Previous Chapter || First Chapter
Sharon Miller was back in her cell, recovering from her latest ordeal with the cats. Costigan entered and showed her a video of her husband. He was getting turned on by the video he was forced to watch of her with the cats.
Then Deirdre stepped into the frame. The prosecutor used her filthy foot to make Roger cum. After the video Sharon was given the opportunity to have round 2 against Sharon. She doesn't back down.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,097
F/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual
Time had dissolved into a suffocating grey soup. Sharon didn’t know if it had been thirty hours or three days since the incident with the cats. The cell was a sensory void, the silence broken only by the rhythmic, maddening drip-drip of condensation and the overwhelming, nausea-inducing stench clinging to her own skin.
Despite her frantic scrubbing with the meager ration of icy water, the smell of rancid tuna oil had seeped into her pores. It was a phantom layer on her soles, a constant, reeking reminder of the rough tongues and needle-sharp teeth. Every time she curled her toes against the cold concrete, she felt a ghost-tickle—a phantom abrasion—that made her whimper into the dark.
Clack-chk.
The heavy steel bolt retracted with a sound like a gunshot. Sharon flinched, scrambling backward until her spine hit the damp corner of the cell, knees pulled tight to her chest.
Costigan stepped in. The contrast was physically painful. He looked impossibly fresh, his grey suit sharp, the crisp scent of expensive sandalwood cologne warring violently with the fishy miasma of the dungeon. He didn't bring the heavy wooden stocks, nor did he bring the silent brute, Bricks. He carried only a sleek, black tablet.
"You look terrible, Sharon," he noted, his voice light, almost conversational. He kicked a small, rusted stool over and sat down, crossing his legs with casual elegance. "But then, love makes us do terrible things, doesn't it? Sacrifice is... messy."
He tapped the screen of the tablet. The blue light washed over his angular face, reflecting in his eyes.
"Roger has been worried about you. Or… that’s what we thought. Would you like to see him?"
Sharon nodded frantically, her matted hair acting as a greasy curtain around her grime-streaked face. "Is he… is he okay? Did you hurt him?"
"Judge for yourself."
He handed her the tablet.
Sharon gripped the device with trembling, filth-stained hands. The screen was high-definition, a window into a different world. It showed the interior of a sterile, white room. Roger was there, strapped into a reclining medical chair. His wrists were bound to the armrests with cushioned leather, his legs spread wide and shackled at the ankles.
He wasn't bleeding. He wasn't screaming.
In front of him, mounted at eye level, was a massive 4K monitor. Sharon squinted, leaning closer to the small screen in her hands. On Roger's monitor, a video was playing. The audio was low, but unmistakable—a high-pitched, desperate vocalization mixed with aggressive feline hissing.
It was her. It was the footage from the torture session.
Sharon watched in horror as the on-screen version of herself thrashed in the stocks, her bare, oil-slicked feet being ravaged by the starving tabbies. Rasp-lap-rasp. She saw her own toes splaying wide in agony, the tendons in her arches jumping and spasming under the assault.
"Oh god," she whispered, bile rising in her throat. "Turn it off. Don't make him watch."
"Look closer, Sharon," Costigan murmured, leaning in. "Look at your husband’s face."
Sharon shifted her gaze from the footage of her pain to Roger.
She expected tears. She expected him to be squeezing his eyes shut, turning away in horror at his wife’s degradation.
But Roger’s eyes were wide open. They were unblinking, glued to the screen.
He was sweating, a heavy sheen of perspiration slicking his forehead and upper lip, but his expression wasn't one of fear. It was trance-like. His jaw was slack, his lips parted, and his breathing came in short, shallow puffs that fogged the air in front of him. Hhh-uh. Hhh-uh.
He leaned forward against the restraints as the cat on the screen buried its rough tongue between Sharon’s second and third toe.
"Oh… fffuck…" Roger groaned. The audio feed from his cell was crisp; the microphone caught the wet catch in his throat. It wasn't a groan of pain. It was the sound of a man drowning in sensation.
Whatever denial Sharon tried to construct shattered when her eyes drifted down. Roger was wearing grey heather sweatpants. And there, tenting the soft fabric, was a furious, rock-hard erection.
It throbbed in time with the screams coming from the monitor. Every time the cat on screen licked Sharon’s sole, causing her to shriek, Roger’s hips bucked involuntarily upward, grinding the head of his cock against the waistband.
"He… he…" Sharon stammered, her brain refusing to process the image. "He's… sick. You drugged him."
"No drugs," Costigan said softly. "We just showed him the footage. We thought it might break him. But it seems Roger has some… hidden interests. Look at him, Sharon. He’s not looking away. He’s captivated."
On the screen, the video zoomed in on Sharon’s twitching, oil-covered toes. Roger let out a low, shuddering moan, his head lolling back, his erection twitching violently against the fabric. He wasn't mourning her pain. He was getting off on her helpless, frantic feet.
The realization hit Sharon colder than the concrete floor. The man she had perjured herself for, the man she was currently rotting in a cell to protect, was sitting in a comfortable chair, masturbating to the sight of her torture.
"He likes it," Sharon whispered, the words tasting like copper.
"He loves it," Costigan corrected smoothy. "And he's been watching it on a loop for four hours. He’s very… pent up. He needs release. And since you're unavailable…"
Costigan reached over and swiped the screen, changing the view. "We found a volunteer."
The camera angle shifted, widening to show the heavy steel door of Roger's sterile cell sliding open.
Sharon watched, her breath acting as a painful obstruction in her throat. A poisonous, masochistic curiosity welded her eyes to the screen.
The door hissed open. A figure was shoved violently into the room from the corridor, stumbling hard and barely catching herself on the doorframe.
