocking Demi into silence as he slowly approaches her. “You’re quite popular with my online community, if you didn’t know: dozens of people are begging for your return, pleading for more videos from a woman as sexy as yourself. They would pay top dollar for the privilege of seeing Sandra Blake be tickled once again, and so would I. You and your husband would never have to worry about money every again. All it would take is a few weekends of your time, just to get the full Sandra experience. What do you say?” It is then, as she stands a full six inches over this diminutive little man, that she feels the power once again, addressing him in the same manner she had first meeting him.
“Mr. Eggert,” she begins, her sensuous womanly voice coming back to her. “There is no way, in all of creation, that I would ever willingly let another pervert like you touch me like that ever again. Now, here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to be Marcus’s investor, and happily let him do anything he wants with his company, and we’re never going to talk about any of this for the time we know each other. If you ever say one word about this again, I will tell Marcus exactly what happened here tonight, and he will find you, and he will put your head through this fucking wall. Do I make myself crystal clear?”
“Absolutely,” Marvin answers, stepping away from the door, opening it to let her through. “Mrs. Mathers.” She struts out of the room, head held high, walking straight into the crowd of her husband’s employees, reassuring them she had merely spilled water atop her dress.
(three weeks later)
Her glistening white tennis shoes pound against the concrete below, carrying her swiftly down the secluded path of the public park in the earliest hours of the morning. Clad in her gray jacket and sweatpants, nothing got Demi more pumped for the day than a good run, feeling as though she could do anything after traversing a full five miles before anyone else had even had their morning coffee. Not a soul could be found to join her, something that she found extra appealing having the entire park to herself
Or so she thought.
She rounds a tall bush, blindly turning the corner to find nothing but open space in front of her, and four masked figures lying in wait. They spring from out of nowhere, grasping her at all angles, yanking her firm yet light figure into the bushes. Thrusting her atop the soft dirt, she feels every limb grasped hold of, pinned behind her as leather cuffs are wrapped around each wrist and ankle. She screams for dear life, just as one on them inserts a thick rag into her mouth, securing it with a length of rope wrapped around her head. Despite her valiant struggles, she is helpless to get free as the four assailant bundle her up before swiftly carrying her to a large white van sitting idle just 100 yards away. Tossing her into the back, they close her in as the van speeds off into the sunrise without a soul knowing what happened.
(moments after that)
In a small padded room, brightly lit from fluorescent lights above, a frantic Demi struggles to get free. Stripped down to her bra and panties, she is left near naked but the accessories that have been forcibly placed upon her. Her arms are bound, crisscrossed over her chest by the straitjacket encasing her upper body. Thick leather belts wrap themselves around her ankles and thighs, keeping them pressed together, unable to do anything but lift herself atop her knees. A large ball gag is nestled in between her teeth, her screams for help coming out garbled heap, completely absorbed within the soundproofed walls. At the depths of her despair, the door opens, revealing the form of one Marvin P. Eggert much to her dismay.
“So glad I was able to change your mind, Miss Blake!” he says, gazing upon her delectable form, now completely at his mercy. “What do you think?”
“MMMMMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRPHPHPHPHPHUUUUUUUUKKK!!” she screeches at him, her muffled shriek music to his ears.
“Oh don’t worry: you’ll get to experience everything we have to offer here,” he assures her, watching the terror appear across her face. “No expense has been spared for the filming of your new video: The Return of Sandra Blake. You’ll absolutely enjoy yourself.” She tries to answer, only to be cut off as he shuts her in for the night:
“Best get your rest now: we’ll be starting the film at 8 AM prompt…”
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