0123 - Tickling in Space - The Broken Ghost - (f/f) (EXPLICIT CONTENT)

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Tickling In Space: The Broken Ghost

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PICARTO - PATREON - HENTAI FOUNDRY - DEVIANTART

Art by Polarbearnsfw
Story by meangry


The buzzer hit like an invasive thunderclap, bolting Blake awake from her tense slumber in a fit of sheer terror. She was panting already, the sweat shimmering across her blindingly tan skin, her eyes rapidly blinking and her mind racing as her heart rate spiked. She tongued at her dry lips, mustering what was left of her fractured composure as her eyes, wide as china saucers, scanned the all too familiar metallic walls of her chamber. Fresh air was pumped in through the ventilation system, cutting through the humidity and stinging her scorching skin as it blew across her trapped body.

Her limbs pulled frantically at their binds; the hands of Inosaka reborn, retrofitted to be at the command of another. Sets of them grasped her wrists, her biceps, her ankles, their palms warm and their fingers locked tight, refusing to budge an inch. She was suspended in the air, completely exposed, a hellish orange radiating from the floor and coloring the undersides of her legs and her backside in ambient light. Dull spotlights shined on her. Her fingers and toes curled reflexively, and the moment her thousand yard stare hit the countdown clock, her entire being trembled.

Less than two minutes to go before the madness began.

Everyday, this was her routine. Her life. The same droning sounds. The same fear slicing through her as clean as a rusted razor blade. Her sanity, if she had any to begin with, was being systematically stripped away. She could no longer remember how long she had been here.

A fifth of Cerulean Special Blend and the pulsing, pounding throb and the stumble and the shake as spaghetti legs carried her forward, her fall and her bracing hands pushing over star charts and pillaging runs and causing them to crumble to the floor like the hundreds of millions of lives she’d already ruined. Her dark talons gripped against the wood and bone of the table, tearing deep to help her stand back up.

Everyone bent the knee before the World Eater, the Atocha Marie, and her Captain. The Unyielding. The Horror From The Void. Ender of the Hunt. The Dying of the Light.

The Ashen Ghost.

Inky black hair painted her face as she bore all her strength to try and twist her arms free. Like a wild animal, she tried, the precious seconds ticking away. Strength didn’t matter; stamina did. But she wasted it. She always wasted it. Haggard breaths rippled through her freshly exfoliated skin. She tried not to look. She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself and then the bad dream would go away. The bad dream would go away. The bad dream would go away.

Static computer screen glow was offset by the light of dying lanterns, straining her eyes. Fumbling rips and tears at the straps of her chest plate brought it crashing to the ground in a thud. Her hands patted the seat of her throne before she slithered into its comforting embrace.

No, it wouldn’t. It never did. There was no escape. They were teasing her. They. Behind the walls. Everything inside her was rattled and twisted.

She screamed.

An iron throne, made from those who dared challenge her terrifying might, an awe inspiring macabre amalgam of ship and colony captains, their bones pressed and fused together with avavanium. Her lithe frame pressed into the coolness, her fingers digging into the eye sockets of the skulls at the ends of the armrests. These were her true trophies, her ultimate conquests. Vassa and Dusty. Vassa was strength. The hunt and the kill. The Ultimate Scoundrel who headed The Scoundrel Army.

But Dusty was her ultimate victory, her flawless vengeance. When their paths had crossed for the very first time, it was during a galactic crisis that almost unmade the universe. Blake took advantage of the situation, getting the drop on the purple amazonian goddess who was, at the time, an IGTP Officer of high repute. She bound her up, covered her from head to toe in Scream Sand, and tickled her three magnificent breasts until she could take no more and gave up the pin codes for a tech vault with billions of credits worth of tech inside. Dusty had been an ardent officer of the law, but those behind the very system she was trying to uphold had fingered her, set her up, had given some wanton criminal free reign to steal the tech for their own corrupt desires. It changed her life forever. Eventually, she’d escaped, but not without Blake’s former first mate and slave, Polly, turning on her mistress. The two would team up to get revenge for the sins the Ashen Ghost had committed against them, capturing and breaking her with ticklish methods sinisterly designed to crush her spirit, all before stealing her vaunted ship, the Danneskold, and sending her to the depths of the Talon Eleven Prison System to pay for her crimes.

