Sharon Miller just returned home from a long day. A court case had started today, one where she is the key witness and she would be taking the stand tomorrow. Surely nothing untoward will befoul her between now and tomorrow...
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 3,754
M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consentual | Explicit
The heavy oak door of the suburban house clicked shut, sealing out the damp evening air. For Sharon, that click was the sound of a temporary sanctuary. She exhaled a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders finally dropping from the defensive posture she’d held all day in the court room.
She leaned against the foyer wall, reaching down to peel her black leather pumps off her feet. They were "professional" shoes—stiff, sensible, and currently throbbing with the rhythm of her pulse. After popping her heels free, she kicked them off with a muffled thud and slid her feet into her plush, fleece-lined house slippers. The soft fabric felt like a lie, a promise of comfort that her mind wasn't ready to accept.
As she walked into the kitchen, the fluorescent lights hummed with a clinical buzz that reminded her too much of the courtroom. She reached for a bundle of carrots and a sharp paring knife, her movements mechanical.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
With every slice of the blade, a flash of the trial flickered behind her eyes like a strobe light.
She remembered the defendant’s face—not the groomed, stoic mask he wore today in his expensive suit, but the distorted, panicked snarl she’d seen through her rearview mirror months ago. She remembered the roar of his engine as he pulled out to undertake her, the sheer arrogance of his speed. And then, the sickening, wet crunch as his car mounted the curb, sending the elderly man’s grocery bags flying like white birds before his body hit the pavement.
He hadn’t even tapped his brakes. He had just vanished into the grey horizon.
Today had only been the opening statements. She hadn’t said a word yet, but she had felt the heat of the defendant’s gaze from the mahogany table. Mr. Syndino. He hadn’t looked like a monster today; he looked like a pillar of the community in a charcoal suit. But Sharon knew. She remembered the reckless roar of his engine and the way the elderly man had folded like a rag doll when the car clipped him.
The prosecution had called her their "crown jewel." Tomorrow, she would be the one to point the finger. Tomorrow, she would destroy his life with the truth.
The thought made her stomach churn. She reached down, adjusting the heel of her plush house slipper. She had shed her "courtroom armor"—the stiff pumps and the blazer—it was now time to relax.
She heard the familiar rattle of the front door lock. Roger. She didn't turn around. She didn't want him to see the lingering terror in her eyes, nor did she want to discuss the legalities of the day. She just wanted the routine. She heard his heavy footsteps on the hardwood, moving toward the kitchen. She tilted her head slightly, expecting the usual, dry brush of his lips against her cheek—the perfunctory "hello" of a ten-year marriage.
But the kiss didn't come.
Instead, a hand—stronger and faster than Roger’s—clamped over her throat. Before she could scream, a thick, cold rag was pressed firmly over her nose and mouth. The sweet, chemical sting of chloroform flooded her senses, turning the kitchen into a swirling kaleidoscope of fading light. The knife clattered to the floor, missing her slippered feet by an inch.
"Sleep now, Sharon," a voice hissed, smooth as silk and cold as ice. "We have a lot of 're-learning' to do."
The world went black.
When consciousness returned, it brought a cold, sharp clarity.
Sharon tried to move her arms, but they were pulled over her head, wrists cinched tight against wood. Her legs were spread slightly, ankles lashed down with biting cord. She was flat on her back, the softness beneath her suggesting her own bed, but the familiarity offered no comfort. A thick blindfold pressed against her eyelids, and a gag covered her mouth, cutting off any hope of a scream.
The air in the room felt different—heavy with a predatory presence.
"You have a very vivid imagination, Sharon," a voice murmured. It was smooth, cultured, and entirely unfamiliar. It wasn't the voice of a common thug; it was the voice of a man who enjoyed his work.
"Mr. Syndino is quite concerned. He thinks you've confused him with someone else. He thinks... you need a little help remembering the correct version of events before you take that stand tomorrow."
She felt a hand grasp her ankle. It was firm, inescapable. Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, the intruder gripped the heel of her left house slipper and slid it off, tossing it aside. Then the right.
The cool evening air hit her bare soles, and she whimpered into the gag, her toes curling instinctively.
"Such pretty feet," the voice purred. She felt the heat of him leaning in close. Then, the terrifyingly intimate sensation of his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of her toes as he took a long, deep breath. "It would be such a shame if they had to suffer because of a... 'mistaken' identity."
The air in the bedroom grew thick with the scent of her own rising panic.
The intruder let out a soft, amused hum as he felt Sharon’s toes twitch against his cheek.
"So. Do we need to have a conversation or are you sufficiently motivated for tomorrow" he asked, as he moved up the bed, his fingers grazing the skin of her jaw and he undid the knot of the gag. The moment the fabric fell away, Sharon didn't waste a heartbeat on words.