It was Deirdre Sweeney.
Sharon gasped. The prosecutor looked demolished. Her sharp blue pantsuit was gone, replaced by a tattered, sleeveless grey tunic that barely covered her upper thighs. She was barefoot, her feet noticeably filthy from the dungeon corridors—soles caked in dark grey dust and grime, the skin pale beneath the dirt.
Her hands were cuffed in front of her with heavy steel bracelets. A thick, intricate leather gag was strapped around her head, barring any speech, forcing her jaw open. She looked back toward the dark corridor, shaking her head frantically at someone just out of frame, her eyes wide with panic.
"Move," a muffled voice commanded from the hallway.
Deirdre flinched as if struck. She turned, her chest heaving, and looked at Roger.
On the screen, Roger’s head snapped up. He looked wrecked. His face was slick with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. He didn't look like a man in control; he looked like an animal cornered by its own instincts. As Deirdre stepped closer, his gaze dropped to her dirty, bare feet. He let out a low, keen sound—half sob, half groan. It was the sound of a starving man being offered food he knew was poisoned.
"We didn't even have to ask," Costigan whispered over Sharon’s shoulder. "See how she goes to him? She knows exactly what he needs."
Deirdre walked toward the chair. She was trembling, but she didn't stop. To Sharon, blinded by the image of another woman approaching her husband, the coercion in Deirdre's posture was invisible. All she saw was the proximity.
She stepped between Roger’s spread legs. She reached out with her cuffed hands, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his grey sweatpants. She paused, looking up at the camera for a split second—a look of apology? terror?—before she yanked them down to his knees.
Roger’s erection sprang free—angry, purple, and throbbing against his pale thigh. He squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back against the headrest, his jaw clenched tight.
Sharon let out a choked sob. "No… Roger, don't… don't look…"
Deirdre didn't hesitate. She shifted her weight onto her left leg, balancing carefully. She lifted her right leg, placing her dirty, sweat-slicked sole directly onto his chest. She dragged it downwards, the grit on her skin smearing against his pectoral muscle, leaving a faint grey trail.
She pressed the flat of her sole over his mouth, muffling the groan tearing out of his throat. Then, she scissored her big toe and second toe around the bridge of his nose. She held him there, forcing his face directly into the dirty, sweaty hollow of her arch.
Roger’s eyes flew open. He took a massive, desperate inhale, his nostrils flaring as he was forced to breathe in the scent of her unwashed skin. Was he struggling? Or was he surrendering? On the high-definition screen, the difference was impossible to tell. His tongue darted out, licking the ball of Deirdre’s foot.
"YOU SICK BITCH!" Sharon screamed at the tablet, the sound swallowed by the cell walls. "GET OFF HIM!"
Deirdre pulled her foot back from his face and lowered it to his groin. She leaned forward, placing her cuffed hands on his thighs for balance, her fingers digging into his quads to stabilize herself.
She curled the dirty toes of her right foot around the base of his erection.
She began to pump.
It was desperate. Urgent. She used the dexterity of her toes to milk him, sliding her sole up and down the length of his shaft with frantic speed. Her big toe dug into the sensitive ridge of the glans, teasing the slit, while her other toes massaged the underside.
Schlick. Schlick. Even through the tablet speakers, Sharon could hear the wet sound of Deirdre’s sweat mixing with his pre-cum as she lubricated the stroke.
Roger was losing his mind. He strained against the arm restraints, his hips bucking up to meet her foot, grinding into the friction. He looked down, his expression a mask of agony and ecstasy, mesmerized by the sight of the prosecutor’s filthy foot manipulating his cock.
"Stop it! Get off him!" Sharon wailed, clawing at the screen, her fingernails scratching the glass. But the image remained crisp, mocking her.
Deirdre increased the speed, her hands tightening on his thighs. She shifted her grip, capturing the swollen head of his cock between her big toe and second toe, scissoring tight. She ground the soft, sweaty webbing between her toes directly against his frenulum.
"OHHH-GNNN!"
It was too much. The friction shattered his control.
With one final, violent spasm, Roger erupted. He slammed his head back against the medical chair, his body arching in the restraints.
Thick ropes of semen spurted out, jetting directly into the cleft of Deirdre’s foot, filling the space between her toes and splashing hot white across the dirty, grey skin of her arch.
Deirdre didn't pull away. She squeezed her toes together, catching the climax, holding her foot still as his fluids coated her skin. She stared at it, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face above the gag.
The screen went black.
Sharon sat frozen, the afterimage of the semen splashing across Deirdre’s dirty toes branded onto her retinas. The shock acted as a local anesthetic, blocking out the physical pain of her own ordeal. The phantom smell of tuna oil vanished, replaced by the imaginary, musky scent of what she had just witnessed.
All that was left was a cold, red-hot ember of rage. It sat in her stomach, heavy and poisonous. It wasn't just betrayal; it was theft. Deirdre had taken her place. She had touched him. She had pleased him. And Roger… Roger had taken it.
Costigan stood up, plucking the tablet from her stiff fingers. The screen was dark now, a black mirror reflecting Sharon’s hollowed-out face. He looked down at her, his expression: unreadable, clinical.
"You look pretty pissed off at Deirdre right about now," he observed, his voice low, lacking any judgment. Just a statement of fact.
He pocketed the device inside his grey suit jacket.
"What if I was to tell you we have her out in the interrogation block right now? Tied down. Waiting for someone to finally break her."
He extended a hand. The cuff of his shirt was starched white, pristine.
"Would you like the chance?"