And there she rotted, for a time, tortured by other prisoners for their own amusement in their lawless jungle. All she needed was a crack, and when she found one, she escaped, beginning her hunt for the one who had imprisoned and destroyed her. She waited for a chance to strike the Danneskold, to strike Dusty, waiting for when she and her crew was at their most vulnerable. Six Assassins, with the Ashen Ghost leading the charge. She finally captured Dusty’s crew as they sought the World Eater, the Atocha Marie, at the behest of the Krandaloozian Treasure Hunter, Shooter. Unluckily for Dusty and her crew, their old friend was in full bloom, inundating each and every one of them with Krandaloozian Pheromones, the most powerful aphrodisiac in the known galaxy. Dusty had ordered an orgasm quarantine for her crew as a result; after all, one orgasm while on the pheromone was a thousand times more powerful, even strong enough to stop the heart. She herself was only able to maintain some semblance of control thanks to the aid of a biometric chastity belt.

When the Danneskold was blindsided by Blake’s ship, Revenge, it never stood a chance. After making quick work of the ship’s defenses, she sectioned off the crew members her assassin’s desired, and then jettisoning the rest to the savage planet orbiting the Atocha Marie, leaving them to die on the surface below. Her Assassin’s took their time in exploiting their selected captives heightened states, tickling each one of them to death, save one. After they’d all passed, Blake made sure to tell Dusty how each and every one of them met their demise, all while torturing the purple goddess beyond insanity. She exploited her captive’s most sensitive areas, from her soles, all the way to her breasts and rock hard nipples. Her tactics were deliberate. Her tools were insidious. The only thing that saved Dusty was the chastity belt. Blake spent days feasting on her agony, getting drunk from the musk of it, all before using her dark talons to pick the lock and expose her fully and completely for the ultimate tickle. When she struck, there was no going back. It was too much for Dusty to bare, and with no one to save her, it meant her doom.

It stuck with Blake to this day, that death rattle. Those final shrill laughs cleansed her soul, split her ears, and painted the gusset of her panties with the hottest, thickest, creamiest cum she’d ever have.

Millseconds counted down, the seconds shrinking away, and the free fall of her stomach and the tensing of her spine and all her strength failed her as she started crying, babbling. Her desperate notes hit a fever pitch. And then, the hiss.

Just thinking about Dusty caused her fingers to dip, to explore, a drunken haze raging through her as she thought about just how perfect that moment truly was. The numbing hiss in her ears. Nothing could ever satisfy her like that again. Nothing. It was the alcohol. Lost in it. Still life images burned into her brain. Why was she tensing? Her fingertips circled along her mound and then the bio-mechanical tentacles wrapped around her wrists and ankles and thighs and calves and biceps and forearms and her lap and her waist and her chest and her neck. Each tentacle was studded with electro-neurons, each packing over fifty-thousand volts. They discharged with the explosive force of a bomb.

The hiss.

Everything stopped once she heard the hiss. Her pupils disappeared into the whites of her eyes, her lips quivering, “NonononoNOnopleasenononononoyoucan'tnopleasepleasePLEASE!”

She roared, choking, her vision mottled as the electricity ravaged her, muscles spasming before the black out and the slump, and when the smoke cleared, from out of the darkness stepped a figure, her mouth wide with a shark smile. The wait and the hunt. Before her was richest bounty in the galaxy, and all she could do was lick her lips and feel her blood bubble, her limbs cool. The Ashen Ghost, and she lorded over her. She’d waited years for this very moment.

She couldn’t believe it was real.

Like enchanted snakes, the narrow obsidian hoses rose from the floor below. Ten of them, to be exact. Blake’s entire body trembled violently as she watched them glide about, dancing toward the hollows of her underarms, her breasts, the undersides of her inner thighs, her heels, and over the tops of her toes. Their reach was endless, and they could pivot and flex on a dime.