She inhaled, her lungs expanding for a piercing, soul-shattering scream. "HE—"
But the sound was strangled in her throat. The man was faster, his hand moving with the precision of a viper. He slammed a balled-up mass of coarse fabric—perhaps one of her own silk scarves—deep into her open mouth, muffling the cry into a pathetic, wet grunt. He efficiently pulled the outer gag back into place, cinching it even tighter than before.
"Tut-tut, Sharon," he whispered, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. He sounded like a father chiding a child for a spilled glass of milk. "Bad habits. We’re here to fix your memory, not wake the neighbors."
He shifted his weight, and Sharon felt the bed creak as he positioned himself back at the foot of the mattress. She felt his large, calloused palm cup the ball of her left foot. With agonizing slowness, he pushed her toes back toward her shin, stretching the skin of her high, sensitive arch until it was taut as a drumhead.
Then, she felt it.
The man used the long, sharp nails of his free hand to begin a light, rhythmic scratching right in the center of her vulnerable sole.
Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.
Sharon’s world exploded into a frantic, jagged electricity. Her legs jerked violently against the restraints, the cords biting into her ankles as she tried to pull away from the torturous sensation. She was legendary for her sensitivity; even the touch of a blade of grass could make her squirm, and now, a professional was systematically exploiting it.
"MMMPH! MMMM-HNNN! MMMM-HM-HM-HM!"
She thrashed, her blonde hair flying around as she whipped her head back and forth. The scratching turned into a slow, swirling crawl of his fingernails, tracing the sensitive "V" just beneath her toes and then dragging all the way down to her heel.
The scratching of his nails against her soles sent a lightning bolt of sheer, involuntary electricity through Sharon’s nervous system. But as her toes of her foot tried to flare and curl in a desperate, panic, she felt something that chilled her more than the ropes.
The air was too direct on her skin. There was no silken barrier, no sheer nylon mesh to dampen the sensation. Her feet were completely, shamefully bare.
A wave of nausea rolled over her as she processed the texture of the "fabric" stuffed deep into her mouth. It wasn't a silk scarf. It was soft, yet slightly damp. Then the taste registered, clinging to her tongue with a distinctive, salty tang. The realization hit her like a physical blow: he had stripped the pantyhose from her legs while she was unconscious, bundled them up, and used the very garments she’d been sweating in all day to gag her.
The taste of her own frantic day at the courthouse—the salt, the nylon, the lingering scent of her pumps—filled her throat. It was a sensory claustrophobia that made her want to retch, but the gag held everything in place.
"Ah, you've noticed at last" the man whispered, his voice vibrating with cruel delight. "Good."
He didn't stop the torture. If anything, her realization seemed to embolden him. He changed to her other foot and used his thumb to pin her big toe back, stretching out the ultra-sensitive hollow of her arch. With his other hand, he began to drag his index nail, agonizing circles around that one specific, electric spot.
"MMMM-PHNNNN! HN-HN-HN-HN-HN"
Sharon’s body convulsed. The tickling was no longer just a sensation; it was a physical assault that she couldn't escape or voice. Every time she tried to scream against the taste of her own hose, the tingle intensified, turning her blood to fire. Her legs thrashed so hard the bedframe groaned, her bare heels drumming a frantic, helpless rhythm against the mattress.
"Is the memory getting clearer, Sharon?" he asked, his nails now skittering like insects over the tender skin between her toes. "Because I have all night. If you’re still 'sure' about what you saw, we can move on to the more... refined areas."
He paused, his fingers hovering just a millimeter above her skin, letting the ghost of the sensation torment her.
"Should I keep going? Or are you ready to admit you were mistaken about Mr. Syndino?"
Sharon’s head thrashed wildly from side to side, her neck muscles straining against the pillows. "MMMM-NNNN! MMMM-OOOO!" she tried to bellow through the damp nylon of her own hosiery, the plea for mercy coming out as a series of muffled, guttural grunts.
The man let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated through the mattress. "Need more convincing, huh? I admire your spirit, Sharon. Truly. Most would have broken by now, but you... you have a certain stubbornness that I find very... inspiring."
Suddenly, the torturous scratching at her soles ceased. The sudden silence of sensation on her feet felt like a trap. Sharon gasped into her gag, her chest heaving, her bare toes still twitching with lingering electricity. Then, she felt the heavy shift of his weight as he moved from the foot of the bed.
The cool air of the room hit her skin as she felt his fingers find the top button of her silk blouse.
Pop.
Her heart did a frantic somersault against her ribs. She tried to roll away, to scream, to protest the violation, but he ignored her movements as if she were nothing more than a doll. One by one, the buttons gave way. When the blouse fell open, she felt his hands slide beneath her back, his knuckles grazing her spine as he expertly unhooked the clasp of her bra.
