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Sharon Miller did as she was told. She went into the court and told the lies on the witness stand but... It's not going to plan. The car is getting thrown out on suspected witness tampering and the judge has just told her she will be summoned to a perjury hearing. She gets outside and there is a media frenzy. She hops in a car the prosecution sent for her but then she smells that all to familiar chloroform tang in the air...
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,924
M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual | Explicit | Netori
Sharon sat in the witness box, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles bleached white against the dark navy fabric of her skirt. To the jury, to the judge, to the gallery full of hushed spectators, she looked the part of the impeccable witness: a respectable suburban woman in a sharp blazer and a crisp white blouse, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe, trustworthy chignon.
But beneath the "armor," Sharon was a wreck of raw nerves and hidden bruises.
Every shift in the wooden chair sent a jolt of phantom electricity through her body. Her feet, encased in sheer, nude pantyhose and shoved into her black leather pumps, felt as if they were burning. The memory of the Intruder’s nails—skritch, skritch—was so vivid that she could almost feel the phantom itch crawling along her arches. The leather of her shoes felt too tight, pressing against toes that were still tender from being stretched and manipulated the night before.
The prosecutor, Miss Deirdre Sweeney, stood up at the prosecution table, ready to start questioning her star witness. She was a tall woman with a sharp nose and short, styled brown hair that framed her face in a bob. She was wearing a sharp midnight blue pant suit and a white blouse.
"Mrs. Miller," the prosecutor began, her voice confident, clearly expecting this to be a slam-dunk case. "You stated in your deposition that on the afternoon of October 14th, you witnessed the defendant, Mr. Syndino, driving the vehicle that struck the victim. Is that correct?"
Sharon swallowed. Her throat felt dry, tasting of ghost-nylon and salt. She dared not look at the defense table, where Mr. Syndino sat. She dared not look at the gallery, though she could feel a burning gaze boring into the side of her head. I’ll be watching, the voice had whispered.
She had to do this. For Roger.
"I..." Sharon’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, forcing a trembling hand to reach for the glass of water on the ledge. The condensation on the glass felt cold, reminding her of the chloroform rag. "I stated that... yes."
"And do you see the driver of that vehicle in this courtroom today?" the prosecutor asked, gesturing grandly toward the defense table.
The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. This was the moment. The finger point. The truth.
Sharon closed her eyes for a split second. Behind her eyelids, she saw the video on the smartphone—Roger, gagged and terrified. She heard the snip-snip of the garden shears. She felt the phantom tickle of a nail dragging down the center of her sole.
She opened her eyes and looked directly at Mr. Syndino. He was staring at her, his expression unreadable.
"Mrs. Miller?" Miss Sweeney prompted, a frown creasing her brow.
Sharon licked her lips. "I... I thought I did," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
A murmur rippled through the gallery. The prosecutor blinked, her confidence faltering. "Excuse me? You 'thought' you did?"
"The sun," Sharon blurted out, the lie tasting like ash. "It was... it was very bright that day. Low in the sky. It was glaring right off the windshield."
"Mrs. Miller," the prosecutor said, her tone sharpening, "you were very specific in your statement. You described Mr. Syndino. You identified him from a photo lineup."
"I was upset!" Sharon cried, her voice rising in genuine hysteria. "I had just seen a man die! The police... they pressured me. They kept showing me his picture. I wanted to help. I wanted to catch who did it." She gripped the railing of the witness box, her fingernails digging into the wood. "But now... sitting here... under oath..."
She looked down at her lap, unable to meet the prosecutor's furious gaze. Under the table, inside her shoes, her toes curled violently, cramping against the insoles.
"I can't be sure," Sharon whispered, the final nail in the coffin of her integrity. "The car was moving so fast. And with the glare... it could have been anyone. I... I think I made a mistake."
The courtroom erupted.
"Order! Order!" The judge banged his gavel, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot.
Deirdre Sweeney stood frozen, her mouth slightly agape, staring at her star witness as if Sharon had suddenly grown a second head. Mr. Syndino’s lawyer was already leaning over to his client, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
Sharon sank back into her chair, trembling. She felt sick. She felt dirty. But a desperate, pathetic hope bloomed in her chest.
I did it, she thought, tears pricking her eyes. I said what you wanted. Please... please let Roger go.
From the back of the room, amidst the chaos of shouting reporters and a furious judge, a single, slow clap could have been imagined. But Sharon didn't turn to look. She just stared at her shoes, waiting for the floor to swallow her whole.
"Order! I will have order in this court!" Judge Halloway’s voice boomed, finally cutting through the din.
Miss Sweeney stood statue-still for a moment longer, her eyes fixed on Sharon with a look of icy, professional disdain. She was a predator in her own right, and she had just smelled blood in the water—not the defendant’s, but her witness’s.
She slowly turned to the bench. "Your Honor," Miss Sweeney said, her voice eerily calm, slicing through the lingering murmurs of the gallery. "The Prosecution requests a brief recess to set up equipment for... rebuttal evidence that has come into our possession this very morning."
Mr. Syndino’s lawyer shot up. "Objection! Surprise evidence?"
"It is relevant to the credibility of this witness," Sweeney shot back, gesturing sharply at Sharon, "and to the facts of the case."
The Judge waved a hand. "Overruled. Proceed, Miss Sweeney."
Sharon sat frozen in the witness box, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Rebuttal? She didn't understand. She had done what she was told. She had lied. She had protected Syndino. Why wasn't it over?
The lights in the courtroom dimmed. A large projection screen descended from the ceiling.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Miss Sweeney announced, her silhouette stark against the white canvas. "While Mrs. Miller seems to be struggling with the lighting conditions of that day, technology is not so... fickle. The Prosecution introduces Exhibit G: Dashcam footage recovered from a delivery truck parked directly across the street from the incident. Footage we were able to decrypt only hours ago."
Sharon’s breath hitched.
The screen flickered to life. The image was crystal clear, high-definition, and utterly damning.
It showed the street corner. It showed the victim walking. And then, it showed the charcoal sedan. The car didn't just clip the man; it plowed into him with sickening force. But what made the entire courtroom gasp wasn't the violence—it was the clarity.
The sun was behind a cloud bank. There was no glare.
And through the driver's side window, clear as a portrait, was Mr. Syndino. His face was twisted in that familiar, arrogant snarl. He was looking directly ahead. Then a blue hatchback appeared and through the windshield the driver's identity was clear: it was Sharon. The video showed looking horror-struck as the old man crumpled to the ground before looking furiously at the charcoal sedan.