“Youcan'tdothisyoucan'tyoucan'tIbegyoubegyoupleasemercymercyMERCYI'LLDOWHATEVERYOUSAY!”

Yellow hands and tight binding and enough tranquilizer for an army. The Ashen Ghost, sealed up and vacuum packed, the work done by the same crew members she’d commanded so well. In victory, she’d forgotten the most important rule of piracy; the only thing you can trust are the Pieces of Seven someone is putting in your hand.

Her Little Bird had paid up front.

Thirty seconds now. Her nipples were stiff, firm, so hard that the gentlest touch might cause them to burst. Raw gooseflesh spread in sheets across her skin. Her mound was a nervous, twitching wreck, fully in bloom, throbbing, every bit of her fluttering and exposed and helpless. Her lust was dripping to the floor, falling into a soft puddle.

She clawed at the air and hated how her body betrayed her.

They sat in shadow, the Council of Five. Obfuscated. Looking directly at her and the Ashen Ghost, left lifeless on some makeshift standing gurney, pressed against the slab and held with padded bands. They were the ones who controlled the outskirts. Outer Heaven. “And how can we be certain it’s truly her and not some Twitch harlot you nabbed in the night?”

“It’s her.”

The voice of another arose, this one with hints of lemon drop and high born privilege. “Excuse us for not accepting the word of some feathered tart when it comes to the most notorious bounty in all the Seven Systems.”

“You need the blood match? Give her a spike. Run it against the records from Talon Eleven, or the dozens of other inescapable super-maxes she’s wormed her way out of. I’ll be ready when you are.”

Minutes passed. This is how it went. Deliberate in pace. Finally, another voice from the black. “Purgatorio must strike some balance with the Oligarchy. Protected species are–”

“Your most profitable attractions. But you can’t come out and say that because it breaks the illusion of forbidden fruit, so you’ll pay me lip about it. I’m not giving you a bounty, and I’m not giving you a Twitch.”

Prim and proper, yet again. “Then what are you giving us?”

“A business proposal.” Cold. Calculated. She wasn’t going to be pushed around. Nobody earned the respect of the Council of Five without negotiating with fire. “Because you can’t pay me enough to hand her over, and there’s nothing you can threatened me with because I’m not afraid.”

This fucking curse! She loathed ever being born because of it. A Twitch. She was a Twitch. Sensitive and weak. Helpless. A chalice that could never be truly filled. Even as advanced as the races and species were, they barely knew the nature of someone like her. But she lived it. Every day, a new struggle. A fight to beat back evolution and DNA and every bit of her nature. She’d built an empire. Crushed millions. Sold thousands into slavery. Made herself the most feared pirate in the entire galaxy.

Yet she couldn’t stop her **** from weeping in joy before the tickling began anew.

She died inside every time she realized it.

The door inside the chamber opened, and she looked toward it, but the screaming bright light behind the figure in the doorway blinded her. Soft footfalls powdered the floor.

That familiar scent. Jasmine and vanilla. It caused ripples of excitement and dread to throughout her.

She opened her eyes.

Nameless and faceless, but its voice carried with it raspy, haunting tones. “You want her for yourself, don’t you?”

How did it know? “I just–”

“She killed your family. Not your actual family because you never had one. But she killed your crew. Tortured them to death. A savage way to go. But she marooned you and others she didn’t care about. And you somehow survived, climbing over their bones after you’d already resigned to dying on that unforgiving planet.”

She had to get the power back in the–

“It’s personal. For Dusty. And Slither. And Audrey. And Jessie. For Silki and Koki and everyone else you watched wither away. And Booki…well…it’s better such things aren’t spoken of. You don’t need anymore sleepless nights.”

How could they know all this?

“It’s revenge that fuels you. But the truth, the real truth is, it’s not for them, is it? Oh no. That’s too clean. Too simple. That’s not what truly burns you up inside.”

Sneering, she finally shot back. “Fuck you.”