Sharon stared at his hand. It was a lifeline out of the cell, but it pulled her toward something darker. She looked up, her eyes hard and devoid of the fear that had lived there for days. The pupil was swallowed by the iris, dark and focused.
"Yes," she hissed.
She took his hand.
The walk to the interrogation block felt different this time. Before, Sharon’s legs had been leaden weights, dragging her toward an inevitable doom. Now, fueled by the loop playing in her head—Deirdre’s foot, Roger’s moan, the spurt—she marched with a jagged, vibrating energy. Her bare feet slapped against the concrete, but she didn't feel the cold.
Costigan walked beside her, his pace measured. His voice was a low, constant hum of reinforcement, dismantling any lingering doubt Sharon might have had.
"She didn't have to use her toes, you know," he lied smoothly, his tone conversational. "The parameters were open. She could have used her hands. But she wanted to... feel him differently. She wanted to get... intimate."
Sharon’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth creaked audibly in the quiet corridor.
"And Roger..." Costigan let the name hang in the air. "He didn't exactly fight her off, did he? It makes you wonder. Maybe he prefers the... rougher touch."
They reached the heavy steel door marked INTERROGATION 4. Bricks was waiting there, a silent mountain of muscle. He keyed a code into the pad, the electronic beep loud in the silence.
He pushed the door open, revealing the scene within.
The room was aggressively sterile—white tiles, stainless steel, and a drain in the center of the floor. It smelled of bleach and something sharper, metallic. It was dimly lit, save for a harsh halogen spotlight focused on the center of the room.
There, Deirdre Sweeney was restrained on a heavy, inclined medical table.
She was positioned on her back, strapped down at the chest and waist. But it was her lower body that was the focus. Her legs were pulled wide apart—humiliatingly wide—and locked into elevated, padded stirrups that held her feet high in the air, presenting her soles to the room like trophies on display.
She was still wearing the tattered grey tunic, but the hem was rucked high up to her hips, leaving her exposed.
A heavy, complex leather muzzle was strapped over her lower face. It wasn't a simple ball gag; it was a structure of thick straps and a padded chin cup that buckled tight at the back of her head. It forced her jaw slightly open but completely encased her mouth, allowing her to breathe through her nose but reducing any speech to muffled, incoherent noise inside the leather casing.
But it was her feet that drew Sharon’s gaze like a magnet.
They were still filthy. The grey grime from the dungeon floor was caked into the deep arches and the pads of her toes. Sharon stared at them, hypnotized. In her mind’s eye, she saw the white fluid splashing across that very skin, soaking into the dirt lines.
"Look at her," Costigan whispered, his hand resting gently on the small of Sharon’s back, pushing her forward into the room. "She didn't even wash up. She’s wearing it like a badge of honor."
Deirdre’s eyes widened as she saw Sharon emerge from the shadows of the doorway. The recognition hit her instantly. She began to shake her head frantically against the headrest.
"Mmm-mm-mmm! MMMPH!"
The sound vibrated in her throat, trapped. She tried to pull her legs back, but the stirrups held her ankles in a vice grip. Her toes curled and uncurled in the air—the same toes that had milked Roger only moments ago.
Sharon’s eyes tracked up from the dirty soles to Deirdre’s groin.
She was wearing simple, white cotton panties. But the fabric betrayed her.
Right at the center of the gusset, a dark, unmistakable oval of moisture had soaked through the cotton. It glistened under the harsh halogen light. It was fresh. It was damning.
Deirdre saw Sharon looking and squeezed her thighs, trying to hide the evidence of her body’s traitorous reaction, but the stirrups kept her wide open.
"We didn't touch her, Sharon," Costigan murmured, noticing the direction of her gaze. "Whatever heat you see there... that came from her time with your husband."
Costigan walked to a stainless steel tray table positioned next to Deirdre’s exposed feet. The metal clattered as he adjusted the items on it.
"We tried to get her to cooperate earlier," Costigan said. He bypassed the heavier tools and picked up a vibrant purple hairbrush—a "detangler" style brush. It looked innocuous, almost childish, but the bristles were stiff, cone-shaped plastic spikes designed to separate knots.
He ran his thumb over the bristles. Thwip-thwip-thwip. They were firm enough to scratch, but flexible enough to tickle maddeningly if used lightly.
"But she’s very... resilient. Maybe she just needs a woman's touch."
He turned and held the styling brush out to Sharon.
"It won't break the skin," he said softly. "Which means you don't have to stop. You can scrub the sin away for hours, Sharon. Make her regret every nerve ending in those feet."
Sharon looked from the purple plastic to Deirdre’s terrified eyes. The brush felt light in her hand, but the intent behind it was heavy.
"You liked it," Sharon whispered, her eyes flickering back to the wet stain on Deirdre's panties. "I see you. You're wet for him."
"MMMMM! NNNN-HNNN!" Deirdre thrashed, her eyes pleading, trying to scream the truth through the heavy leather. I had to! He made me! But the muzzle swallowed her words, distorting them into the guilty sounds of panic.
Sharon didn't want to hear it. The logic was gone. There was only the image of the foot, the cock, and the brush in her hand.
She lunged.
Sharon didn't start with a tease. She slammed the stiff plastic bristles of the purple brush directly into the center of Deirdre’s dirty right arch.
KRSHHH-THWIP.
"GGGUHHHH-MMMPH!"
Deirdre’s body convulsed on the table. The sensation was a paradox of torture. The plastic cones were stiff enough to rake and abrade the skin, but the dense clusters of nerves in her soles translated the friction into an exploding, electric tickle that bordered on agony.
"Did you like how he felt?" Sharon screamed, scrubbing the brush in violent, circular motions. "Did you like hearing him moan for you?"
Skritch-scratch-skritch.