The courtroom was a tomb of silent shock as the high-definition footage of the blue hatchback flickered out on the screen. The lie was stripped naked. There was no sun in her eyes. There was no doubt.
Sharon stared at the screen, her mouth dry, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She had perjured herself. She had thrown away her life, her reputation, her soul... for a lie that was disproven seconds later.
Deirdre Sweeney stood statue-still, her eyes fixed on Sharon with a look of icy, professional disdain. She turned slowly to the bench. "Your Honor, in light of this... revelation, the Prosecution moves for an immediate inquiry into witness tampering and perjury."
Judge Halloway’s face was a mask of thunder. He didn't even look at the jury. He slammed his gavel down with a crack that sounded like a bone snapping. "Order! This court will not be made a mockery of! In light of this flagrant and documented perjury, the testimony of Mrs. Miller is stricken. Furthermore, as the star witness of the State has been utterly compromised in front of this jury, I have no choice. I am declaring a mistrial."
A roar went up from the gallery. Syndino’s lawyer was already laughing, patting his client on the back. Syndino didn't join in; he just stared at Sharon, a predatory, promise-filled glint in his eyes.
"Mrs. Miller," the Judge’s voice boomed over the din, "remain where you are." He waited until the bailiffs had cleared the room of the shouting press. He leaned over the bench, his voice a low, lethal hiss. "You have committed a felony in my presence. I am referring your file to the DA for immediate indictment. For now, you are a pariah. Get out of my courtroom before I have the bailiffs drag you to a cell myself. You will receive your summons. Do not attempt to leave the city."
Sharon stumbled out of the courthouse steps, her "armor" now a mockery. The press swarmed her like locusts, cameras flashing, voices screaming questions about the "Sunlight Liar." She reached the curb, her vision blurring with tears, when a sleek, black town car pulled up.
The driver, dressed in a professional suit, stepped out and opened the rear door. "Mrs. Miller? I’m with the Prosecution’s transport. Miss Sweeney sent me. She said it’s urgent—regarding your perjury indictment and a possible way to mitigate the damage."
Sharon didn't even hesitate. She saw a life raft in a sea of fire. She slid into the plush leather interior. The doors shut with a soft, heavy thud, and the car pulled smoothly into the flow of traffic.
"There’s a package for you on the seat, Mrs. Miller," the driver said, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses in the rearview mirror. "Miss Sweeney said you needed to review the... evidence inside before we reach the office."
Resting on the seat was a plain cardboard box. Sharon’s heart hammered. Maybe there was a way out. Maybe they were going to offer her a deal. With trembling hands, she pulled back the flaps.
The first thing she saw was a flash of white lace. She reached in and pulled out a bundle of fabric. Her breath hitched in a ragged sob. It was her knickers—the ones from the night before, sliced and ruined. But they weren't just rags; they were wrapped around something heavy.
As she unrolled the lace, two fresh, bloody objects fell onto her white blouse before coming to rest on her lap. Roger’s fingers. The gold wedding band was still there, gleaming mockingly under the car’s dome light.
"What the fuck IS this!" Sharon roared at the driver
"Welcome home, Sharon" the driver replied before flicking a switch. The driver partition closed raised and closed with a whine and a click.
Suddenly, a faint, sweet scent—lavender and ozone—filled the cabin. Sharon lunged for the door handle, but the door was locked. She pounded on the glass, her heels drumming a frantic, dying rhythm against the floor—thump-thump, thump-thump—as she clutched the bloody fingers to her heart. The world dissolved into a chemical, blood-scented blackness.
---
Consciousness didn't return with a bang, but with a slow, sickening crawl.
Sharon’s first sensation was the hum. A low-frequency vibration that seemed to travel through the very surface she was lying on. Then came the smell—not the antiseptic courthouse or the chemical sting of the rag, but something more primal: expensive leather, ozone, and a faint, sweet hint of lavender.
She tried to lift her head, but it was heavy, as if her skull were filled with wet sand. Her vision was a blur of harsh white light and deep, velvety shadows.
"Mmph..."
The sound was caught in her throat. She realized then that her jaw was locked in place by a ball-gag, the rubber biting into the corners of her mouth, held tight by a strap that buckled at the base of her skull.
As her eyes adjusted, the horror of her physical situation began to manifest. She was lying flat on her back on a large, high-tech table. Her wrists were pulled wide and locked into padded steel cuffs at the corners of the table, leather straps held her upper arms in place. Her waist was cinched by a thick leather strap that pulled her hips flush against the surface.
She was still wearing her "armor." The navy blazer was wrinkled, the white blouse was now permanently stained with the rust-colored smears of Roger’s blood, and her pencil skirt was twisted around her thighs.
And her feet.
Her legs were spread and locked into place at the ankles, leather straps fixed just above her knees. She could feel the stiff leather of her black pumps still encasing her feet. They felt like leaden weights, the heels digging into the padded rests. The sheer nude nylons were still there, though she could feel the jagged tears at her knees from her fall in the cell.
"Ah, the guest of honor has returned to us," a voice purred.
A figure stepped into the light. He walked with a slow, rhythmic gait until he stood at the foot of the table, looking down at her trapped feet.
"You look exquisite, Sharon. The 'Grieving Widow' look suits you. Though, technically, Roger is still alive. Mostly. He’s watching, you know."
Sharon's eyes went wide with recognition. The voice. It's the same man from last night.
He gestured to a small monitor mounted on the wall. Sharon’s eyes darted to it. There was Roger—his hand heavily bandaged and bloody, his face a mask of agony—strapped into a chair in a dark room. His eyes were fixed on a screen. He was being forced to watch her.
"The Prosecution car was a nice touch, wasn't it?" the man said, walking to the foot of the table and tracing the heel of her right pump with his index finger. "You were so eager to save yourself, you forgot that you already belong to us. And Roger... well, he’s watching the restitution phase now."
"These shoes," he mused, his fingers tracing the curve of the leather. "So professional. So restrictive. You’ve been wearing them all day, haven't you? Sweltering in these nylons, toes cramped, arches aching from the stress of the trial."
With a sudden, sharp movement, he yanked the shoe off. The sound of the heel sliding free of her foot was loud in the quiet room. He tossed the pump aside; it hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Then he did the same with the left.