All five of them laughed. Hearty, heavy bellows, before they all stopped in unison. And then, the voice slithered out again, grabbing hold of her. “It’s because, out of all the ones she and her little band of misfits took interest in, you didn’t even register. You were so unimportant that you weren’t worth killing personally. All the things she’d done to you, that she’d taken from you, and in the end, it meant nothing. You meant nothing. And that was the greatest insult of all. Isn’t that right

“Polly! Polly Polly Polly!”

The Avavian merely tisked her. “We go through this every time. My name is Downey. Downey. Say it back to me. Say it like you mean it.” She was completely nude, the pale cream tint of her skin glowing in wonderful harmony with her blonde mohawk and fully bloomed finger pinions.

“PleaseI'msorryI'msosor–”

Her arm lashed out, snatching the jaw of the Ashen Ghost, holding it firm and tight. Strength. Raw strength. Downey’s body was lithe, compact, athletic, her reflexes forged in the fires of servitude, forced like so many of her kin. It was her natural beauty that set her apart. After all, that’s why Blake had bought her all those many years ago. A wonderful toy she could desecrate. Blake tried to cower away, but Downey’s glare pierced right through her, her voice a low growl. “I told you to say my name.”

The Aristocrat broke the silence. “So why didn’t you just kill her and take what was yours? And if you’re not willing to do that yourself, why travel across the galaxy to bring her here to flaunt? What’s your end game in all this?”

They had all the questions and answers already. Or maybe they didn’t. “Death isn’t what she fears. She’d welcome it.” Her gaze was focused, her tone cool. “She feasts on pain and agony. Craves it. It’s the only thing that makes her focus. Because if she couldn’t? She’d be exactly what she fears the most.”

“And that is?”

“A gullible little Twitch addicted to pleasure.” She licked her lips. “And Purgatorio is all about pleasure, isn’t it? For your clients?” “You can spend months with your little courtesans fumbling around with her. You can dole her out to the highest bidder, and I’m sure you’d make a killing. After all, she’s the biggest bounty you’ve ever had. But nobody knows her like me. I know what makes her tick, and I know what will drive her insane.” She dug in, her fingers gripping her table, steadying herself as she laid it all on the line. “And that’s the reason I need to be the one who does it. You get what you want. The money, the profit, the attraction. And I get what I want. Her.” Her next words were deliberate. Clear. “For the rest of her life.”

Again, the silence. Careful seconds, stretching to hours, or so it felt like. But then, the rasp. “Extraordinary talent deserves its reward. We’ll draw the contract. She’s yours. But…”

There was always a catch.

“You belong to us.” The voice was burrowing in deep, refusing to let go. “Not in chains. You’ll be free to go where you want, spend what you want, do…what you want. But this is your life, and you are bound to us. Is that clear?”

Downey smirked and felt alive for the first time in years. “Crystal.”

Blake couldn’t control it. It was her nature. This was what she was made for. All the hatreds that had ever and would ever exist couldn’t change that, no matter how hard she tried. Touch was a damning thing for a Twitch; their unique endowment to it made pain and pleasure a living environment of which their subconscious mind had to navigate. She feasted on pleasure. She was utterly consumed by it.

The pendulum swing. The ebb and flow. Her addiction was greater than anyone else’s, even amongst her species. All the years she’d spent carving herself and her identity out from her cravings and her cursed genetics, yet here she was, sundering, having it all stripped away. Her body was built for this. Her skin was perhaps the most sensitive in the known galaxy, her frailty made more acute after her skin was saturated in pure prickleberry bush Scream Sand.

Tickling. Her body craved tickling. The very threat of it was enough to buckle her knees and make her nipples stand at attention. It registered as sex in its rawest form.

She hated it. Hated everything about it. But now, all she felt was terror. Systematic and haunting and ravaged and never ending. What would happen when they stripped away what was left of her mind? How much longer could she hold on? And what would happened when they finally destroyed her? She’d be paraded around, forced to dance a ticklish line, begging for more like some broken harem girl.