The cups were peeled away, pushed upward until they rested uselessly beneath her chin, leaving her soft, pale chest fully exposed to the cold air and his predatory gaze.
Then, the bed groaned as he climbed over her. Sharon froze as she felt him sit between her arms, his powerful thighs falling either side of her head, pinning her upper arms firmly against the mattress. He was sitting just above her head, looking down at her, making her feel small, exposed, and utterly conquered.
"You really are a beautiful woman, Sharon," he purred, his voice coming from right above her blindfolded face. He reached down, his palms cupping her large, heavy breasts, weighing them with a proprietary air, his thumbs and forefingers teasing her nipples. Sharon's face burned as she felt her body betray her as her traitorous nipples pebbles for him. He chuckled "mmm someone enjoys being dominated it seems."
He began to rhythmically knead her soft flesh with one hand while the other hand migrated to her exposed armpit. He used two fingers to start a light, fluttering crawl over the ultra-sensitive, hollowed skin, then dragged his nails sharply down the length of her ribs.
"MMMM-GNNNNN! (SNORT) NNN-HN-HN-HN-HN"
Sharon exploded into a fresh frenzy of movement. With her arms pinned by his thighs, she couldn't even attempt to shield herself. Every time he squeezed or teased her breasts, they heaved and swayed violently, and every time his nails danced across the hollow of her armpit or the tender cage of her ribs, her body bucked like a live wire.
"Look at them go," he mocked, his fingers digging into the sensitive spots along her side. "They’re practically begging for more." He teased as his right fingers dug into the spaces between her ribs. She jolted violently and her left breast slapped into his cupped left hand."
Then he stopped tickling and went back to massaging her breasts, his thumbs lightly grazing over her stiff nipples "Are you still so sure you saw him, Sharon? Or is this 're-education' starting to sink in?"
Sharon was too mortified to answer. She could feel a fire kindling in her belly from this man's teasing of her nipples. She hated him, hated everything about what he was doing, but the way his calloused thumbs traced over the delicate skin was mind blowing.
"Still undecided, eh? A tough nut to crack?" He then pinched her nipples hard and twisted before, quick as a flash, his hands were on her ribs again "Oh and look, your ribs are so reactive, Sharon," the man whispered, his voice a low vibration near her ear. He dug both sets of fingers into the intercostal spaces of her ribcage, his nails dancing a frantic, rhythmic jig that made her lungs hitch in stuttering bursts. "And your breasts... they’re magnificent. The way they heave and jiggle as you struggle... I can see why Roger is so fond of them. He’s a lucky man, isn't he? To have such a firm, principled wife."
The mention of the name hit Sharon harder than any physical blow. Roger. Her heart didn't just race; it slammed against her ribs in a frantic, terrifying rhythm. How does he know his name? Where is he?
She thrashed her head, a muffled, questioning "MMMPH?!" tearing at the back of her throat.
"Oh, don't look so surprised, darling," the intruder chuckled, his fingers never ceasing their merciless scuttling over her sensitive sides. "How do you think I got in? Roger was... intercepted... on his way home from the office. My associates are keeping him company. He’s quite comfortable... for now. But his safety is entirely dependent on how 'forgetful' you become by tomorrow morning."
The fight drained out of Sharon’s limbs, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. She went limp beneath his weight, her bare toes curling in silent agony as the reality of the situation sank in.
"Now," he said, his tone shifting to something almost parental. "I’m going to remove the gag. You’re going to be a good girl, aren't you? Because if you scream, or if you try to call for help, I won't just double your 'lesson.' I’ll call my friends, and Roger will start losing things he can’t grow back. Do you understand?"
He reached down for the knot at the back of her head. "A simple nod will do, Sharon."
Slowly, with tears leaking from beneath her blindfold and soaking into the pillow, Sharon gave a single, shaky nod.
He reached around and untied the outer cloth. Then, with a firm tug, he pulled the damp, bundled pantyhose from her mouth. Sharon gasped, her jaw aching, the air hitting her tongue with a bittersweet chill. She tasted the salt and the nylon, but she didn't make a sound. She just lay there, exposed and trembling, her ribs still twitching from the ghost of his touch.
"Good girl," he purred, his hands returning to her soft, bare waist, his thumbs grazing the very bottom of her ribs. "Now, let’s talk about what you actually saw on that street corner..."
The bed shifted as he climbed off her arms, the sudden absence of his weight leaving her feeling strangely cold and even more exposed. Sharon lay there, panting, her breasts still flushed and trembling from his previous assault.
She felt him gather the fabric of her pencil skirt, bunching it upward until it was bunched around her midsection. The cool air of the room rushed over her hips, but the shame that followed was far colder. There, in the dim light she couldn't see, lay her white cotton knickers—now marred by a dark, telltale dampness. Her body had reacted to the primal terror and the intense stimulation of his hands, a physical betrayal that made her want to vanish into the mattress.