Sharon’s feet, now clad only in the sheer, sweat-dampened nude stockings, were exposed to the cool air of the room. Her toes, freed from the leather, curled and twitched instinctively. The sheer fabric clung to her high arches, shimmering under the overhead lights.
"Your feet are so expressive, Sharon," the man whispered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stiff hog-bristle brush, the bristles tapering to a dangerous-looking fine point.
"They’ve been waiting for this all day. The tension in these soles is... immense."
He leaned in close, his face inches from her stockinged arches. He took a long, deep breath, smelling the scent of her fear and the lingering salt of the nylon.
"Let’s see if we can’t make you a better communicator, shall we?"
He brought the brush down. He didn't press hard. He just let it rest against the very center of her right arch, the hairs poking right through the sheer nylon.
Flicker.
Sharon’s entire body jolted against the straps. A muffled, frantic "Mmmph!" exploded behind the gag. Her toes flared wide, straining against the fabric of the stockings, as the first wave of involuntary electricity shot up her leg.
"Oh, we’re going to have such a long night, Sharon," he laughed, his eyes bright with malice. "And Roger is going to see every single twitch."
As the man dragged the stiff hairs in a slow, agonizingly precise circle around the hollow of her right arch, Sharon’s body betrayed her instantly. Her hips bucked against the leather waist-strap, her heels drumming a frantic, muffled beat against the padded rests.
"Mmmm-Phhh! Hnnnn-Hnnn!"
The ball-gag forced her cries into guttural, rhythmic grunts that synced with the twitching of her toes. Through the sheer, damp nylon, every single bristle-head found a nerve ending that had been simmering in the heat of her pumps all day.
"Look at that reaction," the man whispered, his eyes flicking to the monitor where Roger sat, forced to watch his wife’s humiliation. "She’s so reactive, Roger. Did she ever let you do these things to her, I wonder."
He transitioned to her left foot, but he didn't use the brush this time. Instead, he reached into a small velvet-lined kit on a tray beside him and produced a pair of long, silver tweezers.
Sharon’s eyes went wide, the whites showing as she watched him through the haze of her terror.
He didn't use the tip to pinch. Instead, he used the cold, flat side of the metal to stroke the very tips of her toes—the part where the nylon was stretched thinnest, creating a tiny, translucent window to her pale skin. He ran the metal slowly over the sensitive pads, then suddenly slid the point into the small, dark gap between her big toe and its neighbor.
"HNNNN-GNNNN! SNORT HNN-HNN-HNN-HNN!"
Sharon’s left leg jerked so violently the leather strap above her knee groaned. The sensation of the cold metal wiggling between her toes sent her nervous system into a feedback loop of pure, unadulterated tickle-torture.
He dropped the tools and used his bare hands. He cupped both of her heels, his palms warm and calloused, and began to use his thumbs to knead the very centers of her arches with deep, rhythmic pressure, while his long fingernails skittered like insects over the balls of her feet and toe pads.
The combination of the heavy pressure and the light, frantic scratching was overwhelming. Sharon’s head whipped back and forth, her blonde hair spilling over the edges of the table, her face flushed a deep, frantic crimson. The blood-stained white blouse heaved and strained against her chest as her lungs struggled to find a rhythm.
"You're so sensitive, Sharon, this really is too much fun" the man purred, lifting his hands from her feet, waking over to her and bending down so his face was level with hers. He reached up and toyed with the collar of her blazer, then trailed a finger down the blood-smear on her blouse.
He moved back down to her feet, his eyes lingering on the way the sheer nude nylon shimmered over her convulsing arches.
"Now," he said, picking up a small, motorized device that hummed with a soft, high-pitched whine. It had a rotating head covered in soft, silken tassels. "Let’s see how long it takes for you to beg Roger for forgiveness with your eyes."
He pressed the spinning tassels against the ultra-sensitive "V" just beneath the toes of her right foot.
"MMMMM-HNNNNN-HAAAAAA-HNNN!"
Sharon’s toes flared so hard the nylon threatened to snap. She was a symphony of involuntary motion, a witness to her own physical collapse, while her husband watched the high-definition feed of his wife being systematically unraveled.
The heavy steel door hissed open, and a second man stepped into the clinical glow of the halogen lights. He was shorter, broader, with a thick neck and hands that looked like they were made for crushing stones. The first man offered a thin, shark-like grin and handed over the humming, tasselled device.
"She’s warmed up for you," the first man whispered, his voice a silken threat.
The new arrival took his place at the foot of the table, his heavy gaze raking over Sharon’s twitching, stockinged feet. Meanwhile, the first man drifted like a shadow toward the head of the table. He leaned over Sharon’s terrified face, his eyes locking onto the camera lens that transmitted her agony directly to her mutilated husband.
"Oh, you should have seen how quickly Sharon's nipples hardened for me last night, Roger," he purred, his breath hot against Sharon’s ear. "It was quite something. A body doesn't lie, does it? Perhaps it’s time for a repeat performance."
Sharon’s eyes bulged, a muffled, frantic "MMMM-GNNN!" tearing at her throat as she felt his fingers find the top button of her blood-stained blouse. One by one, the buttons were forced through their loops—pop, pop, pop—until the ruined fabric fell away, revealing the lacy bra beneath. With a practiced, cruel efficiency, he reached beneath her and unhooked the clasp. The cups were shoved upward, and Sharon’s heavy, pale breasts spilled out.
He began to lightly trace his calloused thumbs over the soft nipples and watched with a predatory grin as they quickly pebbled into hard points. "You really do enjoy this, darling, don't you," he hissed in her ear as her face turned crimson with embarrassment. She looked at the camera apologetically, tears tracking down her face.
At the other end of the table, the second man let out a low, guttural grunt of approval. He reached out and grabbed the sheer, sweat-darkened nylon at the tips of Sharon's toes. With a sudden, violent tug, he ripped the fabric open. The sound of the nylon shredding was like a scream.
He didn't wait. He leaned down, his nose disappearing between her splayed toes. He took a long, cavernous sniff of her bare, hyper-sensitive toes, inhaling the pungent, humid scent of a woman who had spent the day sweating in leather pumps.
Then, he flicked his tongue out, dragging it in a slow, wet stripe between her big toe and the next.
"MMMM-PHHH-HNNNN-HAAAA!"
Sharon’s hips bucked so hard the leather straps creaked. The intimacy of it was a violation worse than the pain. The man looked up, his lips wet, and clicked the motorized tool back to life. The soft, silken tassels began their high-speed dance.