She’d never be broken. As exhausted and terrified as she was, they wouldn’t ever break her. She’d find a way out. She always did. The galaxy’s little cockroach. All she needed was a crack. A sliver. And then, everything would burn.

The buzzer sounded again. Sharp and pointed. Metal clicked into place. Generators powered up. Then, suddenly, calm.

She nearly fainted.

Downey slithered along her bound captive, her breath smothering the nape of her neck before she whispered in her ear. “Show time.”

Electricity poured through the ends of the hoses.

The Devil’s Lashes had come to life.

They watched, from monitors, from big screens, from one way viewing windows. They. Dozens of them, each one having paid the thousands of Pieces of Seven needed for a ticket to the show. All different races, species, from all over the Seven Systems and outlaw space. They were pirates, politicians, titans of industry and commerce, upper crust middle class with voyeuristic tastes enjoying a sinful vacation. All their identities were hidden underneath Venetian style masks and designer dresses and suits. Purgatorio, after all, had an image to uphold.

Everyone had been touched by the Ashen Ghost somehow. And now, here she was, twisting, writhing, all for their enjoyment. Sure, there were other levels in Purgatorio to go for the more personal fiendish touch, where you could have your fun with the merchandise and a bevy of choices. Hell, if you were a Black Card member, you even had the privilege to bid on the fresh crops of nubile captures during auction hours from the comfort of a personal datapad.

Yet all of them were mere appetizers. Background noise.

The Ashen Ghost was their main course.

They were known the galaxy over, the Lashes. They were amongst the most feared of the Xanderborn’s twisted torturers, outlawed in all of civilized space, yet still widely used against political prisoners and inside Verdan poison farms, all of which is still kept hushed and in the shadows. They were dermal stimulators, hoses spouting off pure energy in thin forked tongues of four and five that could probe and glide and reach anywhere at any given time, all while providing any desired sensation directly to the nerve. Pain. Searing heat. Bitter cold. They could strike like whips of hooked wire, or they could stroke like the tongue of the most ardent lover. The most flirty masseuse. The most skilled tickler.

These ones were different. The engineers of Purgatorio had found ways to increase their effectiveness tremendously. Carefully, they’d tuned these ones specifically for Blake’s nervous system, their settings providing everything from soothing pleasure, to edge of orgasm teasing, to howling, hysterical ticklish agony. Each setting came with twelve degrees of intensity, all available at the turn of a dial.

All at the command of Downey.

“I like it when you giggle, Broken Ghost.” The binding hands raised their captive up higher, the Lashes following with her. She nestled her cheek against Blake’s side, the Ashen Ghost’s toned abs flaring as her captor’s soft mohawk teased just underneath her breast. “So let’s keep it low for now and see just how long you can hold out.”

There was no holding out. Not even at the lowest setting. She watched out in horror as the forked tendrils of pure white rolled across her body. Like wild fingers, prancing about the hollows of her underarms, striking along in waves across her trembling thighs. Swirling caresses across the tops of her heaving breasts, their undersides, their sides, the prod of her swollen nipples, rolling deliciously across their turgid bases.

Quick, panicked breaths led to powder giggles, falling from her lips like raindrops, her face a mask of mirth and exasperated dread as she realized she wasn’t prepared. She was never prepared. Setting One was ravaging her, and every touch that she felt, every scintillating tickle, was garroting her resistance with surgical precision. She couldn’t stand it. Every part of her was falling apart and these sessions lasted for hours.

Or was it days?

Downey was savage, but her shrewdness and dedication to her purpose in life, in torturing the one who’d collared her and killed everyone she loved, was rooted in economics. Twitches put on ticklish display were such a rarity thanks to the Protected Species Act that that alone would’ve been a license to mint Sevens. But Blake was a storm. A rampage. Known and feared. To torture something as magnificent as her and turn it into an event would pay for itself. Then, there were the pay-per-view broadcasts. The velvet rooms. The finest wines and delicacies for refreshments for those that came to watch live.

