oneortheother
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Sep 16, 2008
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Batgirl’s Greatest Foe, Part 1:
Barbara Gordon gave a cheery wave to her father, though Commissioner Jim Gordon stood stern and redoubtable as she slowly walked towards him. Given the circumstances, she could hardly fault him. With his arms crossed and his mouth in a grim, thin line, Dad was in policeman mode, the same way Barbara had slipped into her other persona. While she strode towards the commissioner, she yanked a lanky struggling man behind her. The thug was wearing a white wife-beater and had a body full of tattoos, arms that showed evidence of needles, and broken, yellow teeth. If not for the Bat-Cuffs around his wrists, he would have made a run for things, but the light-weight diamond-impregnated nylon cuffs combined with a steel core ensured he would be going nowhere.
“Caught this drug dealer a few streets away,” she said to her dad, glad that the voice modifier built into the suit ensured that she would not be recognised. “He was being pretty pushy with a prospective customer—wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, he’ll have a long time to reflect upon the error of his ways,” Commissioner Gordon said, plucking at his grey moustache as she dropped the criminal on the steps of the police station. Two other officers came to pick up the man for processing. “Many thanks for making the streets a little safer, Batgirl. And give my regards to our Dark Knight.”
Batgirl’s icy blue eyes were brimming with pride at the reverence in her father’s words, but she tried not to show how much his admiration had touched her heart. “Will do. Have a good night, Commissioner,” she said and nodded, sweeping her auburn hair across her shoulders before she grappled away with a giddy grin on her face. This was why she had wanted to become a superhero—to do her part in keeping Gotham as civilised and peaceful a place as possible, to help people, and to do something meaningful with her life, just like her dead.
Using her grapple, she flew up to the roof of the adjacent shopping complex like a black and yellow blur, landing with a lithe two-footed hop that would have put any gymnast to shame. As she looked over the colour and glitz of Gotham’s glamorous shopping district and watched how it intermingled with the darkness of the nearby red-light districts, she called up Alfred on her communicator.
“Hey, I sorted out that small-time drug dealer. Anything else I should know about?”
“Well,” the old British butler’s voice was as worried as any old maid’s, “a curious note was addressed to you.”
“Addressed to me? Not Batman?”
“Yes, you.”
“Erm, which me?”
“The one resembling a bat.”
“Ah.” Well, that was a relief, at least. Nothing was important that secret identities in such turbulent times.
“Though the note did make reference to knowing that you did things your father wouldn’t approve of, but that could have been a throwaway comment. Few fathers would approve of their daughters taking up a life of vigilantism.”
All the joy drooped out of Batgirl like a balloon that had been jabbed by a needle. “I hope you’re right, Alfred, but I don’t have a great feeling about this. Anything else I should know?”
“The Riddler seemed to be involved in this somehow.”
“Him?” Batgirl groaned. “I’ll get back right away.”
After she had retuned, she saw that Alfred’s suspicions had been correct, loathe as she was to admit it. The green paper the note had been typed on was a giveaway as to who had been behind it, but the note’s contents were a different matter.
The note read:
Dear Batgirl,
I write this message on behalf of a lost acquaintance of yours.
She asks if you remember her, for she most certainly recalls you, with your gymnast ways. Does your father know what you’re doing? She doubts daddy dearest would approve, considering his position. If you’d like to meet her again, riddle me this: where is success the number of people laughing at you?
“Any thoughts on the answers to the puzzle?” balding Alfred asked as Batgirl bent over the paper, stroking her chin. “My first instinct was something about Arkham Asylum or Joker Gas, but that didn’t seem quite right.”
“It’s a stand-up comedy show,” Batgirl said. “I bet it’s that big one downtown. What’s it called? Dionysus’s? Say, where are the others? It wouldn’t hurt to get some backup on this.”
“Master Wayne and Master Grayson are away in Metropolis helping Superman with something—the usual world-saving business, I fear. Should I ask them to return?”
Batgirl chewed her lower lip. “No. Let me see what I’m dealing with, first. If this is just The Riddler, I think I can probably take him. He doesn’t have any powers, after all.”
“The most dangerous ones often don’t,” a frowning Alfred said, his pale, aristocratic features crinkling with concern.
O-O-O
Like most nights, the opulent Dionysus’s was rollicking. With its wide stage, over six hundred snug, plush seats, live band on hand, and impressive selection of refreshments available at the bar, it was the place to be for any respectable young urban professional. Batgirl crept among the rafters above the stage, dodging the backstage staff as comedians took their turns prancing and performing on stage to guffaws of laughter. She watched the audience as they clapped, roared, and gasped at the humour. A grizzled comedian took the mic, and Batgirl listened for a few moments.
Alright, folks, so picture this—it’s the last election. The Democrats still have not picked their candidate yet, and Benny Sandler is causing some tension among the right. At Badger News, the people there are trying to come up with a way to attack Benny Sandler. They figured that calling him a Socialist would be key here.
So, the project manager called in his assistant. “We need to give this one more oomph than usual. We can’t just call him a Socialist. We’ll need a guest speaker to explain to everyone why Socialism is bad for the country. Get on it.”
Later that evening, the assistant returns. “I sent out a few surveys and made a few calls, and managed to find someone. Everyone who knows him claims that he’s fiercely anti-socialist.”
“Good, good,” the manager says. “But does he actually know anything about Socialism?”
The assistant shrugs. “I could check him for credentials.”
“No, no, that’s ok. We’ll just have the anchor introduce him as an expert. That should be enough for our viewers.”
The following day, the cameras are up, the staff are in place and the newscast has begun. “Berny is a serious threat to the welfare of our country. In fact, he’s bound to put our country on welfare if we let him get away with it,” the anchorman says from his chair. “Still, no one can say it better than our new guest, an expert on Socialism.”
Motioning to the side, the anchorman smiles as a scruffy man walks in, wearing a loose tee shirt and jeans. All the staff members exchange glances as this sloppily dressed man comes on, but no one says anything. The anchorman and the guest shake hands.
“Tell me, sir. How do you feel about socialism? What harm could it do to our beautiful country?”
The guest clears his throat and begins. “Well, whatever it’ll do, it’s a lot better than what you’re doing to the country right now.” He then proceeds to lay into them, complaining about the cluttered state of the room, ranting angrily about everything the anchorman has said beforehand, and even insulting the anchorman personally. People try to talk over him, but he just raises his voice and continues to verbally tear everyone apart until two men from security grab him by the arms and drag him off-camera.
Once he is safely away from the cameras, the project manager proceeds to lay into him. “What the hell was that all about? Was this a trick? Were your friends all just lying about you to get you on our show?”
The guest stares back at him, bewildered. “What do you mean? What were they saying about me?”
“That you’re fiercely anti-socialist. That little stunt you just pulled didn’t sound anti-socialist to me.”
The guest laughs. “Oh, God! That’s what you thought? No, I’m not fiercely anti-socialist. I’m just fiercely anti-social.”
Batgirl turned away and set her mind to more serious matters. This had to be the place the Riddler had referenced. Just about any comedy club would have fit the criteria of being a place where success was the number of people laughing, but Dionysus’s had a particular quirk that made them noteworthy—according to their website, every weekend, they had a special offer. Customers could pay for a bundle of six comics, who would have fifteen minutes each to present their best material. Afterwards, the audience would vote for who were the best, with the top three receiving a cash prize. It was a system that rewarded everyone, the consumer, the performers, and the establishment itself. The spectacle drew more customers, the consumer got to see various different comedians at their best, and the comics had the potential to earn more than their usual rates if they were one of the winners.
But who was Batgirl looking for? It would have been easy had her foe been wearing some flashy, ostentatious costume, but there were hundreds of people here, and none of them really caught the eye. The clientele of this theatre were mostly in their twenties or thirties, and she saw plenty of jeans and t-shirts as well as people who had come in off work in their suit and ties. She turned her attention to the comedians on stage—of the six who had joined the contest today, three were men and three were women. She leaned in and tried to focus on listening to them. Perhaps, one of them was this erstwhile friend that had sent the note. The Riddler had stated that a female was behind this, so it could be one of the three female comedians. The acoustics weren’t great in her current position, but she could just about make out the words of the current speaker, a young woman with a head of dark curls. If one of the comics was behind this, then Batgirl knew that chances were, one of the topics discussed would be superheroes. But this woman was nattering on about relationships instead! Batgirl took a deep breath tried to shift into a more comfortable position and waited, listening for anything incriminating, but the reverberations of the echoes of laughter drowned out almost all other noise.
Unbeknownst to the caped heroine, beneath the stage in the basement of the comedy club, a scene of great mirth was taking place, though this one was very different indeed. One of the principal participants was strapped down to a round, wooden table, her colourful makeup running down her cheeks from stained tears as she writhed and squealed. The other participants loomed over her like an embodiment of the reaper, clad in a black trenchcoat, cowl, and a white death’s head mask.
“Has anyone told you that you have a beautiful laugh? I guess you knew that already.” Despite the shark-like, toothy grin on the speaker’s mask, her voice was low and grouchy.
“Ohohohof cohohohourse!” Harley Quinn was not one for false modesty, even despite the trying circumstances she had found her in. She had not thought that there could be anything quite as intense as the electroshock treatments she had experienced in Arkham Asylum, but this was close, despite the fact that little pain was involved. Oh, if Mr. J could see her now, he’d laugh that she wouldn’t be able to handle something as giggly as this!
“You like to laugh, don’t you?” the masked woman said in a voice that was almost a whisper as she pressed her fingers deeper into Harley’s bare, sensitive flesh. “Let’s see how long you can keep it up. Even the strongest thread in the world will snap eventually.”