He didn't just press it to her soles; he began to systematically explore the "V" of every toe-gap, buzzing the spinning silk into the tender, hidden skin between her digits. He moved with agonizing slowness, circling the pads, then diving deep into the hollows of her arches.
"HNNN-HNNN-HNN-HNN-GAAAA!"
She was being pulled apart from both ends. At her chest, the first man increased the pressure on her nipples, mocking Roger with every squeeze, while at her feet, the second man turned her hyper-sensitivity into a weapon. Sharon’s toes flared and curled in a rhythmic, helpless dance, her heels drumming a frantic tattoo against the table as the tassels turned her nervous system into a screaming wire of involuntary electricity.
"See, Roger?" the man at her head laughed as he tweaked her hard nipples between thumbs and forefingers. "She’s finally learning the value of the truth. And the truth is... she belongs to us now."
The man at the head of the table leaned even closer to Sharon, his fingers never ceasing their rhythmic, torturous tweaking of her dark, hard nipples. He looked directly into the camera lens, a cold, mocking glint in his eyes.
"You know, Roger," he chuckled, the sound vibrating against Sharon’s flushed collarbone, "it didn't take much last night. After just a little taste of this 're-education,' your sweet, principled wife was positively frothing at the gash. A regular fountain of cooperation."
Sharon let out a strangled, horrified "MMMM-NNNNN!" shaking her head so violently her hair matted against the table. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on her even harder than the leather straps.
"Let's see if she's reached that state of 'honesty' yet, shall we?" the man purred. He nodded to his partner at the foot of the table. "Check her status, would you? I want Roger to see exactly how his wife reacts to our... methods."
The second man gave a low, rough laugh. He set the humming tassel tool aside for a moment—the sudden absence of the vibration leaving Sharon’s feet twitching in a phantom itch—and reached up. He grabbed the hem of her dark navy skirt and, with a slow, deliberate bunching of the fabric, hiked it up past her hips, pinning it against her waist.
The light hit her bare, pale thighs and the white knickers at the centre. A sizeable damp patch was visible around the gusset, turning the fabric translucent. "It's a deluge, boss," he grunted, reaching out to trail a calloused finger along the damp fabric covering her groin.
"Good," the man at the head of the table whispered. He suddenly shifted his hands from her breasts, sliding them down to the sides of her ribcage. He began to use his long, sharp nails to perform a frantic, skittering dance across her intercostal spaces.
"GNNNN-HAAAA-HNN-HNN-HNN-HNN!"
Sharon exploded. With her arms and legs locked, her torso was the only thing that could move, and it bucked and writhed in a frantic, rhythmic jig. Every time his nails dug into the hollows of her ribs, her lungs hitched, sending a spray of muffled, high-pitched squeals through the ball-gag.
"You really were a lucky man, Roger," the man taunted, his nails digging deeper, finding the ultra-sensitive spots just beneath her armpits, watching Sharon's heavy breasts sway back and forth. "To have a wife this... responsive. This reactive. It’s almost a shame we have to share her with the whole team. But then again, a woman who lies as poorly as she does needs a lot of hands-on instruction."
He looked down at Sharon’s face, which was now a mask of pure, ticklish agony and soul-crushing humiliation. "Isn't that right, Sharon? Are you enjoying being Roger’s little star of the show?"
He punctuated the question by dragging his nails sharply down the entire length of her ribs, making her body convulse so hard her bare, red-raw toes curled into tight, shaking claws.
The man at the head of the table looked at his partner and gave a sharp, final nod. The time for taunting was over; now, there was only the work.
The second man didn't hesitate. He snatched up the motorized device, clicking the toggle to its highest, most violent setting. The high-pitched whine of the motor filled the room, a digital hornet’s nest. He shoved the spinning, silken tassels directly into the arch of Sharon’s left foot, while simultaneously using his free hand to dig his thick, blunt fingers into the sensitive "V" of her right toes, spreading them wide and raking his nails against the tender webbing.
"MMMM-GNNNN-HAAAAAA-HNN-HNN!"
Sharon’s body didn't just jolt; it arched into a bridge, her spine straining against the table as the dual assault on her feet sent a tidal wave of involuntary electricity crashing through her.
But it was only the beginning. At her head, the first man plunged his hands into her armpits, his fingers moving in a blurring, rhythmic frenzy. He didn't just scratch; he dug, his nails vibrating against her ribs, dancing over the hollows of her lats, and then darting inward to mercilessly flick and pinch her already-tortured nipples.
She was a storm of motion. Her head whipped from side to side, her blonde hair a tangled halo of sweat and desperation. The blood-stained white blouse was a ruin, flapping around her heaving, reddened ribs. Her hips thrashed against the leather strap, the translucent gusset of her knickers pulling taut as her legs kicked and drummed a frantic, dying rhythm against the padded rests.
"HNNN-HNNN-HNNN-GAAAA-HMMMM!"
The sounds coming from the ball-gag were no longer human. They were the rhythmic, stuttering gasps of a machine being pushed past its breaking point. Every inch of her skin—from the bare, raw pads of her toes to the sensitive hollows beneath her arms—was being systematically overloaded.
The room began to spin for Sharon. The harsh halogen lights blurred into long, white streaks. The sensation was becoming too much for the brain to process; the tickling had turned into a roar of white noise that drowned out her thoughts, her shame, and the memory of Roger’s face.
The man at her feet moved the tassels to the very tips of her toes, buzzing them against the sensitive pads, while the man at her head delivered a final, sharp rake down the entire length of her sides.
Sharon’s lungs gave one final, stuttering hitch. Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites. The frantic drumming of her heels stopped mid-air before falling heavily back onto the table. Her body, once a frantic wire of electricity, went suddenly, terrifyingly limp. Her head fell to the side, the ball-gag glistening with saliva, and her chest settled into a slow, shallow rise and fall.
The motor of the tassel tool hummed in the sudden silence of the room.
"She’s out," the second man grunted, stepping back and wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
The first man adjusted his cuffs, looking down at the ruined, unconscious woman with a cold, proprietary satisfaction. He looked at the camera one last time, a dark smile playing on his lips for the man watching on the other side.
"Class is dismissed, Roger. For today."
He reached over and clicked off the overhead lights, plunging the room—and Sharon’s shattered world—into a heavy, absolute darkness.