The sound was dry and hateful. Sharon dug the bristles in harder, exfoliating the layer of dungeon grime to reveal the flushed, angry red skin beneath. Deirdre’s toes splayed wide, frantically snatching at the air, trying to escape the surface area of the brush. But Sharon followed them. She jammed the bristles into the sensitive branding of the ball of the foot, raking them down toward the heel.
"HNNNN-HAAAA! MMM-PHHH-HEEE! ST-HAAAA!"
Deirdre’s head thrashed against the table, her eyes rolling back. The muzzle trapped her screams, turning them into wet, vibrating bass notes that shook her throat. She wasn't just in pain; she was overstimulated. The scratching was setting her nerves on fire.
Sharon grabbed Deirdre’s ankle with her free hand, pinning the limb in place to get better leverage.
"Look at you!" Sharon spat, gesturing with the brush toward Deirdre’s hips. "You're soaking wet! You tried to steal him, you slut!"
"NNNN! NNN-OOOO!" Deirdre shook her head, tears flying sideways, mixing with the sweat on her temples.
Sharon switched feet. She attacked the left sole, driving the bristles into the soft, wrinkled skin of the instep. Thwip-thwip-thwip. The plastic spikes snapped against the tender skin, leaving white scratch marks that rapidly turned crimson.
The next twenty minutes were a blur of violet plastic and raw, red skin.
Sharon worked with the manic energy of the possessed. She scrubbed the grime away, then scrubbed the skin beneath until it glowed a furious, angry crimson. She switched from the foot to left, raking the bristles down the sensitive length of the insteps, digging into the soft webbing between the toes, and grinding the hard plastic pad against the heels.
Deirdre’s thrashing changed over the course of the session. At first, it was sharp, panicked jerking. But as the minutes dragged on, the constant, overwhelming friction exhausted her. Her body was drenched in sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her screams behind the leather muzzle dulled into a continuous, rhythmic sobbing—a wet, desperate huh-huh-huh-HNNG sound that vibrated through the table.
Her feet were burning. The blood had rushed to the surface, making her soles radiate heat. They were swollen, hypersensitive, and twitching uncontrollably in the air, desperate for relief that never came.
Costigan watched from the shadows, leaning against the wall, checking his watch.
Finally, he stepped forward and caught Sharon’s wrist. Her arm was trembling with fatigue.
"Pause," he ordered.
Sharon froze, her chest heaving, sweat dripping from her nose. The brush hovered inches from Deirdre’s abused, glowing red soles.
Costigan reached down and unbuckled the straps of the complex leather muzzle behind Deirdre's head. He pooled the leather casing loose, letting it hang around her neck.
Deirdre collapsed back against the headrest, gasping desperately for air. Her chest heaved violently, her mouth dragged open, sucking in oxygen. She was visibly trembling, her body shocked by the sustained sensory assault.
She turned her head, her eyes bloodshot and wide, locking onto Sharon.
"Sharon... wait..." Deirdre gagged, coughing dryly. "It's... it's a lie..."
"I saw the panties, Deirdre!" Sharon shouted, her voice cracking. "I saw the wet spot! You can't fake that!"
"They forced me!" Deirdre wheezed, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. "Before you came in... while they were tying me up... Costigan—he used a magic wand on me! He held a vibrator against me until I was crying! That's why I'm wet! They wanted you to see it!"
She yanked weakly against her restraints.
"I didn't want it! It was torture! Please, Sharon... you have to believe me!"
Sharon blinked. The brush wavered in her hand. A forced orgasm? A magic wand? The cruelty of it was specific enough to be true. She looked at Costigan, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.
Costigan laughed. It was a dry, dismissive sound.
"A magic wand?" He shook his head, looking at Deirdre with mock disappointment. "You’re an imaginative lawyer, Ms. Sweeney. But we don't need toys to get a reaction out of you. Roger managed that all by himself."
He gestured to the wet stain on her panties, which had only grown larger during the twenty minutes of struggling.
"If that was forced, why did you look so... eager when you were milking her husband?"
"I WAS TRYING TO GET IT OVER WITH!" Deirdre screamed, her voice raw.
"Quiet," Costigan snapped.
He grabbed the muzzle. He shoveled the leather cup back over her jaw, catching her mid-scream and stifling it into a wet GULK! He wrenched the straps tight behind her head, locking her silence back in place with efficient brutality.
"She’ll say anything to save her skin," Costigan said, dusting off his hands.
He turned to Bricks. "We have that meeting. Let's go."
He walked over to Sharon. He leaned in close, his voice a poisonous whisper.
"She’s lying, Sharon. I think she just liked your husband's cock. Look at her. She’s a slut who took your place."
He walked to the tray table, picked up a second purple detangler brush, and pressed it into Sharon’s other hand.
"We’ll be back in an hour or two. The soundproofing is excellent."
Costigan walked backward toward the steel door, Bricks following.
"Make sure those soles are too sore to ever touch a man again."
THUD.
CLACK-ZZZZT.
The heavy steel door slammed shut. The lock engaged.
Sharon and Deirdre were alone.
Deirdre’s eyes were frantic, pleading above the black leather muzzle. She shook her head violently, mulling a desperate Mmmm-mm-mm!
Sharon stood there in the silence, her breathing slowing. She gripped a brush in each fist. Her eyes drifted down from Deirdre's terrified face to her hips.
Sharon's gaze landed on the prosecutor's panties again. In her head, the image of Roger's climax flashed—the spurt, the pleasure on his face—superimposed over the dark stain on the white cotton.
Her grip on the plastic handles tightened until her knuckles cracked.
"You both liked it too much," she whispered to the empty room.
She stepped forward and raised both brushes.