“Gihihihimmee your behehest shot!” Harley said with a whooping shout.
“Oh, I will, don’t you worry about that.”
Yet Harley was the first to confess that despite her bravado, she was closer to her limit than she would have ever admitted. Her blonde pigtails with the blue dip dye on the left side and pink dip dye on the right were getting dishevelled and tangled from the way her head thrashed to and fro. Her lace-up high-top sneakers and red and blue satin jacket had long been stripped away and thrown aside, so she was left only in her tight blue and red shorts, white crop top, and fishnet stockings. She had always known that such attire would leave her body to exposed to gunfire and the like, but she had believed that she could use Bats’s uncomfortable attitude towards female sexuality and his unwillingness to do lasting harm to her advantage—she had never imagined that her outfit could leave her milky, tattooed body exposed in other ways.
The other woman spoke again. “You've got a very becoming laugh. It’s almost like chocolate to the ears.” She drew her fingers down Harley’s long, slender stocking-clad feet to coax more laughter out of her. “It’s high-pitched but not screechy, melodious and rhythmic like music, and also as effervescent and bubbly as a fine champagne. It even has that hint of mad frenzy that I’m so partial to. I'm very envious.”
Harley had been lured to this club by offer of an alliance from The Riddler, and she had been ambushed. Her immunity to Joker Gas and similar chemical components had been unhelpful when she knocked to the ground on according of a hard hit to the head after a brief and frantic skirmish with this cloaked and mysterious woman who had called herself Gargalisa. Gargalisa wore gauntlets of dark lobstered metal and velvet soft gloves with rough iron tips, and it was the tips of these fingers that were driving the strapped down and bound Harley around the bend. Gargalisa must have had some kind of attachments on them, for at times they were sharp talons perfect for raking delicate skin, other times they were rough and scratchy like sanding paper, and there were moments when they hummed and vibrated to titillate flesh in the most ungodly of manners.
And Gargalisa had demonstrated the proficiency of those claws of hers, treating Harley’s body like a buffet of soft, vulnerable spots. She would linger at one hotspot for a while till she had finished sampling all the scrumptious flavours of ticklish agony to be had there, before moving to another fresh locale while the former was still tingling.
Harley’s white t-shirt left several inches of white skin exposed on her abdomen, and Gargalisa was not one to neglect such an opportunity. The masked woman hmmmed and aahed as she probed around that toned tummy and tried different attachments on those terrible hands of hers. Each tool spent a healthy amount of time at each spot, till the most efficient methods were determined. Once that was done, the humming, buzzing fingertips poked around Harley’s bejewelled belly button, the talons slid around the sides, and the rough fingers wreaked havoc when used to grab and count each rib, while Harley burbled with frantic laughter. After mapping out the spots, Gargalisa rolled up Harley’s top till every rib and the bottom of her bra was visible, and then went all out on that alabaster stomach till it was red with scratch marks.
“You were inviting this, weren’t you? Showing off your tummy like that. Well, I’ll oblige you.”
“Sohohohohoho whahahat! I cahahahahan take it! Mr J tihihickles me wohohorst for foreheheplay!” But that was different, so different. Her beau laughed when he did so, an infectious chortle that made her laugh almost in mimicking reciprocity, which made the whole affair even more giggly and fun. If the tickling then had the easy air of passionate lovers, this was as frigid as an arctic chill. Gargalisa was silent aside from her coarse, cutting comments, and under the mask, Harley had the impression she was smouldering with icy hatred.
After finishing off the heaving stomach with a flurry of rapid strokes, Gargalisa gravitated upwards, for the short sleeves of that white tee also provided little protection for her armpits, especially as they were stretched out eagle-spread on account of the bondage. Harley kept trying to twist her wrists and ankles free, but despite her nimble gymnast’s body, the binds were unyielding—they weren’t common ropes or handcuffs, but some kind of special device that Gargalisa had launched into the thick wood of the table. They were part cord, part hook, and part adhesive, and they kept Harley glued in place despite her best efforts to wiggle and writhe. As a result, she couldn’t pull her arms down to get away Gargalisa’s fiendish metal fingernails. Sometimes, the masked woman would keep up a steady drumming with her nails, other times, she would use the index finger to trace shapes and letters in the quivering, milky flesh of those armpits, and every now and then, when she wanted to channel some screaming machine-gun splutters of laughter out of the Clown Princess of Crime, she charged in with all ten fingernails scribbling hard into the hollows of those pits.
“Ever since people said I had an ugly laugh, I've held it in. I squawk and shriek and yowl like some cat in pain. You don't seem to have that problem.”
“Thahahahanks!” Mr. J had always liked her laugh, but Harley wasn’t sure if he would have liked it now. It was weaker and hoarser than it had been at the start of this bout of horrendous tickling, and there were coughs and chokes peppered within the high, familiar hysteria. Unlike the laughter that usually filled her up and energised her, now, she felt as if she could have comfortably slept for ten hours had those accursed fingers left her alone for a few minutes.
Harley’s long, shapely legs and feet received more than they fair share of savage attention, which had quite the lachrymose effect on the poor blonde. Mr. J liked her legs, liked her feet, so Harley had taken pains to keep them looking immaculate. The supple, sinuous white flesh was soft and well-tended to, and the toenails were painted red and black on alternating toes. And with only a thin pair of fishnet stockings to protect them, they stood no match against the three settings of Gargalisa’s terrible fingernails. The gaps within the velvety fishnets were small, so the thin, smooth fabric of the silk stockings almost did more harm than good even with fingers getting caught in some of the holes, when it came to the sheer receptivity of all the battering sensations, something Harley realised with squealing horror. Sure, they were like socks in that they diluted a certain amount of the tickling, but they also accentuated things on account of the velvety material smoothing out all the ridges, wrinkles, and crinkles of Harley’s soles, so Gargalisa’s claws were able to scythe and glide along them with ease. It almost felt as if the entire sole were being tickled at the same time, and each touch sent electric surges shooting up her legs to her overworked and exhausted brain. These long, sliding, stroking motions were particularly lethal along Harley’s high, creamy arches, where firm contact turned all her muscles to jelly and mirth to erupt out of her.
When Gargalisa’s thrumming, buzzing fingers starting playing with Harley’s long, shapely toes, wiggling, rolling, and rubbing them through the stockings, Harley’s vision grew blurred and hazy from so much laughter. The clown wiggled her slender digits in a desperate attempt to escape, but doing so only led to them getting tickled worse by those vibrating fingers. And Gargalisa did not stop until she had finishing toying with every one of Harley’s painted toes, taking care to ensure each one got equal treatment—each toes had its stem stroked, its tip teased, its pad scratched, its underside probed, and the webbing rummaged through.
“Is this too much for you? Come on, don’t disappoint me. I need you to keep singing this song till our special guest arrives.”
“Whohohohoho? Whihihihihy?”
“You’ll know soon, don’t worry,” Gargalisa said and began using the sharp, tapered fingernails to really slash from heel to the base of Harley’s toes, pressing in deep and not caring if she ripped the fishnets open.
And within a minute of this fierce raking, the stockings were in tatters and Harley’s alabaster flesh was turning pinker by the second. After granting Harley all of ten seconds to catch her breath, Gargalisa cracked her knuckles, cricked her neck, and made her way back to the blonde criminal’s midsection for another wave. Harley was guffawing before the tall, lean woman even got there, and with her feet still throbbing and tingly from residual tickles, she was in no fit state to withstand another assault.
But before Harley the brunt of another savage session of tickling, the sound of an aerodynamic yellow projectile slicing through the air caught their attention. Gargalisa looked up and raised hand just in time to for the Batarang to carom off her steel gauntlet.
“Ah, Batgirl, I was wondering when you might join us.” For the first time this evening, Gargalisa’s voice had an undertone of elation and excitement, when before she had been all cold professionalism.
“Well, I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Batgirl’s voice was light but with an edge of snark to it. “Let’s make up for lost time. Who are you, and what are you doing to her?”
The two masked women glared at each other, Batgirl’s open-mouthed purple mask facing off against the white maw of Gargalisa’s mask. There was still the faint rumble of laughter from the above comedy show, but the room was silent aside from the hiss of the air ventilation system and Harley’s pants.
“Tell me how you found me, first.”
Batgirl nodded to Harley. “I recognised her laughter. It’s pretty distinct.”
The masked woman clapped her hands in sarcastic applause. “Very good. Well, here’s your answer—Gargalisa is the name and tickle torture is my aim.” She turned to Harley. “Be right back. Here’s something to keep you occupied.” Gargalisa fidgeted with something on her wrists, patted Harley's right foot and stomach, and stood up. Harley soon realised with howling distress that the masked woman had stuck something on those locations, something that hummed with powerful frequency to force pig-like snorts and ragged giggles from her dry mouth once more. One of these vibrators were situated at the arch of her right foot, while the other was located on the left flank of her stomach, and both of them buzzed with frenetic, mind-warping energy.
“You’re another freak borne out of the pit of Gotham,” Batgirl said, narrowing her eyes as she reached into her utility built. A silver baton rapidly retracted till it was the size of a quarterstaff, and the fiery redhead spun it in her hands. “Harley’s no friend of mine, but I’m not going to let you do whatever you’re doing to her.”
“A freak?” Gargalisa laughed without any warmth whatsoever. “There’s no need to throw barbs at each other, now is there? I can see you wish to be civil about this, as you’re such a noble, upstanding, sanctimonious citizen. Will you let me walk out of here? Or have you set up a cordon to trap me in here?”
Batgirl’s breath caught in her chest. That could have been a coincidence, the girl under the cowl who was Barbara Gordon thought, but somehow, she doubted it. The voice was too smug, and the choice of words too intentional. “No. You’re coming with me.”