But that was all for viewing. It was how she commodified her little Twitch where she made the real money. In Purgatorio, the right price could buy you anything, including a night with the Ashen Ghost. But, what if it wasn’t just one person? What if two could? Or three? Or ten? Each one, in control of their own Devil’s Lash, giving them the ability to touch and caress and tickle and violate wherever they desired. It wasn’t their hands on her sensitive skin, but that only served to make her all the more tempting. Blake was her own industry, and Downey took joy in finding new ways to torture her and construct revenue streams to line her and the Council of Five’s pockets.

Hell, it was hard to believe just what people out in the galaxy were willing to pay for their piece of the Ashen Ghost. But that? That’s a story best left for another time.

They descended, like vultures, across her feet. Wild, uninhibited. Every night, Blake was given pedicures while she slept in isolation. Her body was scrubbed, her skin exfoliated, her body pumped with enough fluids and nutrients to fuel the fire. They’d even begun secretly using a Lash purely to massage the folds of her shaven silken sex while she slumbered, her thick unconscious moans echoing in her chamber as she was edged over and over again.

The tendrils wormed between her toes, across the tops of them, licking and tickling across the bulbs and just underneath the nail. Others scratched up and down her ruddy balls, her deep, pale arches. Not a bit of reprieve. She stared at her toes, tried to flex them, tried to wiggle them, but the gripping hands made every movement an exercise in futility. From the bottom, more tentacles joined in, reaching up toward her arches, focusing there while single lashes wormed in steady fashion across her heels.

She couldn’t speak. Could barely think. She stared out at her black painted toes and watched the assault in horror as her breathless giggles and laughs erupted rapid fire, her fists clinching and clutching, her spine bowing as she looked toward the ceiling and screamed.

“You’re so pathetic you can’t even make it a few seconds before breaking.” Downey’s feathered fingertips were so soft, so smooth. They caressed across her backside, all before she probed around her asshole in compact circles. She turned the dial to three.

Blake’s head slumped downward as she felt the rise of energy assaulting her very being. Her mouth was wide, her face shaking wildly as trembling howls bellowed from deep within. She couldn’t breathe during the transition. She flung her head back and forth and her muscles tensed and pulled but she’d burnt through every single ounce of energy she had in her panic and her fight before the session even began. Limp little jerks. Spasms of nervous tension. Quaking and gooseflesh and panting. Her laughter hit new octaves. Her heart raced. Her eyes rolled back.

But there was something else rising. Powering through. The thing she couldn’t control. No. God no stop please not again don’t make me beg again! I can’t take it I can’t take it I can’t take it! While her mind recoiled, her body rejoiced. The swirling licks along her toes, assaulting their stems, lighting each soft, pedicured bit they tickled across. She spread her toes out for them. She pressed her chest out as best as she could so those tentacles of light could grope and fondle and pet across their fullness. Her nipples cried out for them, begging to be tickled more, especially at the very tips. The tips always drove her mad.

And then there was the growing puddle on the floor below, the steady, fragrant drip. Every tickle detonated inside her smoldering ****, the little twitches and ripples evident to anyone who looked close enough, seeking out something hot and hard to compress upon, to release against. “PLEASHEHAHAHAHAHAHEPLEASEICAN'TTAKEANYMORE!”

A remorseless smile, a supple nibble of her captive’s ribs. “But you will. You’ll take more. You’ll take as much as I force you to and love it, won’t you you twisted bitch?”

The Devil’s Lashes maneuvered, their paths controlled by faceless others who were dying for another taste. Everyone was enamored, intoxicated, their own libidos raging and driving them to tickle this craven witch to utter insanity. And she fed them her words, choking out, croaking out, fluttered barely recognizable gibberish. Her sensitive skin, a sensitive canvas, beckoned toward their every damning tickle.

Shuddered wrought panic. The burning in her lungs. Endurance was a perception, and while Blake struggled, there was no signs of them slowing down. Not her blood was chumming the waters. The tense grip of her throat released, and from the depths of her lungs came unbridled, uninhibited laughter that bounced off the walls. The Lashes took no pity. All they had was nakedness and vulnerability before them and they exploited it with precision cuts.