Next Chapter
Sharon Miller did as she was told. She went into the court and told the lies on the witness stand but... It's not going to plan. The car is getting thrown out on suspected witness tampering and the judge has just told her she will be summoned to a perjury hearing. She gets outside and there is a media frenzy. She hops in a car the prosecution sent for her but then she smells that all to familiar chloroform tang in the air...
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,924
M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual | Explicit | Netori
Sharon sat in the witness box, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles bleached white against the dark navy fabric of her skirt. To the jury, to the judge, to the gallery full of hushed spectators, she looked the part of the impeccable witness: a respectable suburban woman in a sharp blazer and a crisp white blouse, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe, trustworthy chignon.
But beneath the "armor," Sharon was a wreck of raw nerves and hidden bruises.
Every shift in the wooden chair sent a jolt of phantom electricity through her body. Her feet, encased in sheer, nude pantyhose and shoved into her black leather pumps, felt as if they were burning. The memory of the Intruder’s nails—skritch, skritch—was so vivid that she could almost feel the phantom itch crawling along her arches. The leather of her shoes felt too tight, pressing against toes that were still tender from being stretched and manipulated the night before.
The prosecutor, Miss Deirdre Sweeney, stood up at the prosecution table, ready to start questioning her star witness. She was a tall woman with a sharp nose and short, styled brown hair that framed her face in a bob. She was wearing a sharp midnight blue pant suit and a white blouse.
"Mrs. Miller," the prosecutor began, her voice confident, clearly expecting this to be a slam-dunk case. "You stated in your deposition that on the afternoon of October 14th, you witnessed the defendant, Mr. Syndino, driving the vehicle that struck the victim. Is that correct?"
Sharon swallowed. Her throat felt dry, tasting of ghost-nylon and salt. She dared not look at the defense table, where Mr. Syndino sat. She dared not look at the gallery, though she could feel a burning gaze boring into the side of her head. I’ll be watching, the voice had whispered.
She had to do this. For Roger.
"I..." Sharon’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, forcing a trembling hand to reach for the glass of water on the ledge. The condensation on the glass felt cold, reminding her of the chloroform rag. "I stated that... yes."
"And do you see the driver of that vehicle in this courtroom today?" the prosecutor asked, gesturing grandly toward the defense table.
The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. This was the moment. The finger point. The truth.
Sharon closed her eyes for a split second. Behind her eyelids, she saw the video on the smartphone—Roger, gagged and terrified. She heard the snip-snip of the garden shears. She felt the phantom tickle of a nail dragging down the center of her sole.
She opened her eyes and looked directly at Mr. Syndino. He was staring at her, his expression unreadable.
"Mrs. Miller?" Miss Sweeney prompted, a frown creasing her brow.
Sharon licked her lips. "I... I thought I did," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
A murmur rippled through the gallery. The prosecutor blinked, her confidence faltering. "Excuse me? You 'thought' you did?"
"The sun," Sharon blurted out, the lie tasting like ash. "It was... it was very bright that day. Low in the sky. It was glaring right off the windshield."
"Mrs. Miller," the prosecutor said, her tone sharpening, "you were very specific in your statement. You described Mr. Syndino. You identified him from a photo lineup."
"I was upset!" Sharon cried, her voice rising in genuine hysteria. "I had just seen a man die! The police... they pressured me. They kept showing me his picture. I wanted to help. I wanted to catch who did it." She gripped the railing of the witness box, her fingernails digging into the wood. "But now... sitting here... under oath..."
She looked down at her lap, unable to meet the prosecutor's furious gaze. Under the table, inside her shoes, her toes curled violently, cramping against the insoles.
"I can't be sure," Sharon whispered, the final nail in the coffin of her integrity. "The car was moving so fast. And with the glare... it could have been anyone. I... I think I made a mistake."
The courtroom erupted.
"Order! Order!" The judge banged his gavel, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot.
Deirdre Sweeney stood frozen, her mouth slightly agape, staring at her star witness as if Sharon had suddenly grown a second head. Mr. Syndino’s lawyer was already leaning over to his client, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
Sharon sank back into her chair, trembling. She felt sick. She felt dirty. But a desperate, pathetic hope bloomed in her chest.
I did it, she thought, tears pricking her eyes. I said what you wanted. Please... please let Roger go.
From the back of the room, amidst the chaos of shouting reporters and a furious judge, a single, slow clap could have been imagined. But Sharon didn't turn to look. She just stared at her shoes, waiting for the floor to swallow her whole.
"Order! I will have order in this court!" Judge Halloway’s voice boomed, finally cutting through the din.
Miss Sweeney stood statue-still for a moment longer, her eyes fixed on Sharon with a look of icy, professional disdain. She was a predator in her own right, and she had just smelled blood in the water—not the defendant’s, but her witness’s.
She slowly turned to the bench. "Your Honor," Miss Sweeney said, her voice eerily calm, slicing through the lingering murmurs of the gallery. "The Prosecution requests a brief recess to set up equipment for... rebuttal evidence that has come into our possession this very morning."
Mr. Syndino’s lawyer shot up. "Objection! Surprise evidence?"
"It is relevant to the credibility of this witness," Sweeney shot back, gesturing sharply at Sharon, "and to the facts of the case."
The Judge waved a hand. "Overruled. Proceed, Miss Sweeney."
Sharon sat frozen in the witness box, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Rebuttal? She didn't understand. She had done what she was told. She had lied. She had protected Syndino. Why wasn't it over?
The lights in the courtroom dimmed. A large projection screen descended from the ceiling.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Miss Sweeney announced, her silhouette stark against the white canvas. "While Mrs. Miller seems to be struggling with the lighting conditions of that day, technology is not so... fickle. The Prosecution introduces Exhibit G: Dashcam footage recovered from a delivery truck parked directly across the street from the incident. Footage we were able to decrypt only hours ago."
Sharon’s breath hitched.
The screen flickered to life. The image was crystal clear, high-definition, and utterly damning.
It showed the street corner. It showed the victim walking. And then, it showed the charcoal sedan. The car didn't just clip the man; it plowed into him with sickening force. But what made the entire courtroom gasp wasn't the violence—it was the clarity.
The sun was behind a cloud bank. There was no glare.
And through the driver's side window, clear as a portrait, was Mr. Syndino. His face was twisted in that familiar, arrogant snarl. He was looking directly ahead. Then a blue hatchback appeared and through the windshield the driver's identity was clear: it was Sharon. The video showed looking horror-struck as the old man crumpled to the ground before looking furiously at the charcoal sedan.