“We’ll see.” Gargalisa dashed forward, her black cloak flapping behind her as she sprinted forward and closed the distance between them.
Hand-to-hand combat? Batgirl thought with wary surprise, having expected the other woman to use weaponry on account of her lithe, slender frame. But it seemed Gargalisa had a bit of muscle tucked under that toned, trim body. She came at Batgirl with a Kickboxer’s stance, only she mixed up punches with slashes—as she should, the first cut with those long silver claws of hers tore shreds away from Batgirl’s cloak and looked very capable of cutting her neck open.
Batgirl parried the blows with her staff and used a series of quick jabs to knock Gargalisa back, using the superior reach of her weapon to keep those talons away. But when she tried to launch a counter attack, her strikes were repulsed by those steel gauntlets which caught each hit and drove them slanting away. Occasionally, they shoved at each other, quarterstaff pushing against claws, and Batgirl caught a whiff of the other woman's musky perfume intermingled with the sharp smell of perspiration.
For a while, they continued this back and forth dance to the backdrop of clashing metal and Harley’s hysteria. And for all Gargalisa’s quickness, it was apparent that she was not a natural athlete, for the sounds of heavy breathing could be heard from within the mask.
“You can’t beat me,” Batgirl said. “Just come quietly.”
“You said something similar to me once,” Gargalisa said in a quiet voice. “I listened to you, and I regretted it.” She pointed an accusing finger at Batgirl, touched something on her wrist, and something blasted out of the hand towards the young caped crusader. The caped heroine tried to hop away, but the small projectile was too quick. It hit her hard in the left thigh as if she had been kneed there. Batgirl grunted and half-crumpled to the floor, grunting in pain and confusion. It was as if she had been dead-legged, and the small, bullet-sized missile had embedded into her outer thigh, where it buzzed and thrummed, sending shivers of niggling pain shooting up the leg.
“Oh, flip, I missed. I need to work on my aim.” Gargalisa sighed. “Till next time, ‘Batgirl’.”
“Wait, stop!” Batgirl took a shaky step towards the fleeing villain, but with that thing humming away in her leg, it hurt too much to run or jump. Groaning with pain, Batgirl ripped the vibrating device away, a move that took part of the spandex of her costume with it, as it seemed the projectile had erupted with some kind of glue on impact to keep it locked in place. But by then, it was too late. Gargalisa had flown up a ladder that led to the fire escape and fled.
“Bahahahahatgihihirlie! A little heehehelp please!” Harley wailed in between cackles from the wooden table she was bound to.
Batgirl sighed and retracted her staff. She wiped a bead of sweat that was trickling down her cheek and took a deep breath. She took a few ginger steps forward towards the suffering blonde criminal. With any luck, she would get some intel from Harley and by taking apart the strange devices this ‘Gargalisa’ had used. But just who was she? How did she know whom Barbara was? And what was this strange talk about knowing her in the past?
It was typical of The Riddler to present her with questions and quandaries that made her head ache, but this seemed like something different, something darker, and something far more intimate and very personal.
O-O-O
Batgirl sat in front of the large wall of computer screens in front of the Batcave and nibbled on her lower lip. After she had fought off the charley horse muscle bruise caused by the strange thing that Gargalisa had blasted at her, she hadn’t found a trail of where the masked woman had escaped to. And an analysis of the crime scene had been unprofitable. The crimefighter had had got lucky and obtained an untainted DNA sample in the form of a long brown hair found at the crime scene that couldn't have belonged to herself or Harley—Batgirl had even ruled out though the possibility that it belonged to a staff member at the comedy club, as the only brunette there was a man with short hair. However, the hair didn't even lead to any matches in the database, so it seemed likely that whomever Gargalisa was, it seemed she didn't have a criminal record. If so, what had led her to pursue a life of costumed villainy?
Harley had also been similarly unhelpful, as it seemed she had been lured her by The Riddler by some phony offer of an alliance. The blonde hadn’t even been able to get a good look at Gargalisa before incapacitated. The only clue left was the mysterious metal mechanism the masked fiend had used. It was high-tech for a certainty, with craftsmanship that rivalled the tools that Batgirl herself used. But the Bat-gadgets had been funded by billionaire Bruce Wayne and his company—who or what was funding Gargalisa? Batgirl picked up the silver vibration device and rolled it around the palm of her pale dexterous hand. The craftsmanship was sound if a little shoddy, which seemed to suggest something homemade, albeit made with solid materials and a high level of expertise.
“Miss Gordon?”
Barbara turned to Alfred’s lined, concerned face. “Any news, Alfred?”
“I’ve sent some of this ‘Gargalisa’ woman’s gear down to the lab to be analysed. With any luck, we’ll be able to trace some of the materials. And for your information, I believe her pseudonym is a reference to the scientific term gargalesis, which is means harder, laughter-inducing tickling involving the repeated application of high pressure to sensitive areas.”
“That sound about right. I must say, we have the weirdest rogues' gallery, don’t we? The Joker, Clayface, Killer Croc, and now some kind of crazed tickler.”
“Gotham does indeed have a habit of breeding such people,” Alfred said, scratching under his ear. “I’ve sent a message to Master Bruce informing him of the developments, and he asks if you need his help. He is willing to return, but things seemed a little dicey over where he was.”
Batgirl bit her thumb. “I can beat her, Alfred. I almost had her.”
“Almost victory is another word for defeat.”
“I know, but come on!” She shook her head. “Besides, this is personal. She, she knows who I am.”
“Are you certain?”
“Pretty much. She hinted at it pretty heavily. I’m afraid I get other people involved, she’ll take that as her cue to blab to the world that Commissioner Gordon’s daughter is some reckless vigilante. And my family have enough people targeting them as it is.”
“Have you given any thought to how she might know you? How she recognised the young lady under the mask?”
“That’s the thing I haven’t put together yet.” Batgirl stroked her chin. “She seemed to be someone from my past.”
“Well, then it seems to me that you have everything you need to figure out her identity, the way she figured out yours—a brown-haired woman from your past, highly intelligent, and tickling.”
Batgirl put her head in her hands. “Argh! I can’t think of anything. It was too long ago!”
Alfred gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder and a warm smile. “I’m sure it’ll come back to you eventually, Miss Gordon. Until then, I fear we must wait for a breakthrough of a different sort. Perhaps, The Riddler’s will send another message?”
O-O-O
Wayne Towers was among the highest skyscrapers and one of the most luxurious hotels in Gotham City, a 100-storey building. From a window on one of the highest floor, Lisa looked out and saw the people walking around like ants. The image of these tiny insect-like figures milling about below made her smile, considering the guest she had in the other room of the private suite. With a few careful bribes, she had ensured that no one was watching, no one was listening, and no one was coming. Well, that last part might not have been strictly true, in more than one sense of the word.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gargalisa said to the naked woman in the next room. For almost two hours, the gagged, snarling woman had groaned and writhed on the king-sized bed. “Have you realised that your powers won’t work yet? We’re too high up and away from nature, and the ventilators in here means your toxins and pheromones can’t get me, even if in the event they were able to permeate the filter in my mask. Oh, and the sedatives I injected into your system should help neutralise your powers too.”
Her green eyes brimming with animosity, Poison Ivy’s only response was to fix Gargalisa with a venomous stare.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Gargalisa said. “I’ll make it up to you, come on. If nothing more, I promise you it’ll be a memorable evening.” She pulled the supervillain to her feet and frogmarched her to the bit of furniture that had been Gargalisa’s own addition to the room.
It was a large bondage device that resembled a frame of sorts, where the ‘guest’ sat with limbs splayed apart. The seat was angled upwards for easy access to the victim’s delicate spots, like stomach, feet, and womanhood, which would be very exposed on accounting of the way the frame spread the legs. A multitude of belts, straps, and metal cuffs ensured that even had Poison Ivy possessed super strength or flexibility, she probably wouldn’t have been able to escape.
At the sight of this monstrous, imposing contraption, the green-skinned woman’s eyes grew very wide and she tried to pull away.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Gargalisa said, yanking her back. “I won’t lie and say I made it just for you, but it’s one of my proudest creations. Worth the wait, wouldn’t you say?” Gargalisa had smuggled the stockade in several large pieces of baggage, and their installation had taken the better part of an hour.
Grunting in the rag stuffed into her mouth in a vain attempt to plead for leniency or some kind of decency, Poison Ivy whimpered as she was shoved and strapped down into the device, with her shaven private spots so embarrassingly visible.
“If I’m being a bit rough for you, please accept my apologies. I guess that’s my innate dislike for redheads showing through.” Gargalisa toyed with Poison Ivy’s bushy, flaming-red hair that was similar to Barbara Gordon’s. She cleared her throat. “Understand that I bear you no ill will. But since I got Miss Harley Quinn, and your number was in her phone, you seemed to be the natural next target—forgive my bit of wordplay there.”
The green-skinned woman continued to yelp and moan into the gag as Gargalisa went into the travel bag she had brought out several tubes of baby oil and began to apply them. From Poison Ivy’s high-pitched indignant tone, she was probably asking questions about her situation.
“You probably think is unfair, don't you? Why are you in this dreadful position?” Gargalisa squirted a large quantity of oil into her palms and began rubbing them into the other woman’s feet. She observed the vine anklet around one foot, the thin, narrow size of the appendage, and how the toenails had the stark hue of fresh green apples. Before long, her pale, grey green feet were glistening with the sheen of a fresh layer of baby oil, and the masked woman had not neglected the toes nor the tops either.
Next was Poison Ivy’s slender thighs, with liberal qualities of oil being slapped around the inner flesh and close to her naked womanhood. At the touches near her most intimate of parts, Poison Ivy began to gasp and her breathing grew heavy.