Then she heard the distinct, metallic click of a folding knife. Her breath hitched.
"Don't worry, Sharon," he whispered, his voice coming from near her waist. "I’m just clearing away the clutter."
Skritch. Skritch.
The blade was sharp. She felt the waistband snap over her left hip, then the right. He pulled the ruined fabric away, leaving her lower body completely bared to the room.
"Oh, Sharon," he tutted, and she heard him take a long, audible sniff. "You’re far more 'excited' about this trial than you led the court to believe. Such a naughty little witness."
He leaned over her, and she felt the soft, damp gusset of her own underwear being pressed firmly against her nose and lips. The scent was overwhelming—intimate, salty, and utterly shaming. "Keep your voice at a whisper, darling. If I hear even a hint of a scream, these go right into your mouth and I will add your stockings for good measure. And we know how much you enjoyed those, don't we?"
He pulled the fabric back just enough for her to breathe, then she felt his hands—large, warm, and deceptively gentle—settle on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He didn't move toward the heat of her center; instead, he began to trace light, agonizingly slow circles on the tender flesh just inches away, his fingertips barely grazing the surface.
The sensation was maddening. It was a tickle that sat on the edge of a caress, making her legs tremble and her toes curl against the sheets.
"Now," he murmured, his fingers dancing higher, teasing the very top of her thighs. "Let’s practice. When the defense asks if you’re absolutely sure about the color of the car, what are you going to say? Remember, Roger is listening for the right answer."
He punctuated the question by digging his nails suddenly into the ultra-sensitive skin of her groin-fold, a sharp, electric tickle that made her hips buck uncontrollably.
"I... I..." Sharon gasped, her voice a broken thread. "I think... I might have been... mistaken. The sun... it was so bright..."
"Better, but there is room for improvement" he purred, his fingers migrating back to the arches of her bare feet for a quick, punishing flutter. "But I think we need to make sure that 'mistake' is burned into your mind."
The training is a symphony of gasps and stammered lies. Each time her memory "corrected" itself under the lash of his skittering fingertips, he rewarded her with a terrifyingly gentle stroke of her inner thigh. She is a broken instrument now, playing only the notes he demands.
"Perfect," the man whispered, the word a cold caress as he finally stilled his hands. The frantic twitching in Sharon’s thighs subsided into a dull, exhausted tremor. Her pussy lips were full and pink, her pubic hair wet from her arousal. "You see? The truth is whatever we decide it is."
He shifted, moving to the head of the bed. Sharon flinched, expecting another assault, but instead, she felt the pressure of the blindfold lift. The sudden light of the bedside lamp was blinding. She blinked rapidly, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, until her vision cleared.
Towering over her was a figure in a black ski mask with two cold, predatory eyes staring back at her.
Without a word, he pulled a smartphone from his pocket and held it inches from her face. The screen flickered to life. Her heart shattered. There was Roger, slumped in a wooden chair in what looked like a damp basement. He was gagged, his eyes wide with a terror that mirrored her own. Standing behind him was a shadow of a man, casually snapping the long, rusted blades of a pair of garden shears.
Snip. Snip.
The sound on the recording was crisp and horrifying.
"Roger is a spectator now, Sharon," the masked man said. He turned the phone around, the camera lens now aimed at her. She lay there, ruined—her blouse open, her breasts exposed and heaving. Her skirt bunched at her waist, framing her wet, pink pussy. Her bare, tickle-reddened feet splayed at the end of the bed.
He hit record. "Say hello to your husband, darling. Let him see how cooperative you’ve been."
Sharon could only let out a broken, shuddering sob as he captured her humiliation. He tapped the screen, sending the file into the digital ether.
"The men with Roger just received that," he murmured, pocketing the device. "They know you’ve been 're-educated.' If you walk into that courtroom tomorrow and deviate by so much as a single word... if you even look at the prosecutor the wrong way... Roger becomes a missing person. And we’ll make sure he’s never found in one piece."
The weight of the threat was absolute. Sharon nodded frantically, her throat too tight to form words.
He leaned down one last time, his gloved thumb tracing the line of her trembling lower lip. "I’ll be watching from the gallery, Sharon. Don't disappoint me." Then he lifted her ruined knickers and sniffed them again "I'll be keeping these as a... souvenir," and he pocketed then.
Then, with a sudden, efficient movement, he produced his knife again. He sliced through the cords at her wrists and ankles with practiced ease. The tension in her limbs snapped, leaving her feeling heavy and useless.
Before she could even attempt to sit up or cover herself, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the hallway. The front door clicked shut—that same sanctuary-sealing sound from hours before—leaving Sharon alone in the silence, her skin still tingling with the ghost of the torment that had just traded her husband's life for her silence.