The courtroom was a tomb of silent shock as the high-definition footage of the blue hatchback flickered out on the screen. The lie was stripped naked. There was no sun in her eyes. There was no doubt.
Sharon stared at the screen, her mouth dry, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She had perjured herself. She had thrown away her life, her reputation, her soul... for a lie that was disproven seconds later.
Deirdre Sweeney stood statue-still, her eyes fixed on Sharon with a look of icy, professional disdain. She turned slowly to the bench. "Your Honor, in light of this... revelation, the Prosecution moves for an immediate inquiry into witness tampering and perjury."
Judge Halloway’s face was a mask of thunder. He didn't even look at the jury. He slammed his gavel down with a crack that sounded like a bone snapping. "Order! This court will not be made a mockery of! In light of this flagrant and documented perjury, the testimony of Mrs. Miller is stricken. Furthermore, as the star witness of the State has been utterly compromised in front of this jury, I have no choice. I am declaring a mistrial."
A roar went up from the gallery. Syndino’s lawyer was already laughing, patting his client on the back. Syndino didn't join in; he just stared at Sharon, a predatory, promise-filled glint in his eyes.
"Mrs. Miller," the Judge’s voice boomed over the din, "remain where you are." He waited until the bailiffs had cleared the room of the shouting press. He leaned over the bench, his voice a low, lethal hiss. "You have committed a felony in my presence. I am referring your file to the DA for immediate indictment. For now, you are a pariah. Get out of my courtroom before I have the bailiffs drag you to a cell myself. You will receive your summons. Do not attempt to leave the city."
Sharon stumbled out of the courthouse steps, her "armor" now a mockery. The press swarmed her like locusts, cameras flashing, voices screaming questions about the "Sunlight Liar." She reached the curb, her vision blurring with tears, when a sleek, black town car pulled up.
The driver, dressed in a professional suit, stepped out and opened the rear door. "Mrs. Miller? I’m with the Prosecution’s transport. Miss Sweeney sent me. She said it’s urgent—regarding your perjury indictment and a possible way to mitigate the damage."
Sharon didn't even hesitate. She saw a life raft in a sea of fire. She slid into the plush leather interior. The doors shut with a soft, heavy thud, and the car pulled smoothly into the flow of traffic.
"There’s a package for you on the seat, Mrs. Miller," the driver said, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses in the rearview mirror. "Miss Sweeney said you needed to review the... evidence inside before we reach the office."
Resting on the seat was a plain cardboard box. Sharon’s heart hammered. Maybe there was a way out. Maybe they were going to offer her a deal. With trembling hands, she pulled back the flaps.
The first thing she saw was a flash of white lace. She reached in and pulled out a bundle of fabric. Her breath hitched in a ragged sob. It was her knickers—the ones from the night before, sliced and ruined. But they weren't just rags; they were wrapped around something heavy.
As she unrolled the lace, two fresh, bloody objects fell onto her white blouse before coming to rest on her lap. Roger’s fingers. The gold wedding band was still there, gleaming mockingly under the car’s dome light.
"What the fuck IS this!" Sharon roared at the driver
"Welcome home, Sharon" the driver replied before flicking a switch. The driver partition closed raised and closed with a whine and a click.
Suddenly, a faint, sweet scent—lavender and ozone—filled the cabin. Sharon lunged for the door handle, but the door was locked. She pounded on the glass, her heels drumming a frantic, dying rhythm against the floor—thump-thump, thump-thump—as she clutched the bloody fingers to her heart. The world dissolved into a chemical, blood-scented blackness.
---
Consciousness didn't return with a bang, but with a slow, sickening crawl.
Sharon’s first sensation was the hum. A low-frequency vibration that seemed to travel through the very surface she was lying on. Then came the smell—not the antiseptic courthouse or the chemical sting of the rag, but something more primal: expensive leather, ozone, and a faint, sweet hint of lavender.
She tried to lift her head, but it was heavy, as if her skull were filled with wet sand. Her vision was a blur of harsh white light and deep, velvety shadows.
"Mmph..."
The sound was caught in her throat. She realized then that her jaw was locked in place by a ball-gag, the rubber biting into the corners of her mouth, held tight by a strap that buckled at the base of her skull.
As her eyes adjusted, the horror of her physical situation began to manifest. She was lying flat on her back on a large, high-tech table. Her wrists were pulled wide and locked into padded steel cuffs at the corners of the table, leather straps held her upper arms in place. Her waist was cinched by a thick leather strap that pulled her hips flush against the surface.
She was still wearing her "armor." The navy blazer was wrinkled, the white blouse was now permanently stained with the rust-colored smears of Roger’s blood, and her pencil skirt was twisted around her thighs.
And her feet.
Her legs were spread and locked into place at the ankles, leather straps fixed just above her knees. She could feel the stiff leather of her black pumps still encasing her feet. They felt like leaden weights, the heels digging into the padded rests. The sheer nude nylons were still there, though she could feel the jagged tears at her knees from her fall in the cell.
"Ah, the guest of honor has returned to us," a voice purred.
A figure stepped into the light. He walked with a slow, rhythmic gait until he stood at the foot of the table, looking down at her trapped feet.
"You look exquisite, Sharon. The 'Grieving Widow' look suits you. Though, technically, Roger is still alive. Mostly. He’s watching, you know."
Sharon's eyes went wide with recognition. The voice. It's the same man from last night.
He gestured to a small monitor mounted on the wall. Sharon’s eyes darted to it. There was Roger—his hand heavily bandaged and bloody, his face a mask of agony—strapped into a chair in a dark room. His eyes were fixed on a screen. He was being forced to watch her.
"The Prosecution car was a nice touch, wasn't it?" the man said, walking to the foot of the table and tracing the heel of her right pump with his index finger. "You were so eager to save yourself, you forgot that you already belong to us. And Roger... well, he’s watching the restitution phase now."
"These shoes," he mused, his fingers tracing the curve of the leather. "So professional. So restrictive. You’ve been wearing them all day, haven't you? Sweltering in these nylons, toes cramped, arches aching from the stress of the trial."
With a sudden, sharp movement, he yanked the shoe off. The sound of the heel sliding free of her foot was loud in the quiet room. He tossed the pump aside; it hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Then he did the same with the left.