“The thing is, Miss Ivy, I really need the practice, sorry. I mean, I guess I could hire call girls or something, but that wouldn't quite be the same. I need some bona fide defiance and resistance to make this realistic.”
Gargalisa finished with the thighs and applied a generous dab of oil to Ivy’s toned stomach next, followed by a judicious amount smeared into the armpits. She would really rub it in deep to ensure it was absorbed into the rapidly softening skin. And coos and light pants would slip out of the naturalistic woman every now and then, especially when the breasts received their treatment—her pear-sized breasts were perky with dark nipples erect from the blasting air conditioning, and once those brown buds had been slathered in oil, they were stiff and to attention.
“If it's any consolation, I don't plan on murdering or mutilating you or anything like that. Just sit back and take it on the proverbial chin, and it'll be over before you know it.” Having finished most of the key spots, Gargalisa returned to between Poison Ivy’s legs.
She spent the longest time there, to Poison Ivy’s squirming, groaning consternation. There, the oil would slowly be dripped down into that most delicate and intimate of spots, and Gargalisa took off her metallic gloves so that her pale, spidery hands could massage the oil in. The nether lips, the insides, and everything else around there got its share of lubricant, and Gargalisa was not content with only one layer, adding subsequent coats every time the oil dried. The masked woman gave an approving nod after she had finished her handiwork, observing how it was difficult to tell how Poison Ivy was aroused or not on account of how much wetness was there, though from the flush on the green-skinned woman’s face, she was betting the other woman was mildly to moderately turned on right now, though that was liable to change once they started in seriousness.
“I think I’ve kept you enough suspense, haven’t I?” Gargalisa took a step back and rummaging into her bag. “So, please allow me to explain your situation fully.”
Poison Ivy groaned, wishing this crazy masked woman would just get with things. Her voice had the grave, sonorous tone of the earnest, solemn worker, which Poison Ivy couldn't help but think didn't align with the heavy eroticism of the situation. After all, Poison Ivy could feel her womanhood throbbing just a bit from all the application of so much sensitising baby oil there. Combined with how her skin was cold from the air conditioning, tingly, and dotted with goosebumps, she felt as if every nerve in her body was charged, electrified, and any touch could set off an explosion.
“As a constant gardener, I'm sure you understand that droughts are what make you really appreciate the downpours. Let's see how you handle one minute of dry weather compared to two of damp for now, shall we?”
Blinking in confusion, Poison Ivy didn’t make the connection till Gargalisa pulled out the tool she had got from her bag and showed it to her. It was a big black vibrator with a ridged head, and to the supervillain's dismay, there was a niche built into the chair for the tool to slot into, right in front of her tingly sex. And if this device weren’t jarring enough, Gargalisa pressed a button on her watch and various attachments came sprouted from the metal frame with a chilling clank. The cup-sized rotatory brushes poised over her stretched-out armpits looked terrible enough, as did the pair of big electric massager on each side of her torso for her ribs. There were smaller, electrical toothbrushes perched by her stomach and inner thighs too, and even Wartenberg wheels by her soles to complete the horrific picture of tickle torture.
But it was the tools that she didn’t recognise that filled her with the most dread trepidation and sent frosty shivers down her neck. The small, coin-sized brushes set to patrol around her breasts looked awful, but it was the odd, transparent tubes near her swollen nipples that filled her with fear.
Some of those devices were imperfectly aligned with her body, so Gargalisa had to go up and tinker around for a minute or so to ensure all the devices would do their jobs, but Poison Ivy didn’t enjoy the delay—if anything the anticipation just let the fear build in her belly even more. She tried to shift away, but the cinches and straps around her waist, knees, and neck kept her from going anywhere. Even her green toes were tied back and helpless.
“It would probably be more tactically sound to remove that gag of yours so I can hear the noises you make, but I’m not sure I want to risk you spraying me with your toxins. Also, you strike me as a bit of a pompous, bitchy type, so I think I’d rather not hear you talk. Sorry if that makes it is a bit harder for you to breathe though. Let’s begin.”
While the anger from the masked woman’s cold, callous words sizzled in Poison Ivy’s chest, everything whirled to life, and the redheaded supervillain screamed at the sudden bombardment of sensations. What was it that other woman had said? A minute? She could take a minute of this, surely! She wasn’t that weak!
But the brushes, so many brushes! Poison Ivy was torn between looking down at them and looking away from their cruel ministrations. Picking which of them was worst was like choosing which limb you wanted cut off, but she could think of nothing else as the seconds crawled by. Her underarms had been very ticklish in her youth and that awful quality had been retained over the years it seemed. The brushes there operated in predictable clockwise rotations, but that knowledge didn’t make them any less effective.
The pinwheels at her feet were also a special, prickly sort of agony as they trailed up and down her arches, rolling and dimpling up the dainty skin there. Each trip made her feet quiver and fight against the steel clamps around her big toes and little toes, but her grey-green soles had to sit and take it.
The brushes around her breasts probably won the dubious prize of worst torment of all. They followed the same clockwise rotations as the ones at her armpits, but they would spiral in and then back out around her bosom, which resulted in her tender nipples getting a savage scrubbing every few seconds or so, which always made her cry out in wild laughter.
She could feel that the vibrator was on, but it was a small, timid thing, and she could barely feel it over the jackhammer of sensations from the rest of her oiled up body. Damnit, why was it such a weedy, wimpy thing!
Gargalisa sat back and watched, leaning forward with a hand on her chin. After around twenty seconds, she stood up skittered her nails along Poison Ivy’s neck and collarbones. “I forgot to put something around here. I’ll have to remember that for the next update.”
And then, there was the most magical sound in the world—the shrill beep of Gargalisa’s watch, and everything changed.
The transparent tubes above her breasts soon revealed their insidious purpose. They were like suction cups, and they felt like having her oh-so receptive nipples kissed and suckled by the most diligent of lovers. And to her infinite relief, most of the brushes switched off and even the Wartenberg wheels pillaging her taut soles. The only brushes that remained was the two that voyaged around her breasts, and with the suction cups working their wondrous sorcery, they almost felt good. And the vibrator was humming and thrumming away in her oiled-up and hypersensitive loins, her womanhood dripping with gratitude.
As beads of moisture dripped to the plush, crimson carpet of the suite, Gargalisa nodded. “When I write about this in my diary, I think I’ll use the title ‘Watering a Plant’. I hope you’ll forgive me for the pun.”
Poison Ivy could have forgiven just about anything as Gargalisa reached out and began to rub bare, warm hands across her green soles. There was no tickling here, just pleasant soothing, coo-inducing touches and caresses. Toes were squeezed, arches were stroked with tender, compassionate thumbs, and fingers worked out all the tension around the heels and balls of the foot. The raw, unbridled delight that surged from her breasts, feet, and loins was aweing, and Poison Ivy would have curled her toes if she could have. The moans that slipped out of her now were unstoppable, like one woman trying to hold back a rising tsunami.
Most of the time, Gargalisa continuing rubbing her thumbs into Poison Ivy’s pale green soles, though there were times when she just sat back and watched. “Not too bad, eh? A shame your time is nearly up. Don’t worry, the happy times will be back soon.”
The green-skinned woman’s eyes grew wide with horror. Her watch beeped, and Gargalisa pressed a button for the tools to change their functionality. As the nefarious tools returned to probe and abuse her terribly ticklish body, Poison Ivy soon found herself longing for the beautiful noise of that high-pitched beep, her heart leaping with every noise in anticipation of those blessed feelings returning. Most annoying of all was how the suctions had switched off, leaving her erect nipples to throb and ache as the brushes swept slow circles around her heaving breasts. And the lewd longing that had coursed through her body seemed to make every flick, every stroke, and every tease all the more maddening.
But as promised, the beep came after one minute, and the two minutes of unadulterated joy began again. Poison Ivy’s first orgasm came in no time at all—two tickle sessions and the two sensual sessions had taken her to the high, fertile lands of pure, drooling ecstasy.
However, after each climax, Gargalisa would punish her for such wanton pleasures by going straight into the minute of abusive tickling, regardless of how much time was left on the clock. Her hyped-up body was also a mess of sensations during this, And Gargalisa took full advantage of this heightened sensitivity with a severe walloping of torturous sensations. Yet when the watch beeped, and the touching became gentle and sweet once more, the orgasm that bubbled away in her loins was hungry, hasty, and haphazard. With each earth-shattering climax, the next one grew even more powerful and even more frazzling, till Poison Ivy was struggling to remember what day it was.
It was then that Poison Ivy began to understand why this was torture. Despite the deep, filling thrum of the vibrator pressed across her most delicate of spots, you could have too much of a good thing, and her body was being drained and milked, one orgasmic culmination at a time. With each inner explosion, her body turned against her and became more tingly and sore. The throb between her legs grew so much that she so badly wanted to edge away from those tools that kept her nipples and womanhood in such a state of libidinous frenzy. She lost count of her orgasms, only aware of the fierce embers in her loins that Gargalisa’s cruel toys refused to let peter out. Yet her sensitivity grew till everything in the world was blocked out but her breasts, her groin, and her feet. The tickling had never been a respite, and the one minute of tantalisations were almost as bad as the full two minutes of erotic battering that followed. She lost the strength to vocalise her treacherous pleasures, lost the power to grind her hips, lost the will to think of anything beyond this hellish room, this oiled-up, overheating body, and this evil woman who wouldn’t let it stop.
“Is this too much for you already?” Gargalisa stood up and reached for her phone. “Aw, don’t worry. Batgirl will be here to save you soon. Let’s keep going till she gets there. Don’t worry about making a mess on the floor with your bodily fluids. That’s what housekeeping is for.”