Next Chapter
Sharon Miller was back in her cell, recovering from her latest ordeal with the cats. Costigan entered and showed her a video of her husband. He was getting turned on by the video he was forced to watch of her with the cats.
Then Deirdre stepped into the frame. The prosecutor used her filthy foot to make Roger cum. After the video Sharon was given the opportunity to have round 2 against Sharon. She doesn't back down.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,097
F/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual
Time had dissolved into a suffocating grey soup. Sharon didn’t know if it had been thirty hours or three days since the incident with the cats. The cell was a sensory void, the silence broken only by the rhythmic, maddening drip-drip of condensation and the overwhelming, nausea-inducing stench clinging to her own skin.
Despite her frantic scrubbing with the meager ration of icy water, the smell of rancid tuna oil had seeped into her pores. It was a phantom layer on her soles, a constant, reeking reminder of the rough tongues and needle-sharp teeth. Every time she curled her toes against the cold concrete, she felt a ghost-tickle—a phantom abrasion—that made her whimper into the dark.
Clack-chk.
The heavy steel bolt retracted with a sound like a gunshot. Sharon flinched, scrambling backward until her spine hit the damp corner of the cell, knees pulled tight to her chest.
Costigan stepped in. The contrast was physically painful. He looked impossibly fresh, his grey suit sharp, the crisp scent of expensive sandalwood cologne warring violently with the fishy miasma of the dungeon. He didn't bring the heavy wooden stocks, nor did he bring the silent brute, Bricks. He carried only a sleek, black tablet.
"You look terrible, Sharon," he noted, his voice light, almost conversational. He kicked a small, rusted stool over and sat down, crossing his legs with casual elegance. "But then, love makes us do terrible things, doesn't it? Sacrifice is... messy."
He tapped the screen of the tablet. The blue light washed over his angular face, reflecting in his eyes.
"Roger has been worried about you. Or… that’s what we thought. Would you like to see him?"
Sharon nodded frantically, her matted hair acting as a greasy curtain around her grime-streaked face. "Is he… is he okay? Did you hurt him?"
"Judge for yourself."
He handed her the tablet.
Sharon gripped the device with trembling, filth-stained hands. The screen was high-definition, a window into a different world. It showed the interior of a sterile, white room. Roger was there, strapped into a reclining medical chair. His wrists were bound to the armrests with cushioned leather, his legs spread wide and shackled at the ankles.
He wasn't bleeding. He wasn't screaming.
In front of him, mounted at eye level, was a massive 4K monitor. Sharon squinted, leaning closer to the small screen in her hands. On Roger's monitor, a video was playing. The audio was low, but unmistakable—a high-pitched, desperate vocalization mixed with aggressive feline hissing.
It was her. It was the footage from the torture session.
Sharon watched in horror as the on-screen version of herself thrashed in the stocks, her bare, oil-slicked feet being ravaged by the starving tabbies. Rasp-lap-rasp. She saw her own toes splaying wide in agony, the tendons in her arches jumping and spasming under the assault.
"Oh god," she whispered, bile rising in her throat. "Turn it off. Don't make him watch."
"Look closer, Sharon," Costigan murmured, leaning in. "Look at your husband’s face."
Sharon shifted her gaze from the footage of her pain to Roger.
She expected tears. She expected him to be squeezing his eyes shut, turning away in horror at his wife’s degradation.
But Roger’s eyes were wide open. They were unblinking, glued to the screen.
He was sweating, a heavy sheen of perspiration slicking his forehead and upper lip, but his expression wasn't one of fear. It was trance-like. His jaw was slack, his lips parted, and his breathing came in short, shallow puffs that fogged the air in front of him. Hhh-uh. Hhh-uh.
He leaned forward against the restraints as the cat on the screen buried its rough tongue between Sharon’s second and third toe.
"Oh… fffuck…" Roger groaned. The audio feed from his cell was crisp; the microphone caught the wet catch in his throat. It wasn't a groan of pain. It was the sound of a man drowning in sensation.
Whatever denial Sharon tried to construct shattered when her eyes drifted down. Roger was wearing grey heather sweatpants. And there, tenting the soft fabric, was a furious, rock-hard erection.
It throbbed in time with the screams coming from the monitor. Every time the cat on screen licked Sharon’s sole, causing her to shriek, Roger’s hips bucked involuntarily upward, grinding the head of his cock against the waistband.
"He… he…" Sharon stammered, her brain refusing to process the image. "He's… sick. You drugged him."
"No drugs," Costigan said softly. "We just showed him the footage. We thought it might break him. But it seems Roger has some… hidden interests. Look at him, Sharon. He’s not looking away. He’s captivated."
On the screen, the video zoomed in on Sharon’s twitching, oil-covered toes. Roger let out a low, shuddering moan, his head lolling back, his erection twitching violently against the fabric. He wasn't mourning her pain. He was getting off on her helpless, frantic feet.
The realization hit Sharon colder than the concrete floor. The man she had perjured herself for, the man she was currently rotting in a cell to protect, was sitting in a comfortable chair, masturbating to the sight of her torture.
"He likes it," Sharon whispered, the words tasting like copper.
"He loves it," Costigan corrected smoothy. "And he's been watching it on a loop for four hours. He’s very… pent up. He needs release. And since you're unavailable…"
Costigan reached over and swiped the screen, changing the view. "We found a volunteer."
The camera angle shifted, widening to show the heavy steel door of Roger's sterile cell sliding open.
Sharon watched, her breath acting as a painful obstruction in her throat. A poisonous, masochistic curiosity welded her eyes to the screen.
The door hissed open. A figure was shoved violently into the room from the corridor, stumbling hard and barely catching herself on the doorframe.