Sharon’s feet, now clad only in the sheer, sweat-dampened nude stockings, were exposed to the cool air of the room. Her toes, freed from the leather, curled and twitched instinctively. The sheer fabric clung to her high arches, shimmering under the overhead lights.
"Your feet are so expressive, Sharon," the man whispered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stiff hog-bristle brush, the bristles tapering to a dangerous-looking fine point.
"They’ve been waiting for this all day. The tension in these soles is... immense."
He leaned in close, his face inches from her stockinged arches. He took a long, deep breath, smelling the scent of her fear and the lingering salt of the nylon.
"Let’s see if we can’t make you a better communicator, shall we?"
He brought the brush down. He didn't press hard. He just let it rest against the very center of her right arch, the hairs poking right through the sheer nylon.
Flicker.
Sharon’s entire body jolted against the straps. A muffled, frantic "Mmmph!" exploded behind the gag. Her toes flared wide, straining against the fabric of the stockings, as the first wave of involuntary electricity shot up her leg.
"Oh, we’re going to have such a long night, Sharon," he laughed, his eyes bright with malice. "And Roger is going to see every single twitch."
As the man dragged the stiff hairs in a slow, agonizingly precise circle around the hollow of her right arch, Sharon’s body betrayed her instantly. Her hips bucked against the leather waist-strap, her heels drumming a frantic, muffled beat against the padded rests.
"Mmmm-Phhh! Hnnnn-Hnnn!"
The ball-gag forced her cries into guttural, rhythmic grunts that synced with the twitching of her toes. Through the sheer, damp nylon, every single bristle-head found a nerve ending that had been simmering in the heat of her pumps all day.
"Look at that reaction," the man whispered, his eyes flicking to the monitor where Roger sat, forced to watch his wife’s humiliation. "She’s so reactive, Roger. Did she ever let you do these things to her, I wonder."
He transitioned to her left foot, but he didn't use the brush this time. Instead, he reached into a small velvet-lined kit on a tray beside him and produced a pair of long, silver tweezers.
Sharon’s eyes went wide, the whites showing as she watched him through the haze of her terror.
He didn't use the tip to pinch. Instead, he used the cold, flat side of the metal to stroke the very tips of her toes—the part where the nylon was stretched thinnest, creating a tiny, translucent window to her pale skin. He ran the metal slowly over the sensitive pads, then suddenly slid the point into the small, dark gap between her big toe and its neighbor.
"HNNNN-GNNNN! SNORT HNN-HNN-HNN-HNN!"
Sharon’s left leg jerked so violently the leather strap above her knee groaned. The sensation of the cold metal wiggling between her toes sent her nervous system into a feedback loop of pure, unadulterated tickle-torture.
He dropped the tools and used his bare hands. He cupped both of her heels, his palms warm and calloused, and began to use his thumbs to knead the very centers of her arches with deep, rhythmic pressure, while his long fingernails skittered like insects over the balls of her feet and toe pads.
The combination of the heavy pressure and the light, frantic scratching was overwhelming. Sharon’s head whipped back and forth, her blonde hair spilling over the edges of the table, her face flushed a deep, frantic crimson. The blood-stained white blouse heaved and strained against her chest as her lungs struggled to find a rhythm.
"You're so sensitive, Sharon, this really is too much fun" the man purred, lifting his hands from her feet, waking over to her and bending down so his face was level with hers. He reached up and toyed with the collar of her blazer, then trailed a finger down the blood-smear on her blouse.
He moved back down to her feet, his eyes lingering on the way the sheer nude nylon shimmered over her convulsing arches.
"Now," he said, picking up a small, motorized device that hummed with a soft, high-pitched whine. It had a rotating head covered in soft, silken tassels. "Let’s see how long it takes for you to beg Roger for forgiveness with your eyes."
He pressed the spinning tassels against the ultra-sensitive "V" just beneath the toes of her right foot.
"MMMMM-HNNNNN-HAAAAAA-HNNN!"
Sharon’s toes flared so hard the nylon threatened to snap. She was a symphony of involuntary motion, a witness to her own physical collapse, while her husband watched the high-definition feed of his wife being systematically unraveled.
The heavy steel door hissed open, and a second man stepped into the clinical glow of the halogen lights. He was shorter, broader, with a thick neck and hands that looked like they were made for crushing stones. The first man offered a thin, shark-like grin and handed over the humming, tasselled device.
"She’s warmed up for you," the first man whispered, his voice a silken threat.
The new arrival took his place at the foot of the table, his heavy gaze raking over Sharon’s twitching, stockinged feet. Meanwhile, the first man drifted like a shadow toward the head of the table. He leaned over Sharon’s terrified face, his eyes locking onto the camera lens that transmitted her agony directly to her mutilated husband.
"Oh, you should have seen how quickly Sharon's nipples hardened for me last night, Roger," he purred, his breath hot against Sharon’s ear. "It was quite something. A body doesn't lie, does it? Perhaps it’s time for a repeat performance."
Sharon’s eyes bulged, a muffled, frantic "MMMM-GNNN!" tearing at her throat as she felt his fingers find the top button of her blood-stained blouse. One by one, the buttons were forced through their loops—pop, pop, pop—until the ruined fabric fell away, revealing the lacy bra beneath. With a practiced, cruel efficiency, he reached beneath her and unhooked the clasp. The cups were shoved upward, and Sharon’s heavy, pale breasts spilled out.
He began to lightly trace his calloused thumbs over the soft nipples and watched with a predatory grin as they quickly pebbled into hard points. "You really do enjoy this, darling, don't you," he hissed in her ear as her face turned crimson with embarrassment. She looked at the camera apologetically, tears tracking down her face.
At the other end of the table, the second man let out a low, guttural grunt of approval. He reached out and grabbed the sheer, sweat-darkened nylon at the tips of Sharon's toes. With a sudden, violent tug, he ripped the fabric open. The sound of the nylon shredding was like a scream.
He didn't wait. He leaned down, his nose disappearing between her splayed toes. He took a long, cavernous sniff of her bare, hyper-sensitive toes, inhaling the pungent, humid scent of a woman who had spent the day sweating in leather pumps.
Then, he flicked his tongue out, dragging it in a slow, wet stripe between her big toe and the next.
"MMMM-PHHH-HNNNN-HAAAA!"
Sharon’s hips bucked so hard the leather straps creaked. The intimacy of it was a violation worse than the pain. The man looked up, his lips wet, and clicked the motorized tool back to life. The soft, silken tassels began their high-speed dance.