Barbara Gordon gave a cheery wave to her father, though Commissioner Jim Gordon stood stern and redoubtable as she slowly walked towards him. Given the circumstances, she could hardly fault him. With his arms crossed and his mouth in a grim, thin line, Dad was in policeman mode, the same way Barbara had slipped into her other persona. While she strode towards the commissioner, she yanked a lanky struggling man behind her. The thug was wearing a white wife-beater and had a body full of tattoos, arms that showed evidence of needles, and broken, yellow teeth. If not for the Bat-Cuffs around his wrists, he would have made a run for things, but the light-weight diamond-impregnated nylon cuffs combined with a steel core ensured he would be going nowhere.
“Caught this drug dealer a few streets away,” she said to her dad, glad that the voice modifier built into the suit ensured that she would not be recognised. “He was being pretty pushy with a prospective customer—wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, he’ll have a long time to reflect upon the error of his ways,” Commissioner Gordon said, plucking at his grey moustache as she dropped the criminal on the steps of the police station. Two other officers came to pick up the man for processing. “Many thanks for making the streets a little safer, Batgirl. And give my regards to our Dark Knight.”
Batgirl’s icy blue eyes were brimming with pride at the reverence in her father’s words, but she tried not to show how much his admiration had touched her heart. “Will do. Have a good night, Commissioner,” she said and nodded, sweeping her auburn hair across her shoulders before she grappled away with a giddy grin on her face. This was why she had wanted to become a superhero—to do her part in keeping Gotham as civilised and peaceful a place as possible, to help people, and to do something meaningful with her life, just like her dead.
Using her grapple, she flew up to the roof of the adjacent shopping complex like a black and yellow blur, landing with a lithe two-footed hop that would have put any gymnast to shame. As she looked over the colour and glitz of Gotham’s glamorous shopping district and watched how it intermingled with the darkness of the nearby red-light districts, she called up Alfred on her communicator.
“Hey, I sorted out that small-time drug dealer. Anything else I should know about?”
“Well,” the old British butler’s voice was as worried as any old maid’s, “a curious note was addressed to you.”
“Addressed to me? Not Batman?”
“Yes, you.”
“Erm, which me?”
“The one resembling a bat.”
“Ah.” Well, that was a relief, at least. Nothing was important that secret identities in such turbulent times.
“Though the note did make reference to knowing that you did things your father wouldn’t approve of, but that could have been a throwaway comment. Few fathers would approve of their daughters taking up a life of vigilantism.”
All the joy drooped out of Batgirl like a balloon that had been jabbed by a needle. “I hope you’re right, Alfred, but I don’t have a great feeling about this. Anything else I should know?”
“The Riddler seemed to be involved in this somehow.”
“Him?” Batgirl groaned. “I’ll get back right away.”
After she had retuned, she saw that Alfred’s suspicions had been correct, loathe as she was to admit it. The green paper the note had been typed on was a giveaway as to who had been behind it, but the note’s contents were a different matter.
The note read:
Dear Batgirl,
I write this message on behalf of a lost acquaintance of yours.
She asks if you remember her, for she most certainly recalls you, with your gymnast ways. Does your father know what you’re doing? She doubts daddy dearest would approve, considering his position. If you’d like to meet her again, riddle me this: where is success the number of people laughing at you?
“Any thoughts on the answers to the puzzle?” balding Alfred asked as Batgirl bent over the paper, stroking her chin. “My first instinct was something about Arkham Asylum or Joker Gas, but that didn’t seem quite right.”
“It’s a stand-up comedy show,” Batgirl said. “I bet it’s that big one downtown. What’s it called? Dionysus’s? Say, where are the others? It wouldn’t hurt to get some backup on this.”
“Master Wayne and Master Grayson are away in Metropolis helping Superman with something—the usual world-saving business, I fear. Should I ask them to return?”
Batgirl chewed her lower lip. “No. Let me see what I’m dealing with, first. If this is just The Riddler, I think I can probably take him. He doesn’t have any powers, after all.”
“The most dangerous ones often don’t,” a frowning Alfred said, his pale, aristocratic features crinkling with concern.
O-O-O
Like most nights, the opulent Dionysus’s was rollicking. With its wide stage, over six hundred snug, plush seats, live band on hand, and impressive selection of refreshments available at the bar, it was the place to be for any respectable young urban professional. Batgirl crept among the rafters above the stage, dodging the backstage staff as comedians took their turns prancing and performing on stage to guffaws of laughter. She watched the audience as they clapped, roared, and gasped at the humour. A grizzled comedian took the mic, and Batgirl listened for a few moments.
Alright, folks, so picture this—it’s the last election. The Democrats still have not picked their candidate yet, and Benny Sandler is causing some tension among the right. At Badger News, the people there are trying to come up with a way to attack Benny Sandler. They figured that calling him a Socialist would be key here.
So, the project manager called in his assistant. “We need to give this one more oomph than usual. We can’t just call him a Socialist. We’ll need a guest speaker to explain to everyone why Socialism is bad for the country. Get on it.”
Later that evening, the assistant returns. “I sent out a few surveys and made a few calls, and managed to find someone. Everyone who knows him claims that he’s fiercely anti-socialist.”
“Good, good,” the manager says. “But does he actually know anything about Socialism?”
The assistant shrugs. “I could check him for credentials.”
“No, no, that’s ok. We’ll just have the anchor introduce him as an expert. That should be enough for our viewers.”
The following day, the cameras are up, the staff are in place and the newscast has begun. “Berny is a serious threat to the welfare of our country. In fact, he’s bound to put our country on welfare if we let him get away with it,” the anchorman says from his chair. “Still, no one can say it better than our new guest, an expert on Socialism.”
Motioning to the side, the anchorman smiles as a scruffy man walks in, wearing a loose tee shirt and jeans. All the staff members exchange glances as this sloppily dressed man comes on, but no one says anything. The anchorman and the guest shake hands.
“Tell me, sir. How do you feel about socialism? What harm could it do to our beautiful country?”
The guest clears his throat and begins. “Well, whatever it’ll do, it’s a lot better than what you’re doing to the country right now.” He then proceeds to lay into them, complaining about the cluttered state of the room, ranting angrily about everything the anchorman has said beforehand, and even insulting the anchorman personally. People try to talk over him, but he just raises his voice and continues to verbally tear everyone apart until two men from security grab him by the arms and drag him off-camera.
Once he is safely away from the cameras, the project manager proceeds to lay into him. “What the hell was that all about? Was this a trick? Were your friends all just lying about you to get you on our show?”
The guest stares back at him, bewildered. “What do you mean? What were they saying about me?”
“That you’re fiercely anti-socialist. That little stunt you just pulled didn’t sound anti-socialist to me.”
The guest laughs. “Oh, God! That’s what you thought? No, I’m not fiercely anti-socialist. I’m just fiercely anti-social.”
Batgirl turned away and set her mind to more serious matters. This had to be the place the Riddler had referenced. Just about any comedy club would have fit the criteria of being a place where success was the number of people laughing, but Dionysus’s had a particular quirk that made them noteworthy—according to their website, every weekend, they had a special offer. Customers could pay for a bundle of six comics, who would have fifteen minutes each to present their best material. Afterwards, the audience would vote for who were the best, with the top three receiving a cash prize. It was a system that rewarded everyone, the consumer, the performers, and the establishment itself. The spectacle drew more customers, the consumer got to see various different comedians at their best, and the comics had the potential to earn more than their usual rates if they were one of the winners.
But who was Batgirl looking for? It would have been easy had her foe been wearing some flashy, ostentatious costume, but there were hundreds of people here, and none of them really caught the eye. The clientele of this theatre were mostly in their twenties or thirties, and she saw plenty of jeans and t-shirts as well as people who had come in off work in their suit and ties. She turned her attention to the comedians on stage—of the six who had joined the contest today, three were men and three were women. She leaned in and tried to focus on listening to them. Perhaps, one of them was this erstwhile friend that had sent the note. The Riddler had stated that a female was behind this, so it could be one of the three female comedians. The acoustics weren’t great in her current position, but she could just about make out the words of the current speaker, a young woman with a head of dark curls. If one of the comics was behind this, then Batgirl knew that chances were, one of the topics discussed would be superheroes. But this woman was nattering on about relationships instead! Batgirl took a deep breath tried to shift into a more comfortable position and waited, listening for anything incriminating, but the reverberations of the echoes of laughter drowned out almost all other noise.
Unbeknownst to the caped heroine, beneath the stage in the basement of the comedy club, a scene of great mirth was taking place, though this one was very different indeed. One of the principal participants was strapped down to a round, wooden table, her colourful makeup running down her cheeks from stained tears as she writhed and squealed. The other participants loomed over her like an embodiment of the reaper, clad in a black trenchcoat, cowl, and a white death’s head mask.
“Has anyone told you that you have a beautiful laugh? I guess you knew that already.” Despite the shark-like, toothy grin on the speaker’s mask, her voice was low and grouchy.
“Ohohohof cohohohourse!” Harley Quinn was not one for false modesty, even despite the trying circumstances she had found her in. She had not thought that there could be anything quite as intense as the electroshock treatments she had experienced in Arkham Asylum, but this was close, despite the fact that little pain was involved. Oh, if Mr. J could see her now, he’d laugh that she wouldn’t be able to handle something as giggly as this!
“You like to laugh, don’t you?” the masked woman said in a voice that was almost a whisper as she pressed her fingers deeper into Harley’s bare, sensitive flesh. “Let’s see how long you can keep it up. Even the strongest thread in the world will snap eventually.”
“Gihihihimmee your behehest shot!” Harley said with a whooping shout.