It was Deirdre Sweeney.
Sharon gasped. The prosecutor looked demolished. Her sharp blue pantsuit was gone, replaced by a tattered, sleeveless grey tunic that barely covered her upper thighs. She was barefoot, her feet noticeably filthy from the dungeon corridors—soles caked in dark grey dust and grime, the skin pale beneath the dirt.
Her hands were cuffed in front of her with heavy steel bracelets. A thick, intricate leather gag was strapped around her head, barring any speech, forcing her jaw open. She looked back toward the dark corridor, shaking her head frantically at someone just out of frame, her eyes wide with panic.
"Move," a muffled voice commanded from the hallway.
Deirdre flinched as if struck. She turned, her chest heaving, and looked at Roger.
On the screen, Roger’s head snapped up. He looked wrecked. His face was slick with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. He didn't look like a man in control; he looked like an animal cornered by its own instincts. As Deirdre stepped closer, his gaze dropped to her dirty, bare feet. He let out a low, keen sound—half sob, half groan. It was the sound of a starving man being offered food he knew was poisoned.
"We didn't even have to ask," Costigan whispered over Sharon’s shoulder. "See how she goes to him? She knows exactly what he needs."
Deirdre walked toward the chair. She was trembling, but she didn't stop. To Sharon, blinded by the image of another woman approaching her husband, the coercion in Deirdre's posture was invisible. All she saw was the proximity.
She stepped between Roger’s spread legs. She reached out with her cuffed hands, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his grey sweatpants. She paused, looking up at the camera for a split second—a look of apology? terror?—before she yanked them down to his knees.
Roger’s erection sprang free—angry, purple, and throbbing against his pale thigh. He squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back against the headrest, his jaw clenched tight.
Sharon let out a choked sob. "No… Roger, don't… don't look…"
Deirdre didn't hesitate. She shifted her weight onto her left leg, balancing carefully. She lifted her right leg, placing her dirty, sweat-slicked sole directly onto his chest. She dragged it downwards, the grit on her skin smearing against his pectoral muscle, leaving a faint grey trail.
She pressed the flat of her sole over his mouth, muffling the groan tearing out of his throat. Then, she scissored her big toe and second toe around the bridge of his nose. She held him there, forcing his face directly into the dirty, sweaty hollow of her arch.
Roger’s eyes flew open. He took a massive, desperate inhale, his nostrils flaring as he was forced to breathe in the scent of her unwashed skin. Was he struggling? Or was he surrendering? On the high-definition screen, the difference was impossible to tell. His tongue darted out, licking the ball of Deirdre’s foot.
"YOU SICK BITCH!" Sharon screamed at the tablet, the sound swallowed by the cell walls. "GET OFF HIM!"
Deirdre pulled her foot back from his face and lowered it to his groin. She leaned forward, placing her cuffed hands on his thighs for balance, her fingers digging into his quads to stabilize herself.
She curled the dirty toes of her right foot around the base of his erection.
She began to pump.
It was desperate. Urgent. She used the dexterity of her toes to milk him, sliding her sole up and down the length of his shaft with frantic speed. Her big toe dug into the sensitive ridge of the glans, teasing the slit, while her other toes massaged the underside.
Schlick. Schlick. Even through the tablet speakers, Sharon could hear the wet sound of Deirdre’s sweat mixing with his pre-cum as she lubricated the stroke.
Roger was losing his mind. He strained against the arm restraints, his hips bucking up to meet her foot, grinding into the friction. He looked down, his expression a mask of agony and ecstasy, mesmerized by the sight of the prosecutor’s filthy foot manipulating his cock.
"Stop it! Get off him!" Sharon wailed, clawing at the screen, her fingernails scratching the glass. But the image remained crisp, mocking her.
Deirdre increased the speed, her hands tightening on his thighs. She shifted her grip, capturing the swollen head of his cock between her big toe and second toe, scissoring tight. She ground the soft, sweaty webbing between her toes directly against his frenulum.
"OHHH-GNNN!"
It was too much. The friction shattered his control.
With one final, violent spasm, Roger erupted. He slammed his head back against the medical chair, his body arching in the restraints.
Thick ropes of semen spurted out, jetting directly into the cleft of Deirdre’s foot, filling the space between her toes and splashing hot white across the dirty, grey skin of her arch.
Deirdre didn't pull away. She squeezed her toes together, catching the climax, holding her foot still as his fluids coated her skin. She stared at it, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face above the gag.
The screen went black.
Sharon sat frozen, the afterimage of the semen splashing across Deirdre’s dirty toes branded onto her retinas. The shock acted as a local anesthetic, blocking out the physical pain of her own ordeal. The phantom smell of tuna oil vanished, replaced by the imaginary, musky scent of what she had just witnessed.
All that was left was a cold, red-hot ember of rage. It sat in her stomach, heavy and poisonous. It wasn't just betrayal; it was theft. Deirdre had taken her place. She had touched him. She had pleased him. And Roger… Roger had taken it.
Costigan stood up, plucking the tablet from her stiff fingers. The screen was dark now, a black mirror reflecting Sharon’s hollowed-out face. He looked down at her, his expression: unreadable, clinical.
"You look pretty pissed off at Deirdre right about now," he observed, his voice low, lacking any judgment. Just a statement of fact.
He pocketed the device inside his grey suit jacket.
"What if I was to tell you we have her out in the interrogation block right now? Tied down. Waiting for someone to finally break her."
He extended a hand. The cuff of his shirt was starched white, pristine.
"Would you like the chance?"
Sharon stared at his hand. It was a lifeline out of the cell, but it pulled her toward something darker. She looked up, her eyes hard and devoid of the fear that had lived there for days. The pupil was swallowed by the iris, dark and focused.