He didn't just press it to her soles; he began to systematically explore the "V" of every toe-gap, buzzing the spinning silk into the tender, hidden skin between her digits. He moved with agonizing slowness, circling the pads, then diving deep into the hollows of her arches.
"HNNN-HNNN-HNN-HNN-GAAAA!"
She was being pulled apart from both ends. At her chest, the first man increased the pressure on her nipples, mocking Roger with every squeeze, while at her feet, the second man turned her hyper-sensitivity into a weapon. Sharon’s toes flared and curled in a rhythmic, helpless dance, her heels drumming a frantic tattoo against the table as the tassels turned her nervous system into a screaming wire of involuntary electricity.
"See, Roger?" the man at her head laughed as he tweaked her hard nipples between thumbs and forefingers. "She’s finally learning the value of the truth. And the truth is... she belongs to us now."
The man at the head of the table leaned even closer to Sharon, his fingers never ceasing their rhythmic, torturous tweaking of her dark, hard nipples. He looked directly into the camera lens, a cold, mocking glint in his eyes.
"You know, Roger," he chuckled, the sound vibrating against Sharon’s flushed collarbone, "it didn't take much last night. After just a little taste of this 're-education,' your sweet, principled wife was positively frothing at the gash. A regular fountain of cooperation."
Sharon let out a strangled, horrified "MMMM-NNNNN!" shaking her head so violently her hair matted against the table. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on her even harder than the leather straps.
"Let's see if she's reached that state of 'honesty' yet, shall we?" the man purred. He nodded to his partner at the foot of the table. "Check her status, would you? I want Roger to see exactly how his wife reacts to our... methods."
The second man gave a low, rough laugh. He set the humming tassel tool aside for a moment—the sudden absence of the vibration leaving Sharon’s feet twitching in a phantom itch—and reached up. He grabbed the hem of her dark navy skirt and, with a slow, deliberate bunching of the fabric, hiked it up past her hips, pinning it against her waist.
The light hit her bare, pale thighs and the white knickers at the centre. A sizeable damp patch was visible around the gusset, turning the fabric translucent. "It's a deluge, boss," he grunted, reaching out to trail a calloused finger along the damp fabric covering her groin.
"Good," the man at the head of the table whispered. He suddenly shifted his hands from her breasts, sliding them down to the sides of her ribcage. He began to use his long, sharp nails to perform a frantic, skittering dance across her intercostal spaces.
"GNNNN-HAAAA-HNN-HNN-HNN-HNN!"
Sharon exploded. With her arms and legs locked, her torso was the only thing that could move, and it bucked and writhed in a frantic, rhythmic jig. Every time his nails dug into the hollows of her ribs, her lungs hitched, sending a spray of muffled, high-pitched squeals through the ball-gag.
"You really were a lucky man, Roger," the man taunted, his nails digging deeper, finding the ultra-sensitive spots just beneath her armpits, watching Sharon's heavy breasts sway back and forth. "To have a wife this... responsive. This reactive. It’s almost a shame we have to share her with the whole team. But then again, a woman who lies as poorly as she does needs a lot of hands-on instruction."
He looked down at Sharon’s face, which was now a mask of pure, ticklish agony and soul-crushing humiliation. "Isn't that right, Sharon? Are you enjoying being Roger’s little star of the show?"
He punctuated the question by dragging his nails sharply down the entire length of her ribs, making her body convulse so hard her bare, red-raw toes curled into tight, shaking claws.
The man at the head of the table looked at his partner and gave a sharp, final nod. The time for taunting was over; now, there was only the work.
The second man didn't hesitate. He snatched up the motorized device, clicking the toggle to its highest, most violent setting. The high-pitched whine of the motor filled the room, a digital hornet’s nest. He shoved the spinning, silken tassels directly into the arch of Sharon’s left foot, while simultaneously using his free hand to dig his thick, blunt fingers into the sensitive "V" of her right toes, spreading them wide and raking his nails against the tender webbing.
"MMMM-GNNNN-HAAAAAA-HNN-HNN!"
Sharon’s body didn't just jolt; it arched into a bridge, her spine straining against the table as the dual assault on her feet sent a tidal wave of involuntary electricity crashing through her.
But it was only the beginning. At her head, the first man plunged his hands into her armpits, his fingers moving in a blurring, rhythmic frenzy. He didn't just scratch; he dug, his nails vibrating against her ribs, dancing over the hollows of her lats, and then darting inward to mercilessly flick and pinch her already-tortured nipples.
She was a storm of motion. Her head whipped from side to side, her blonde hair a tangled halo of sweat and desperation. The blood-stained white blouse was a ruin, flapping around her heaving, reddened ribs. Her hips thrashed against the leather strap, the translucent gusset of her knickers pulling taut as her legs kicked and drummed a frantic, dying rhythm against the padded rests.
"HNNN-HNNN-HNNN-GAAAA-HMMMM!"
The sounds coming from the ball-gag were no longer human. They were the rhythmic, stuttering gasps of a machine being pushed past its breaking point. Every inch of her skin—from the bare, raw pads of her toes to the sensitive hollows beneath her arms—was being systematically overloaded.
The room began to spin for Sharon. The harsh halogen lights blurred into long, white streaks. The sensation was becoming too much for the brain to process; the tickling had turned into a roar of white noise that drowned out her thoughts, her shame, and the memory of Roger’s face.
The man at her feet moved the tassels to the very tips of her toes, buzzing them against the sensitive pads, while the man at her head delivered a final, sharp rake down the entire length of her sides.
Sharon’s lungs gave one final, stuttering hitch. Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites. The frantic drumming of her heels stopped mid-air before falling heavily back onto the table. Her body, once a frantic wire of electricity, went suddenly, terrifyingly limp. Her head fell to the side, the ball-gag glistening with saliva, and her chest settled into a slow, shallow rise and fall.
The motor of the tassel tool hummed in the sudden silence of the room.
"She’s out," the second man grunted, stepping back and wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
The first man adjusted his cuffs, looking down at the ruined, unconscious woman with a cold, proprietary satisfaction. He looked at the camera one last time, a dark smile playing on his lips for the man watching on the other side.
"Class is dismissed, Roger. For today."
He reached over and clicked off the overhead lights, plunging the room—and Sharon’s shattered world—into a heavy, absolute darkness.
Next Chapter
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