“Oh, I will, don’t you worry about that.”
Yet Harley was the first to confess that despite her bravado, she was closer to her limit than she would have ever admitted. Her blonde pigtails with the blue dip dye on the left side and pink dip dye on the right were getting dishevelled and tangled from the way her head thrashed to and fro. Her lace-up high-top sneakers and red and blue satin jacket had long been stripped away and thrown aside, so she was left only in her tight blue and red shorts, white crop top, and fishnet stockings. She had always known that such attire would leave her body to exposed to gunfire and the like, but she had believed that she could use Bats’s uncomfortable attitude towards female sexuality and his unwillingness to do lasting harm to her advantage—she had never imagined that her outfit could leave her milky, tattooed body exposed in other ways.
The other woman spoke again. “You've got a very becoming laugh. It’s almost like chocolate to the ears.” She drew her fingers down Harley’s long, slender stocking-clad feet to coax more laughter out of her. “It’s high-pitched but not screechy, melodious and rhythmic like music, and also as effervescent and bubbly as a fine champagne. It even has that hint of mad frenzy that I’m so partial to. I'm very envious.”
Harley had been lured to this club by offer of an alliance from The Riddler, and she had been ambushed. Her immunity to Joker Gas and similar chemical components had been unhelpful when she knocked to the ground on according of a hard hit to the head after a brief and frantic skirmish with this cloaked and mysterious woman who had called herself Gargalisa. Gargalisa wore gauntlets of dark lobstered metal and velvet soft gloves with rough iron tips, and it was the tips of these fingers that were driving the strapped down and bound Harley around the bend. Gargalisa must have had some kind of attachments on them, for at times they were sharp talons perfect for raking delicate skin, other times they were rough and scratchy like sanding paper, and there were moments when they hummed and vibrated to titillate flesh in the most ungodly of manners.
And Gargalisa had demonstrated the proficiency of those claws of hers, treating Harley’s body like a buffet of soft, vulnerable spots. She would linger at one hotspot for a while till she had finished sampling all the scrumptious flavours of ticklish agony to be had there, before moving to another fresh locale while the former was still tingling.
Harley’s white t-shirt left several inches of white skin exposed on her abdomen, and Gargalisa was not one to neglect such an opportunity. The masked woman hmmmed and aahed as she probed around that toned tummy and tried different attachments on those terrible hands of hers. Each tool spent a healthy amount of time at each spot, till the most efficient methods were determined. Once that was done, the humming, buzzing fingertips poked around Harley’s bejewelled belly button, the talons slid around the sides, and the rough fingers wreaked havoc when used to grab and count each rib, while Harley burbled with frantic laughter. After mapping out the spots, Gargalisa rolled up Harley’s top till every rib and the bottom of her bra was visible, and then went all out on that alabaster stomach till it was red with scratch marks.
“You were inviting this, weren’t you? Showing off your tummy like that. Well, I’ll oblige you.”
“Sohohohohoho whahahat! I cahahahahan take it! Mr J tihihickles me wohohorst for foreheheplay!” But that was different, so different. Her beau laughed when he did so, an infectious chortle that made her laugh almost in mimicking reciprocity, which made the whole affair even more giggly and fun. If the tickling then had the easy air of passionate lovers, this was as frigid as an arctic chill. Gargalisa was silent aside from her coarse, cutting comments, and under the mask, Harley had the impression she was smouldering with icy hatred.
After finishing off the heaving stomach with a flurry of rapid strokes, Gargalisa gravitated upwards, for the short sleeves of that white tee also provided little protection for her armpits, especially as they were stretched out eagle-spread on account of the bondage. Harley kept trying to twist her wrists and ankles free, but despite her nimble gymnast’s body, the binds were unyielding—they weren’t common ropes or handcuffs, but some kind of special device that Gargalisa had launched into the thick wood of the table. They were part cord, part hook, and part adhesive, and they kept Harley glued in place despite her best efforts to wiggle and writhe. As a result, she couldn’t pull her arms down to get away Gargalisa’s fiendish metal fingernails. Sometimes, the masked woman would keep up a steady drumming with her nails, other times, she would use the index finger to trace shapes and letters in the quivering, milky flesh of those armpits, and every now and then, when she wanted to channel some screaming machine-gun splutters of laughter out of the Clown Princess of Crime, she charged in with all ten fingernails scribbling hard into the hollows of those pits.
“Ever since people said I had an ugly laugh, I've held it in. I squawk and shriek and yowl like some cat in pain. You don't seem to have that problem.”
“Thahahahanks!” Mr. J had always liked her laugh, but Harley wasn’t sure if he would have liked it now. It was weaker and hoarser than it had been at the start of this bout of horrendous tickling, and there were coughs and chokes peppered within the high, familiar hysteria. Unlike the laughter that usually filled her up and energised her, now, she felt as if she could have comfortably slept for ten hours had those accursed fingers left her alone for a few minutes.
Harley’s long, shapely legs and feet received more than they fair share of savage attention, which had quite the lachrymose effect on the poor blonde. Mr. J liked her legs, liked her feet, so Harley had taken pains to keep them looking immaculate. The supple, sinuous white flesh was soft and well-tended to, and the toenails were painted red and black on alternating toes. And with only a thin pair of fishnet stockings to protect them, they stood no match against the three settings of Gargalisa’s terrible fingernails. The gaps within the velvety fishnets were small, so the thin, smooth fabric of the silk stockings almost did more harm than good even with fingers getting caught in some of the holes, when it came to the sheer receptivity of all the battering sensations, something Harley realised with squealing horror. Sure, they were like socks in that they diluted a certain amount of the tickling, but they also accentuated things on account of the velvety material smoothing out all the ridges, wrinkles, and crinkles of Harley’s soles, so Gargalisa’s claws were able to scythe and glide along them with ease. It almost felt as if the entire sole were being tickled at the same time, and each touch sent electric surges shooting up her legs to her overworked and exhausted brain. These long, sliding, stroking motions were particularly lethal along Harley’s high, creamy arches, where firm contact turned all her muscles to jelly and mirth to erupt out of her.
When Gargalisa’s thrumming, buzzing fingers starting playing with Harley’s long, shapely toes, wiggling, rolling, and rubbing them through the stockings, Harley’s vision grew blurred and hazy from so much laughter. The clown wiggled her slender digits in a desperate attempt to escape, but doing so only led to them getting tickled worse by those vibrating fingers. And Gargalisa did not stop until she had finishing toying with every one of Harley’s painted toes, taking care to ensure each one got equal treatment—each toes had its stem stroked, its tip teased, its pad scratched, its underside probed, and the webbing rummaged through.
“Is this too much for you? Come on, don’t disappoint me. I need you to keep singing this song till our special guest arrives.”
“Whohohohoho? Whihihihihy?”
“You’ll know soon, don’t worry,” Gargalisa said and began using the sharp, tapered fingernails to really slash from heel to the base of Harley’s toes, pressing in deep and not caring if she ripped the fishnets open.
And within a minute of this fierce raking, the stockings were in tatters and Harley’s alabaster flesh was turning pinker by the second. After granting Harley all of ten seconds to catch her breath, Gargalisa cracked her knuckles, cricked her neck, and made her way back to the blonde criminal’s midsection for another wave. Harley was guffawing before the tall, lean woman even got there, and with her feet still throbbing and tingly from residual tickles, she was in no fit state to withstand another assault.
But before Harley the brunt of another savage session of tickling, the sound of an aerodynamic yellow projectile slicing through the air caught their attention. Gargalisa looked up and raised hand just in time to for the Batarang to carom off her steel gauntlet.
“Ah, Batgirl, I was wondering when you might join us.” For the first time this evening, Gargalisa’s voice had an undertone of elation and excitement, when before she had been all cold professionalism.
“Well, I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Batgirl’s voice was light but with an edge of snark to it. “Let’s make up for lost time. Who are you, and what are you doing to her?”
The two masked women glared at each other, Batgirl’s open-mouthed purple mask facing off against the white maw of Gargalisa’s mask. There was still the faint rumble of laughter from the above comedy show, but the room was silent aside from the hiss of the air ventilation system and Harley’s pants.
“Tell me how you found me, first.”
Batgirl nodded to Harley. “I recognised her laughter. It’s pretty distinct.”
The masked woman clapped her hands in sarcastic applause. “Very good. Well, here’s your answer—Gargalisa is the name and tickle torture is my aim.” She turned to Harley. “Be right back. Here’s something to keep you occupied.” Gargalisa fidgeted with something on her wrists, patted Harley's right foot and stomach, and stood up. Harley soon realised with howling distress that the masked woman had stuck something on those locations, something that hummed with powerful frequency to force pig-like snorts and ragged giggles from her dry mouth once more. One of these vibrators were situated at the arch of her right foot, while the other was located on the left flank of her stomach, and both of them buzzed with frenetic, mind-warping energy.
“You’re another freak borne out of the pit of Gotham,” Batgirl said, narrowing her eyes as she reached into her utility built. A silver baton rapidly retracted till it was the size of a quarterstaff, and the fiery redhead spun it in her hands. “Harley’s no friend of mine, but I’m not going to let you do whatever you’re doing to her.”
“A freak?” Gargalisa laughed without any warmth whatsoever. “There’s no need to throw barbs at each other, now is there? I can see you wish to be civil about this, as you’re such a noble, upstanding, sanctimonious citizen. Will you let me walk out of here? Or have you set up a cordon to trap me in here?”
Batgirl’s breath caught in her chest. That could have been a coincidence, the girl under the cowl who was Barbara Gordon thought, but somehow, she doubted it. The voice was too smug, and the choice of words too intentional. “No. You’re coming with me.”