Next Chapter
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 3,754
M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consentual | Explicit
The heavy oak door of the suburban house clicked shut, sealing out the damp evening air. For Sharon, that click was the sound of a temporary sanctuary. She exhaled a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders finally dropping from the defensive posture she’d held all day in the court room.
She leaned against the foyer wall, reaching down to peel her black leather pumps off her feet. They were "professional" shoes—stiff, sensible, and currently throbbing with the rhythm of her pulse. After popping her heels free, she kicked them off with a muffled thud and slid her feet into her plush, fleece-lined house slippers. The soft fabric felt like a lie, a promise of comfort that her mind wasn't ready to accept.
As she walked into the kitchen, the fluorescent lights hummed with a clinical buzz that reminded her too much of the courtroom. She reached for a bundle of carrots and a sharp paring knife, her movements mechanical.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
With every slice of the blade, a flash of the trial flickered behind her eyes like a strobe light.
She remembered the defendant’s face—not the groomed, stoic mask he wore today in his expensive suit, but the distorted, panicked snarl she’d seen through her rearview mirror months ago. She remembered the roar of his engine as he pulled out to undertake her, the sheer arrogance of his speed. And then, the sickening, wet crunch as his car mounted the curb, sending the elderly man’s grocery bags flying like white birds before his body hit the pavement.
He hadn’t even tapped his brakes. He had just vanished into the grey horizon.
Today had only been the opening statements. She hadn’t said a word yet, but she had felt the heat of the defendant’s gaze from the mahogany table. Mr. Syndino. He hadn’t looked like a monster today; he looked like a pillar of the community in a charcoal suit. But Sharon knew. She remembered the reckless roar of his engine and the way the elderly man had folded like a rag doll when the car clipped him.
The prosecution had called her their "crown jewel." Tomorrow, she would be the one to point the finger. Tomorrow, she would destroy his life with the truth.
The thought made her stomach churn. She reached down, adjusting the heel of her plush house slipper. She had shed her "courtroom armor"—the stiff pumps and the blazer—it was now time to relax.
She heard the familiar rattle of the front door lock. Roger. She didn't turn around. She didn't want him to see the lingering terror in her eyes, nor did she want to discuss the legalities of the day. She just wanted the routine. She heard his heavy footsteps on the hardwood, moving toward the kitchen. She tilted her head slightly, expecting the usual, dry brush of his lips against her cheek—the perfunctory "hello" of a ten-year marriage.
But the kiss didn't come.
Instead, a hand—stronger and faster than Roger’s—clamped over her throat. Before she could scream, a thick, cold rag was pressed firmly over her nose and mouth. The sweet, chemical sting of chloroform flooded her senses, turning the kitchen into a swirling kaleidoscope of fading light. The knife clattered to the floor, missing her slippered feet by an inch.
"Sleep now, Sharon," a voice hissed, smooth as silk and cold as ice. "We have a lot of 're-learning' to do."
The world went black.
When consciousness returned, it brought a cold, sharp clarity.
Sharon tried to move her arms, but they were pulled over her head, wrists cinched tight against wood. Her legs were spread slightly, ankles lashed down with biting cord. She was flat on her back, the softness beneath her suggesting her own bed, but the familiarity offered no comfort. A thick blindfold pressed against her eyelids, and a gag covered her mouth, cutting off any hope of a scream.
The air in the room felt different—heavy with a predatory presence.
"You have a very vivid imagination, Sharon," a voice murmured. It was smooth, cultured, and entirely unfamiliar. It wasn't the voice of a common thug; it was the voice of a man who enjoyed his work.
"Mr. Syndino is quite concerned. He thinks you've confused him with someone else. He thinks... you need a little help remembering the correct version of events before you take that stand tomorrow."
She felt a hand grasp her ankle. It was firm, inescapable. Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, the intruder gripped the heel of her left house slipper and slid it off, tossing it aside. Then the right.
The cool evening air hit her bare soles, and she whimpered into the gag, her toes curling instinctively.
"Such pretty feet," the voice purred. She felt the heat of him leaning in close. Then, the terrifyingly intimate sensation of his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of her toes as he took a long, deep breath. "It would be such a shame if they had to suffer because of a... 'mistaken' identity."
The air in the bedroom grew thick with the scent of her own rising panic.
The intruder let out a soft, amused hum as he felt Sharon’s toes twitch against his cheek.
"So. Do we need to have a conversation or are you sufficiently motivated for tomorrow" he asked, as he moved up the bed, his fingers grazing the skin of her jaw and he undid the knot of the gag. The moment the fabric fell away, Sharon didn't waste a heartbeat on words.