"Yes," she hissed.
She took his hand.
The walk to the interrogation block felt different this time. Before, Sharon’s legs had been leaden weights, dragging her toward an inevitable doom. Now, fueled by the loop playing in her head—Deirdre’s foot, Roger’s moan, the spurt—she marched with a jagged, vibrating energy. Her bare feet slapped against the concrete, but she didn't feel the cold.
Costigan walked beside her, his pace measured. His voice was a low, constant hum of reinforcement, dismantling any lingering doubt Sharon might have had.
"She didn't have to use her toes, you know," he lied smoothly, his tone conversational. "The parameters were open. She could have used her hands. But she wanted to... feel him differently. She wanted to get... intimate."
Sharon’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth creaked audibly in the quiet corridor.
"And Roger..." Costigan let the name hang in the air. "He didn't exactly fight her off, did he? It makes you wonder. Maybe he prefers the... rougher touch."
They reached the heavy steel door marked INTERROGATION 4. Bricks was waiting there, a silent mountain of muscle. He keyed a code into the pad, the electronic beep loud in the silence.
He pushed the door open, revealing the scene within.
The room was aggressively sterile—white tiles, stainless steel, and a drain in the center of the floor. It smelled of bleach and something sharper, metallic. It was dimly lit, save for a harsh halogen spotlight focused on the center of the room.
There, Deirdre Sweeney was restrained on a heavy, inclined medical table.
She was positioned on her back, strapped down at the chest and waist. But it was her lower body that was the focus. Her legs were pulled wide apart—humiliatingly wide—and locked into elevated, padded stirrups that held her feet high in the air, presenting her soles to the room like trophies on display.
She was still wearing the tattered grey tunic, but the hem was rucked high up to her hips, leaving her exposed.
A heavy, complex leather muzzle was strapped over her lower face. It wasn't a simple ball gag; it was a structure of thick straps and a padded chin cup that buckled tight at the back of her head. It forced her jaw slightly open but completely encased her mouth, allowing her to breathe through her nose but reducing any speech to muffled, incoherent noise inside the leather casing.
But it was her feet that drew Sharon’s gaze like a magnet.
They were still filthy. The grey grime from the dungeon floor was caked into the deep arches and the pads of her toes. Sharon stared at them, hypnotized. In her mind’s eye, she saw the white fluid splashing across that very skin, soaking into the dirt lines.
"Look at her," Costigan whispered, his hand resting gently on the small of Sharon’s back, pushing her forward into the room. "She didn't even wash up. She’s wearing it like a badge of honor."
Deirdre’s eyes widened as she saw Sharon emerge from the shadows of the doorway. The recognition hit her instantly. She began to shake her head frantically against the headrest.
"Mmm-mm-mmm! MMMPH!"
The sound vibrated in her throat, trapped. She tried to pull her legs back, but the stirrups held her ankles in a vice grip. Her toes curled and uncurled in the air—the same toes that had milked Roger only moments ago.
Sharon’s eyes tracked up from the dirty soles to Deirdre’s groin.
She was wearing simple, white cotton panties. But the fabric betrayed her.
Right at the center of the gusset, a dark, unmistakable oval of moisture had soaked through the cotton. It glistened under the harsh halogen light. It was fresh. It was damning.
Deirdre saw Sharon looking and squeezed her thighs, trying to hide the evidence of her body’s traitorous reaction, but the stirrups kept her wide open.
"We didn't touch her, Sharon," Costigan murmured, noticing the direction of her gaze. "Whatever heat you see there... that came from her time with your husband."
Costigan walked to a stainless steel tray table positioned next to Deirdre’s exposed feet. The metal clattered as he adjusted the items on it.
"We tried to get her to cooperate earlier," Costigan said. He bypassed the heavier tools and picked up a vibrant purple hairbrush—a "detangler" style brush. It looked innocuous, almost childish, but the bristles were stiff, cone-shaped plastic spikes designed to separate knots.
He ran his thumb over the bristles. Thwip-thwip-thwip. They were firm enough to scratch, but flexible enough to tickle maddeningly if used lightly.
"But she’s very... resilient. Maybe she just needs a woman's touch."
He turned and held the styling brush out to Sharon.
"It won't break the skin," he said softly. "Which means you don't have to stop. You can scrub the sin away for hours, Sharon. Make her regret every nerve ending in those feet."
Sharon looked from the purple plastic to Deirdre’s terrified eyes. The brush felt light in her hand, but the intent behind it was heavy.
"You liked it," Sharon whispered, her eyes flickering back to the wet stain on Deirdre's panties. "I see you. You're wet for him."
"MMMMM! NNNN-HNNN!" Deirdre thrashed, her eyes pleading, trying to scream the truth through the heavy leather. I had to! He made me! But the muzzle swallowed her words, distorting them into the guilty sounds of panic.
Sharon didn't want to hear it. The logic was gone. There was only the image of the foot, the cock, and the brush in her hand.
She lunged.
Sharon didn't start with a tease. She slammed the stiff plastic bristles of the purple brush directly into the center of Deirdre’s dirty right arch.
KRSHHH-THWIP.
"GGGUHHHH-MMMPH!"
Deirdre’s body convulsed on the table. The sensation was a paradox of torture. The plastic cones were stiff enough to rake and abrade the skin, but the dense clusters of nerves in her soles translated the friction into an exploding, electric tickle that bordered on agony.
"Did you like how he felt?" Sharon screamed, scrubbing the brush in violent, circular motions. "Did you like hearing him moan for you?"
Skritch-scratch-skritch.