“We’ll see.” Gargalisa dashed forward, her black cloak flapping behind her as she sprinted forward and closed the distance between them.
Hand-to-hand combat? Batgirl thought with wary surprise, having expected the other woman to use weaponry on account of her lithe, slender frame. But it seemed Gargalisa had a bit of muscle tucked under that toned, trim body. She came at Batgirl with a Kickboxer’s stance, only she mixed up punches with slashes—as she should, the first cut with those long silver claws of hers tore shreds away from Batgirl’s cloak and looked very capable of cutting her neck open.
Batgirl parried the blows with her staff and used a series of quick jabs to knock Gargalisa back, using the superior reach of her weapon to keep those talons away. But when she tried to launch a counter attack, her strikes were repulsed by those steel gauntlets which caught each hit and drove them slanting away. Occasionally, they shoved at each other, quarterstaff pushing against claws, and Batgirl caught a whiff of the other woman's musky perfume intermingled with the sharp smell of perspiration.
For a while, they continued this back and forth dance to the backdrop of clashing metal and Harley’s hysteria. And for all Gargalisa’s quickness, it was apparent that she was not a natural athlete, for the sounds of heavy breathing could be heard from within the mask.
“You can’t beat me,” Batgirl said. “Just come quietly.”
“You said something similar to me once,” Gargalisa said in a quiet voice. “I listened to you, and I regretted it.” She pointed an accusing finger at Batgirl, touched something on her wrist, and something blasted out of the hand towards the young caped crusader. The caped heroine tried to hop away, but the small projectile was too quick. It hit her hard in the left thigh as if she had been kneed there. Batgirl grunted and half-crumpled to the floor, grunting in pain and confusion. It was as if she had been dead-legged, and the small, bullet-sized missile had embedded into her outer thigh, where it buzzed and thrummed, sending shivers of niggling pain shooting up the leg.
“Oh, flip, I missed. I need to work on my aim.” Gargalisa sighed. “Till next time, ‘Batgirl’.”
“Wait, stop!” Batgirl took a shaky step towards the fleeing villain, but with that thing humming away in her leg, it hurt too much to run or jump. Groaning with pain, Batgirl ripped the vibrating device away, a move that took part of the spandex of her costume with it, as it seemed the projectile had erupted with some kind of glue on impact to keep it locked in place. But by then, it was too late. Gargalisa had flown up a ladder that led to the fire escape and fled.
“Bahahahahatgihihirlie! A little heehehelp please!” Harley wailed in between cackles from the wooden table she was bound to.
Batgirl sighed and retracted her staff. She wiped a bead of sweat that was trickling down her cheek and took a deep breath. She took a few ginger steps forward towards the suffering blonde criminal. With any luck, she would get some intel from Harley and by taking apart the strange devices this ‘Gargalisa’ had used. But just who was she? How did she know whom Barbara was? And what was this strange talk about knowing her in the past?
It was typical of The Riddler to present her with questions and quandaries that made her head ache, but this seemed like something different, something darker, and something far more intimate and very personal.
O-O-O
Batgirl sat in front of the large wall of computer screens in front of the Batcave and nibbled on her lower lip. After she had fought off the charley horse muscle bruise caused by the strange thing that Gargalisa had blasted at her, she hadn’t found a trail of where the masked woman had escaped to. And an analysis of the crime scene had been unprofitable. The crimefighter had had got lucky and obtained an untainted DNA sample in the form of a long brown hair found at the crime scene that couldn't have belonged to herself or Harley—Batgirl had even ruled out though the possibility that it belonged to a staff member at the comedy club, as the only brunette there was a man with short hair. However, the hair didn't even lead to any matches in the database, so it seemed likely that whomever Gargalisa was, it seemed she didn't have a criminal record. If so, what had led her to pursue a life of costumed villainy?
Harley had also been similarly unhelpful, as it seemed she had been lured her by The Riddler by some phony offer of an alliance. The blonde hadn’t even been able to get a good look at Gargalisa before incapacitated. The only clue left was the mysterious metal mechanism the masked fiend had used. It was high-tech for a certainty, with craftsmanship that rivalled the tools that Batgirl herself used. But the Bat-gadgets had been funded by billionaire Bruce Wayne and his company—who or what was funding Gargalisa? Batgirl picked up the silver vibration device and rolled it around the palm of her pale dexterous hand. The craftsmanship was sound if a little shoddy, which seemed to suggest something homemade, albeit made with solid materials and a high level of expertise.
“Miss Gordon?”
Barbara turned to Alfred’s lined, concerned face. “Any news, Alfred?”
“I’ve sent some of this ‘Gargalisa’ woman’s gear down to the lab to be analysed. With any luck, we’ll be able to trace some of the materials. And for your information, I believe her pseudonym is a reference to the scientific term gargalesis, which is means harder, laughter-inducing tickling involving the repeated application of high pressure to sensitive areas.”
“That sound about right. I must say, we have the weirdest rogues' gallery, don’t we? The Joker, Clayface, Killer Croc, and now some kind of crazed tickler.”
“Gotham does indeed have a habit of breeding such people,” Alfred said, scratching under his ear. “I’ve sent a message to Master Bruce informing him of the developments, and he asks if you need his help. He is willing to return, but things seemed a little dicey over where he was.”
Batgirl bit her thumb. “I can beat her, Alfred. I almost had her.”
“Almost victory is another word for defeat.”
“I know, but come on!” She shook her head. “Besides, this is personal. She, she knows who I am.”
“Are you certain?”
“Pretty much. She hinted at it pretty heavily. I’m afraid I get other people involved, she’ll take that as her cue to blab to the world that Commissioner Gordon’s daughter is some reckless vigilante. And my family have enough people targeting them as it is.”
“Have you given any thought to how she might know you? How she recognised the young lady under the mask?”
“That’s the thing I haven’t put together yet.” Batgirl stroked her chin. “She seemed to be someone from my past.”
“Well, then it seems to me that you have everything you need to figure out her identity, the way she figured out yours—a brown-haired woman from your past, highly intelligent, and tickling.”
Batgirl put her head in her hands. “Argh! I can’t think of anything. It was too long ago!”
Alfred gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder and a warm smile. “I’m sure it’ll come back to you eventually, Miss Gordon. Until then, I fear we must wait for a breakthrough of a different sort. Perhaps, The Riddler’s will send another message?”
O-O-O
Wayne Towers was among the highest skyscrapers and one of the most luxurious hotels in Gotham City, a 100-storey building. From a window on one of the highest floor, Lisa looked out and saw the people walking around like ants. The image of these tiny insect-like figures milling about below made her smile, considering the guest she had in the other room of the private suite. With a few careful bribes, she had ensured that no one was watching, no one was listening, and no one was coming. Well, that last part might not have been strictly true, in more than one sense of the word.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gargalisa said to the naked woman in the next room. For almost two hours, the gagged, snarling woman had groaned and writhed on the king-sized bed. “Have you realised that your powers won’t work yet? We’re too high up and away from nature, and the ventilators in here means your toxins and pheromones can’t get me, even if in the event they were able to permeate the filter in my mask. Oh, and the sedatives I injected into your system should help neutralise your powers too.”
Her green eyes brimming with animosity, Poison Ivy’s only response was to fix Gargalisa with a venomous stare.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Gargalisa said. “I’ll make it up to you, come on. If nothing more, I promise you it’ll be a memorable evening.” She pulled the supervillain to her feet and frogmarched her to the bit of furniture that had been Gargalisa’s own addition to the room.
It was a large bondage device that resembled a frame of sorts, where the ‘guest’ sat with limbs splayed apart. The seat was angled upwards for easy access to the victim’s delicate spots, like stomach, feet, and womanhood, which would be very exposed on accounting of the way the frame spread the legs. A multitude of belts, straps, and metal cuffs ensured that even had Poison Ivy possessed super strength or flexibility, she probably wouldn’t have been able to escape.
At the sight of this monstrous, imposing contraption, the green-skinned woman’s eyes grew very wide and she tried to pull away.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Gargalisa said, yanking her back. “I won’t lie and say I made it just for you, but it’s one of my proudest creations. Worth the wait, wouldn’t you say?” Gargalisa had smuggled the stockade in several large pieces of baggage, and their installation had taken the better part of an hour.
Grunting in the rag stuffed into her mouth in a vain attempt to plead for leniency or some kind of decency, Poison Ivy whimpered as she was shoved and strapped down into the device, with her shaven private spots so embarrassingly visible.
“If I’m being a bit rough for you, please accept my apologies. I guess that’s my innate dislike for redheads showing through.” Gargalisa toyed with Poison Ivy’s bushy, flaming-red hair that was similar to Barbara Gordon’s. She cleared her throat. “Understand that I bear you no ill will. But since I got Miss Harley Quinn, and your number was in her phone, you seemed to be the natural next target—forgive my bit of wordplay there.”
The green-skinned woman continued to yelp and moan into the gag as Gargalisa went into the travel bag she had brought out several tubes of baby oil and began to apply them. From Poison Ivy’s high-pitched indignant tone, she was probably asking questions about her situation.
“You probably think is unfair, don't you? Why are you in this dreadful position?” Gargalisa squirted a large quantity of oil into her palms and began rubbing them into the other woman’s feet. She observed the vine anklet around one foot, the thin, narrow size of the appendage, and how the toenails had the stark hue of fresh green apples. Before long, her pale, grey green feet were glistening with the sheen of a fresh layer of baby oil, and the masked woman had not neglected the toes nor the tops either.
Next was Poison Ivy’s slender thighs, with liberal qualities of oil being slapped around the inner flesh and close to her naked womanhood. At the touches near her most intimate of parts, Poison Ivy began to gasp and her breathing grew heavy.