She inhaled, her lungs expanding for a piercing, soul-shattering scream. "HE—"
But the sound was strangled in her throat. The man was faster, his hand moving with the precision of a viper. He slammed a balled-up mass of coarse fabric—perhaps one of her own silk scarves—deep into her open mouth, muffling the cry into a pathetic, wet grunt. He efficiently pulled the outer gag back into place, cinching it even tighter than before.
"Tut-tut, Sharon," he whispered, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. He sounded like a father chiding a child for a spilled glass of milk. "Bad habits. We’re here to fix your memory, not wake the neighbors."
He shifted his weight, and Sharon felt the bed creak as he positioned himself back at the foot of the mattress. She felt his large, calloused palm cup the ball of her left foot. With agonizing slowness, he pushed her toes back toward her shin, stretching the skin of her high, sensitive arch until it was taut as a drumhead.
Then, she felt it.
The man used the long, sharp nails of his free hand to begin a light, rhythmic scratching right in the center of her vulnerable sole.
Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.
Sharon’s world exploded into a frantic, jagged electricity. Her legs jerked violently against the restraints, the cords biting into her ankles as she tried to pull away from the torturous sensation. She was legendary for her sensitivity; even the touch of a blade of grass could make her squirm, and now, a professional was systematically exploiting it.
"MMMPH! MMMM-HNNN! MMMM-HM-HM-HM!"
She thrashed, her blonde hair flying around as she whipped her head back and forth. The scratching turned into a slow, swirling crawl of his fingernails, tracing the sensitive "V" just beneath her toes and then dragging all the way down to her heel.
The scratching of his nails against her soles sent a lightning bolt of sheer, involuntary electricity through Sharon’s nervous system. But as her toes of her foot tried to flare and curl in a desperate, panic, she felt something that chilled her more than the ropes.
The air was too direct on her skin. There was no silken barrier, no sheer nylon mesh to dampen the sensation. Her feet were completely, shamefully bare.
A wave of nausea rolled over her as she processed the texture of the "fabric" stuffed deep into her mouth. It wasn't a silk scarf. It was soft, yet slightly damp. Then the taste registered, clinging to her tongue with a distinctive, salty tang. The realization hit her like a physical blow: he had stripped the pantyhose from her legs while she was unconscious, bundled them up, and used the very garments she’d been sweating in all day to gag her.
The taste of her own frantic day at the courthouse—the salt, the nylon, the lingering scent of her pumps—filled her throat. It was a sensory claustrophobia that made her want to retch, but the gag held everything in place.
"Ah, you've noticed at last" the man whispered, his voice vibrating with cruel delight. "Good."
He didn't stop the torture. If anything, her realization seemed to embolden him. He changed to her other foot and used his thumb to pin her big toe back, stretching out the ultra-sensitive hollow of her arch. With his other hand, he began to drag his index nail, agonizing circles around that one specific, electric spot.
"MMMM-PHNNNN! HN-HN-HN-HN-HN"
Sharon’s body convulsed. The tickling was no longer just a sensation; it was a physical assault that she couldn't escape or voice. Every time she tried to scream against the taste of her own hose, the tingle intensified, turning her blood to fire. Her legs thrashed so hard the bedframe groaned, her bare heels drumming a frantic, helpless rhythm against the mattress.
"Is the memory getting clearer, Sharon?" he asked, his nails now skittering like insects over the tender skin between her toes. "Because I have all night. If you’re still 'sure' about what you saw, we can move on to the more... refined areas."
He paused, his fingers hovering just a millimeter above her skin, letting the ghost of the sensation torment her.
"Should I keep going? Or are you ready to admit you were mistaken about Mr. Syndino?"
Sharon’s head thrashed wildly from side to side, her neck muscles straining against the pillows. "MMMM-NNNN! MMMM-OOOO!" she tried to bellow through the damp nylon of her own hosiery, the plea for mercy coming out as a series of muffled, guttural grunts.
The man let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated through the mattress. "Need more convincing, huh? I admire your spirit, Sharon. Truly. Most would have broken by now, but you... you have a certain stubbornness that I find very... inspiring."
Suddenly, the torturous scratching at her soles ceased. The sudden silence of sensation on her feet felt like a trap. Sharon gasped into her gag, her chest heaving, her bare toes still twitching with lingering electricity. Then, she felt the heavy shift of his weight as he moved from the foot of the bed.
The cool air of the room hit her skin as she felt his fingers find the top button of her silk blouse.
Pop.
Her heart did a frantic somersault against her ribs. She tried to roll away, to scream, to protest the violation, but he ignored her movements as if she were nothing more than a doll. One by one, the buttons gave way. When the blouse fell open, she felt his hands slide beneath her back, his knuckles grazing her spine as he expertly unhooked the clasp of her bra.