The sound was dry and hateful. Sharon dug the bristles in harder, exfoliating the layer of dungeon grime to reveal the flushed, angry red skin beneath. Deirdre’s toes splayed wide, frantically snatching at the air, trying to escape the surface area of the brush. But Sharon followed them. She jammed the bristles into the sensitive branding of the ball of the foot, raking them down toward the heel.
"HNNNN-HAAAA! MMM-PHHH-HEEE! ST-HAAAA!"
Deirdre’s head thrashed against the table, her eyes rolling back. The muzzle trapped her screams, turning them into wet, vibrating bass notes that shook her throat. She wasn't just in pain; she was overstimulated. The scratching was setting her nerves on fire.
Sharon grabbed Deirdre’s ankle with her free hand, pinning the limb in place to get better leverage.
"Look at you!" Sharon spat, gesturing with the brush toward Deirdre’s hips. "You're soaking wet! You tried to steal him, you slut!"
"NNNN! NNN-OOOO!" Deirdre shook her head, tears flying sideways, mixing with the sweat on her temples.
Sharon switched feet. She attacked the left sole, driving the bristles into the soft, wrinkled skin of the instep. Thwip-thwip-thwip. The plastic spikes snapped against the tender skin, leaving white scratch marks that rapidly turned crimson.
The next twenty minutes were a blur of violet plastic and raw, red skin.
Sharon worked with the manic energy of the possessed. She scrubbed the grime away, then scrubbed the skin beneath until it glowed a furious, angry crimson. She switched from the foot to left, raking the bristles down the sensitive length of the insteps, digging into the soft webbing between the toes, and grinding the hard plastic pad against the heels.
Deirdre’s thrashing changed over the course of the session. At first, it was sharp, panicked jerking. But as the minutes dragged on, the constant, overwhelming friction exhausted her. Her body was drenched in sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her screams behind the leather muzzle dulled into a continuous, rhythmic sobbing—a wet, desperate huh-huh-huh-HNNG sound that vibrated through the table.
Her feet were burning. The blood had rushed to the surface, making her soles radiate heat. They were swollen, hypersensitive, and twitching uncontrollably in the air, desperate for relief that never came.
Costigan watched from the shadows, leaning against the wall, checking his watch.
Finally, he stepped forward and caught Sharon’s wrist. Her arm was trembling with fatigue.
"Pause," he ordered.
Sharon froze, her chest heaving, sweat dripping from her nose. The brush hovered inches from Deirdre’s abused, glowing red soles.
Costigan reached down and unbuckled the straps of the complex leather muzzle behind Deirdre's head. He pooled the leather casing loose, letting it hang around her neck.
Deirdre collapsed back against the headrest, gasping desperately for air. Her chest heaved violently, her mouth dragged open, sucking in oxygen. She was visibly trembling, her body shocked by the sustained sensory assault.
She turned her head, her eyes bloodshot and wide, locking onto Sharon.
"Sharon... wait..." Deirdre gagged, coughing dryly. "It's... it's a lie..."
"I saw the panties, Deirdre!" Sharon shouted, her voice cracking. "I saw the wet spot! You can't fake that!"
"They forced me!" Deirdre wheezed, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. "Before you came in... while they were tying me up... Costigan—he used a magic wand on me! He held a vibrator against me until I was crying! That's why I'm wet! They wanted you to see it!"
She yanked weakly against her restraints.
"I didn't want it! It was torture! Please, Sharon... you have to believe me!"
Sharon blinked. The brush wavered in her hand. A forced orgasm? A magic wand? The cruelty of it was specific enough to be true. She looked at Costigan, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.
Costigan laughed. It was a dry, dismissive sound.
"A magic wand?" He shook his head, looking at Deirdre with mock disappointment. "You’re an imaginative lawyer, Ms. Sweeney. But we don't need toys to get a reaction out of you. Roger managed that all by himself."
He gestured to the wet stain on her panties, which had only grown larger during the twenty minutes of struggling.
"If that was forced, why did you look so... eager when you were milking her husband?"
"I WAS TRYING TO GET IT OVER WITH!" Deirdre screamed, her voice raw.
"Quiet," Costigan snapped.
He grabbed the muzzle. He shoveled the leather cup back over her jaw, catching her mid-scream and stifling it into a wet GULK! He wrenched the straps tight behind her head, locking her silence back in place with efficient brutality.
"She’ll say anything to save her skin," Costigan said, dusting off his hands.
He turned to Bricks. "We have that meeting. Let's go."
He walked over to Sharon. He leaned in close, his voice a poisonous whisper.
"She’s lying, Sharon. I think she just liked your husband's cock. Look at her. She’s a slut who took your place."
He walked to the tray table, picked up a second purple detangler brush, and pressed it into Sharon’s other hand.
"We’ll be back in an hour or two. The soundproofing is excellent."
Costigan walked backward toward the steel door, Bricks following.
"Make sure those soles are too sore to ever touch a man again."
THUD.
CLACK-ZZZZT.
The heavy steel door slammed shut. The lock engaged.
Sharon and Deirdre were alone.
Deirdre’s eyes were frantic, pleading above the black leather muzzle. She shook her head violently, mulling a desperate Mmmm-mm-mm!
Sharon stood there in the silence, her breathing slowing. She gripped a brush in each fist. Her eyes drifted down from Deirdre's terrified face to her hips.
Sharon's gaze landed on the prosecutor's panties again. In her head, the image of Roger's climax flashed—the spurt, the pleasure on his face—superimposed over the dark stain on the white cotton.
Her grip on the plastic handles tightened until her knuckles cracked.
"You both liked it too much," she whispered to the empty room.
She stepped forward and raised both brushes.
Next Chapter
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