“The thing is, Miss Ivy, I really need the practice, sorry. I mean, I guess I could hire call girls or something, but that wouldn't quite be the same. I need some bona fide defiance and resistance to make this realistic.”
Gargalisa finished with the thighs and applied a generous dab of oil to Ivy’s toned stomach next, followed by a judicious amount smeared into the armpits. She would really rub it in deep to ensure it was absorbed into the rapidly softening skin. And coos and light pants would slip out of the naturalistic woman every now and then, especially when the breasts received their treatment—her pear-sized breasts were perky with dark nipples erect from the blasting air conditioning, and once those brown buds had been slathered in oil, they were stiff and to attention.
“If it's any consolation, I don't plan on murdering or mutilating you or anything like that. Just sit back and take it on the proverbial chin, and it'll be over before you know it.” Having finished most of the key spots, Gargalisa returned to between Poison Ivy’s legs.
She spent the longest time there, to Poison Ivy’s squirming, groaning consternation. There, the oil would slowly be dripped down into that most delicate and intimate of spots, and Gargalisa took off her metallic gloves so that her pale, spidery hands could massage the oil in. The nether lips, the insides, and everything else around there got its share of lubricant, and Gargalisa was not content with only one layer, adding subsequent coats every time the oil dried. The masked woman gave an approving nod after she had finished her handiwork, observing how it was difficult to tell how Poison Ivy was aroused or not on account of how much wetness was there, though from the flush on the green-skinned woman’s face, she was betting the other woman was mildly to moderately turned on right now, though that was liable to change once they started in seriousness.
“I think I’ve kept you enough suspense, haven’t I?” Gargalisa took a step back and rummaging into her bag. “So, please allow me to explain your situation fully.”
Poison Ivy groaned, wishing this crazy masked woman would just get with things. Her voice had the grave, sonorous tone of the earnest, solemn worker, which Poison Ivy couldn't help but think didn't align with the heavy eroticism of the situation. After all, Poison Ivy could feel her womanhood throbbing just a bit from all the application of so much sensitising baby oil there. Combined with how her skin was cold from the air conditioning, tingly, and dotted with goosebumps, she felt as if every nerve in her body was charged, electrified, and any touch could set off an explosion.
“As a constant gardener, I'm sure you understand that droughts are what make you really appreciate the downpours. Let's see how you handle one minute of dry weather compared to two of damp for now, shall we?”
Blinking in confusion, Poison Ivy didn’t make the connection till Gargalisa pulled out the tool she had got from her bag and showed it to her. It was a big black vibrator with a ridged head, and to the supervillain's dismay, there was a niche built into the chair for the tool to slot into, right in front of her tingly sex. And if this device weren’t jarring enough, Gargalisa pressed a button on her watch and various attachments came sprouted from the metal frame with a chilling clank. The cup-sized rotatory brushes poised over her stretched-out armpits looked terrible enough, as did the pair of big electric massager on each side of her torso for her ribs. There were smaller, electrical toothbrushes perched by her stomach and inner thighs too, and even Wartenberg wheels by her soles to complete the horrific picture of tickle torture.
But it was the tools that she didn’t recognise that filled her with the most dread trepidation and sent frosty shivers down her neck. The small, coin-sized brushes set to patrol around her breasts looked awful, but it was the odd, transparent tubes near her swollen nipples that filled her with fear.
Some of those devices were imperfectly aligned with her body, so Gargalisa had to go up and tinker around for a minute or so to ensure all the devices would do their jobs, but Poison Ivy didn’t enjoy the delay—if anything the anticipation just let the fear build in her belly even more. She tried to shift away, but the cinches and straps around her waist, knees, and neck kept her from going anywhere. Even her green toes were tied back and helpless.
“It would probably be more tactically sound to remove that gag of yours so I can hear the noises you make, but I’m not sure I want to risk you spraying me with your toxins. Also, you strike me as a bit of a pompous, bitchy type, so I think I’d rather not hear you talk. Sorry if that makes it is a bit harder for you to breathe though. Let’s begin.”
While the anger from the masked woman’s cold, callous words sizzled in Poison Ivy’s chest, everything whirled to life, and the redheaded supervillain screamed at the sudden bombardment of sensations. What was it that other woman had said? A minute? She could take a minute of this, surely! She wasn’t that weak!
But the brushes, so many brushes! Poison Ivy was torn between looking down at them and looking away from their cruel ministrations. Picking which of them was worst was like choosing which limb you wanted cut off, but she could think of nothing else as the seconds crawled by. Her underarms had been very ticklish in her youth and that awful quality had been retained over the years it seemed. The brushes there operated in predictable clockwise rotations, but that knowledge didn’t make them any less effective.
The pinwheels at her feet were also a special, prickly sort of agony as they trailed up and down her arches, rolling and dimpling up the dainty skin there. Each trip made her feet quiver and fight against the steel clamps around her big toes and little toes, but her grey-green soles had to sit and take it.
The brushes around her breasts probably won the dubious prize of worst torment of all. They followed the same clockwise rotations as the ones at her armpits, but they would spiral in and then back out around her bosom, which resulted in her tender nipples getting a savage scrubbing every few seconds or so, which always made her cry out in wild laughter.
She could feel that the vibrator was on, but it was a small, timid thing, and she could barely feel it over the jackhammer of sensations from the rest of her oiled up body. Damnit, why was it such a weedy, wimpy thing!
Gargalisa sat back and watched, leaning forward with a hand on her chin. After around twenty seconds, she stood up skittered her nails along Poison Ivy’s neck and collarbones. “I forgot to put something around here. I’ll have to remember that for the next update.”
And then, there was the most magical sound in the world—the shrill beep of Gargalisa’s watch, and everything changed.
The transparent tubes above her breasts soon revealed their insidious purpose. They were like suction cups, and they felt like having her oh-so receptive nipples kissed and suckled by the most diligent of lovers. And to her infinite relief, most of the brushes switched off and even the Wartenberg wheels pillaging her taut soles. The only brushes that remained was the two that voyaged around her breasts, and with the suction cups working their wondrous sorcery, they almost felt good. And the vibrator was humming and thrumming away in her oiled-up and hypersensitive loins, her womanhood dripping with gratitude.
As beads of moisture dripped to the plush, crimson carpet of the suite, Gargalisa nodded. “When I write about this in my diary, I think I’ll use the title ‘Watering a Plant’. I hope you’ll forgive me for the pun.”
Poison Ivy could have forgiven just about anything as Gargalisa reached out and began to rub bare, warm hands across her green soles. There was no tickling here, just pleasant soothing, coo-inducing touches and caresses. Toes were squeezed, arches were stroked with tender, compassionate thumbs, and fingers worked out all the tension around the heels and balls of the foot. The raw, unbridled delight that surged from her breasts, feet, and loins was aweing, and Poison Ivy would have curled her toes if she could have. The moans that slipped out of her now were unstoppable, like one woman trying to hold back a rising tsunami.
Most of the time, Gargalisa continuing rubbing her thumbs into Poison Ivy’s pale green soles, though there were times when she just sat back and watched. “Not too bad, eh? A shame your time is nearly up. Don’t worry, the happy times will be back soon.”
The green-skinned woman’s eyes grew wide with horror. Her watch beeped, and Gargalisa pressed a button for the tools to change their functionality. As the nefarious tools returned to probe and abuse her terribly ticklish body, Poison Ivy soon found herself longing for the beautiful noise of that high-pitched beep, her heart leaping with every noise in anticipation of those blessed feelings returning. Most annoying of all was how the suctions had switched off, leaving her erect nipples to throb and ache as the brushes swept slow circles around her heaving breasts. And the lewd longing that had coursed through her body seemed to make every flick, every stroke, and every tease all the more maddening.
But as promised, the beep came after one minute, and the two minutes of unadulterated joy began again. Poison Ivy’s first orgasm came in no time at all—two tickle sessions and the two sensual sessions had taken her to the high, fertile lands of pure, drooling ecstasy.
However, after each climax, Gargalisa would punish her for such wanton pleasures by going straight into the minute of abusive tickling, regardless of how much time was left on the clock. Her hyped-up body was also a mess of sensations during this, And Gargalisa took full advantage of this heightened sensitivity with a severe walloping of torturous sensations. Yet when the watch beeped, and the touching became gentle and sweet once more, the orgasm that bubbled away in her loins was hungry, hasty, and haphazard. With each earth-shattering climax, the next one grew even more powerful and even more frazzling, till Poison Ivy was struggling to remember what day it was.
It was then that Poison Ivy began to understand why this was torture. Despite the deep, filling thrum of the vibrator pressed across her most delicate of spots, you could have too much of a good thing, and her body was being drained and milked, one orgasmic culmination at a time. With each inner explosion, her body turned against her and became more tingly and sore. The throb between her legs grew so much that she so badly wanted to edge away from those tools that kept her nipples and womanhood in such a state of libidinous frenzy. She lost count of her orgasms, only aware of the fierce embers in her loins that Gargalisa’s cruel toys refused to let peter out. Yet her sensitivity grew till everything in the world was blocked out but her breasts, her groin, and her feet. The tickling had never been a respite, and the one minute of tantalisations were almost as bad as the full two minutes of erotic battering that followed. She lost the strength to vocalise her treacherous pleasures, lost the power to grind her hips, lost the will to think of anything beyond this hellish room, this oiled-up, overheating body, and this evil woman who wouldn’t let it stop.
“Is this too much for you already?” Gargalisa stood up and reached for her phone. “Aw, don’t worry. Batgirl will be here to save you soon. Let’s keep going till she gets there. Don’t worry about making a mess on the floor with your bodily fluids. That’s what housekeeping is for.”