The cups were peeled away, pushed upward until they rested uselessly beneath her chin, leaving her soft, pale chest fully exposed to the cold air and his predatory gaze.
Then, the bed groaned as he climbed over her. Sharon froze as she felt him sit between her arms, his powerful thighs falling either side of her head, pinning her upper arms firmly against the mattress. He was sitting just above her head, looking down at her, making her feel small, exposed, and utterly conquered.
"You really are a beautiful woman, Sharon," he purred, his voice coming from right above her blindfolded face. He reached down, his palms cupping her large, heavy breasts, weighing them with a proprietary air, his thumbs and forefingers teasing her nipples. Sharon's face burned as she felt her body betray her as her traitorous nipples pebbles for him. He chuckled "mmm someone enjoys being dominated it seems."
He began to rhythmically knead her soft flesh with one hand while the other hand migrated to her exposed armpit. He used two fingers to start a light, fluttering crawl over the ultra-sensitive, hollowed skin, then dragged his nails sharply down the length of her ribs.
"MMMM-GNNNNN! (SNORT) NNN-HN-HN-HN-HN"
Sharon exploded into a fresh frenzy of movement. With her arms pinned by his thighs, she couldn't even attempt to shield herself. Every time he squeezed or teased her breasts, they heaved and swayed violently, and every time his nails danced across the hollow of her armpit or the tender cage of her ribs, her body bucked like a live wire.
"Look at them go," he mocked, his fingers digging into the sensitive spots along her side. "They’re practically begging for more." He teased as his right fingers dug into the spaces between her ribs. She jolted violently and her left breast slapped into his cupped left hand."
Then he stopped tickling and went back to massaging her breasts, his thumbs lightly grazing over her stiff nipples "Are you still so sure you saw him, Sharon? Or is this 're-education' starting to sink in?"
Sharon was too mortified to answer. She could feel a fire kindling in her belly from this man's teasing of her nipples. She hated him, hated everything about what he was doing, but the way his calloused thumbs traced over the delicate skin was mind blowing.
"Still undecided, eh? A tough nut to crack?" He then pinched her nipples hard and twisted before, quick as a flash, his hands were on her ribs again "Oh and look, your ribs are so reactive, Sharon," the man whispered, his voice a low vibration near her ear. He dug both sets of fingers into the intercostal spaces of her ribcage, his nails dancing a frantic, rhythmic jig that made her lungs hitch in stuttering bursts. "And your breasts... they’re magnificent. The way they heave and jiggle as you struggle... I can see why Roger is so fond of them. He’s a lucky man, isn't he? To have such a firm, principled wife."
The mention of the name hit Sharon harder than any physical blow. Roger. Her heart didn't just race; it slammed against her ribs in a frantic, terrifying rhythm. How does he know his name? Where is he?
She thrashed her head, a muffled, questioning "MMMPH?!" tearing at the back of her throat.
"Oh, don't look so surprised, darling," the intruder chuckled, his fingers never ceasing their merciless scuttling over her sensitive sides. "How do you think I got in? Roger was... intercepted... on his way home from the office. My associates are keeping him company. He’s quite comfortable... for now. But his safety is entirely dependent on how 'forgetful' you become by tomorrow morning."
The fight drained out of Sharon’s limbs, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. She went limp beneath his weight, her bare toes curling in silent agony as the reality of the situation sank in.
"Now," he said, his tone shifting to something almost parental. "I’m going to remove the gag. You’re going to be a good girl, aren't you? Because if you scream, or if you try to call for help, I won't just double your 'lesson.' I’ll call my friends, and Roger will start losing things he can’t grow back. Do you understand?"
He reached down for the knot at the back of her head. "A simple nod will do, Sharon."
Slowly, with tears leaking from beneath her blindfold and soaking into the pillow, Sharon gave a single, shaky nod.
He reached around and untied the outer cloth. Then, with a firm tug, he pulled the damp, bundled pantyhose from her mouth. Sharon gasped, her jaw aching, the air hitting her tongue with a bittersweet chill. She tasted the salt and the nylon, but she didn't make a sound. She just lay there, exposed and trembling, her ribs still twitching from the ghost of his touch.
"Good girl," he purred, his hands returning to her soft, bare waist, his thumbs grazing the very bottom of her ribs. "Now, let’s talk about what you actually saw on that street corner..."
The bed shifted as he climbed off her arms, the sudden absence of his weight leaving her feeling strangely cold and even more exposed. Sharon lay there, panting, her breasts still flushed and trembling from his previous assault.
She felt him gather the fabric of her pencil skirt, bunching it upward until it was bunched around her midsection. The cool air of the room rushed over her hips, but the shame that followed was far colder. There, in the dim light she couldn't see, lay her white cotton knickers—now marred by a dark, telltale dampness. Her body had reacted to the primal terror and the intense stimulation of his hands, a physical betrayal that made her want to vanish into the mattress.
Then she heard the distinct, metallic click of a folding knife. Her breath hitched.
"Don't worry, Sharon," he whispered, his voice coming from near her waist. "I’m just clearing away the clutter."
Skritch. Skritch.
The blade was sharp. She felt the waistband snap over her left hip, then the right. He pulled the ruined fabric away, leaving her lower body completely bared to the room.
"Oh, Sharon," he tutted, and she heard him take a long, audible sniff. "You’re far more 'excited' about this trial than you led the court to believe. Such a naughty little witness."
He leaned over her, and she felt the soft, damp gusset of her own underwear being pressed firmly against her nose and lips. The scent was overwhelming—intimate, salty, and utterly shaming. "Keep your voice at a whisper, darling. If I hear even a hint of a scream, these go right into your mouth and I will add your stockings for good measure. And we know how much you enjoyed those, don't we?"
He pulled the fabric back just enough for her to breathe, then she felt his hands—large, warm, and deceptively gentle—settle on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He didn't move toward the heat of her center; instead, he began to trace light, agonizingly slow circles on the tender flesh just inches away, his fingertips barely grazing the surface.
The sensation was maddening. It was a tickle that sat on the edge of a caress, making her legs tremble and her toes curl against the sheets.
"Now," he murmured, his fingers dancing higher, teasing the very top of her thighs. "Let’s practice. When the defense asks if you’re absolutely sure about the color of the car, what are you going to say? Remember, Roger is listening for the right answer."
He punctuated the question by digging his nails suddenly into the ultra-sensitive skin of her groin-fold, a sharp, electric tickle that made her hips buck uncontrollably.
"I... I..." Sharon gasped, her voice a broken thread. "I think... I might have been... mistaken. The sun... it was so bright..."
"Better, but there is room for improvement" he purred, his fingers migrating back to the arches of her bare feet for a quick, punishing flutter. "But I think we need to make sure that 'mistake' is burned into your mind."
The training is a symphony of gasps and stammered lies. Each time her memory "corrected" itself under the lash of his skittering fingertips, he rewarded her with a terrifyingly gentle stroke of her inner thigh. She is a broken instrument now, playing only the notes he demands.
"Perfect," the man whispered, the word a cold caress as he finally stilled his hands. The frantic twitching in Sharon’s thighs subsided into a dull, exhausted tremor. Her pussy lips were full and pink, her pubic hair wet from her arousal. "You see? The truth is whatever we decide it is."
He shifted, moving to the head of the bed. Sharon flinched, expecting another assault, but instead, she felt the pressure of the blindfold lift. The sudden light of the bedside lamp was blinding. She blinked rapidly, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, until her vision cleared.
Towering over her was a figure in a black ski mask with two cold, predatory eyes staring back at her.
Without a word, he pulled a smartphone from his pocket and held it inches from her face. The screen flickered to life. Her heart shattered. There was Roger, slumped in a wooden chair in what looked like a damp basement. He was gagged, his eyes wide with a terror that mirrored her own. Standing behind him was a shadow of a man, casually snapping the long, rusted blades of a pair of garden shears.
Snip. Snip.
The sound on the recording was crisp and horrifying.
"Roger is a spectator now, Sharon," the masked man said. He turned the phone around, the camera lens now aimed at her. She lay there, ruined—her blouse open, her breasts exposed and heaving. Her skirt bunched at her waist, framing her wet, pink pussy. Her bare, tickle-reddened feet splayed at the end of the bed.
He hit record. "Say hello to your husband, darling. Let him see how cooperative you’ve been."
Sharon could only let out a broken, shuddering sob as he captured her humiliation. He tapped the screen, sending the file into the digital ether.
"The men with Roger just received that," he murmured, pocketing the device. "They know you’ve been 're-educated.' If you walk into that courtroom tomorrow and deviate by so much as a single word... if you even look at the prosecutor the wrong way... Roger becomes a missing person. And we’ll make sure he’s never found in one piece."
The weight of the threat was absolute. Sharon nodded frantically, her throat too tight to form words.
He leaned down one last time, his gloved thumb tracing the line of her trembling lower lip. "I’ll be watching from the gallery, Sharon. Don't disappoint me." Then he lifted her ruined knickers and sniffed them again "I'll be keeping these as a... souvenir," and he pocketed then.
Then, with a sudden, efficient movement, he produced his knife again. He sliced through the cords at her wrists and ankles with practiced ease. The tension in her limbs snapped, leaving her feeling heavy and useless.
Before she could even attempt to sit up or cover herself, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the hallway. The front door clicked shut—that same sanctuary-sealing sound from hours before—leaving Sharon alone in the silence, her skin still tingling with the ghost of the torment that had just traded her husband's life for her silence.
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