Her hollows were a savage spot, the delicate swirls, the tender licks now feeling as coarse as the firm bristles of a brush, dragging down the softness and rolling across the tendons before filtering out in callous strokes. It was pure Hell.

Her tears were flowing freely now, black mascara streaking and running down her cheeks like a heartsick bride. Another turn of the dial. Level four. Limply, Blake crumbled, unable to think, unable to do anything but twitch as the joys of her species were unfurled and abused. Touch depth and width. Her reality was drowning in a tsunami of fiendish ticklers, her body thrusting and undulating spasmodically. The tendrils teased the cheeks of her ass, one rolling across the pucker of her asshole, tickling the tightness, an unendurable clinch before it probed along the entrance, and that was what shot her eyes open and ground her laughter to a moaning halt as each of her toe stems were grabbed and pinched and rolled like a ripcord with focused strokes down the full bow of her arches and the full attention of her nipples and she wilted, utterly wilted, her orgasm so intense that she collapsed as the first bolt of hot cream sprayed against the floor with force, the waves splattering against the toes of her captor.

The whites of Blake’s eyes were all anyone could see, before the energy to even roll them back was extinguished and brought her small pupils back to place, her guttural scream and grind and wanton thrusts to wring each and every burning bit of her cum out, even as the tickling continued, even as it burned her skin, drove her insane, pierced her mind and kept pounding, pounding, pounding deep. The Ashen Ghost, radiating pink. And then the tickling registered as it should and out of the hiss of forfeited pride came closed eyed hysterics. Her head bobbed up and down, not because she could move her neck, but because the bellowing laughter forced from deep within caused it, a wide, rabid open mouthed smile and her face covered in sweat drenched hair and her wrists fell and the only thing she could manage was to sit, suspended, and let them pour in through her flooded levee.

“You shouldn’t have done that, my Broken Ghost. You know what happens when you cum without permission.” Downey was mischievous, licking the sweat off her captive with the very tip of her tongue, looking toward her eyes and seeking out new layers of vulnerability to peel away. “The tickles get worse. And you can’t control yourself. You know that. You stupid little thing.”

Blake’s eyes caught those of her captor. She screamed and begged but the words refused to come out. Her **** clinched as she watched in abject horror how Downey was exploiting her taut tummy. But something else was filtering through. This naked torturer with her minions rampaging across every sensitive nerve she had, and she felt a deep longing as her conqueror rubbed her breasts, those soft breasts, against her body. She sucked up the warmth like a vampire in need of a feast, and when those eyes caught hold of her, she couldn’t stop herself from swooning.

Another hot, fresh bolt, squirting in wild sheets, lacquering her thighs, causing her mound to feel every tickle, from soles and toes, to her breasts, to her underarms. It all pooled in a gush, her tongue limply hanging out of her mouth, animal grunts her only response between the laughter threatening to collapse the chamber’s walls. Unending warmth was all she felt before the fresh fragile sensitivity and defenselessness ratcheted up and the drool dribbling down her chin was as sloppy a mess as her smoldering inner thighs.

Another turn of the dial. Level Five.

Where delicate girls go to die.

This was when the sessions got good. Highlight reels were made of what happened at Five. Sevens and credits were pouring in from secured comm links from all corners of the galaxy. It was why the lucky few who paid for the privilege to control a Lash did so from a remote location in Purgatorio, because if they didn’t, a riot could break out from those who wanted their turn with their Blake.

“Dance for them. Sing for them. They’re your audience, Broken Ghost. They paid their money to watch your torture. Can you feel it? Thousands of eyes, hungering over your perverted body as it drips all over the place!” Downey’s fingers dug in to Blake’s hips. “Dusty’s watching you, right now. From wherever it is…wherever you sent her…and she’s laughing. Laughing at you. Laughing at how pathetic you are. Say her name. Say it!”

She had no choice. She thought of her. The purple pasty, in that room, laughing at her, alive and vibrant, enjoying every moment she spent being tortured to death. “DUHUHUHUHSTYDUUSUSHAHAHAHAHHATYDUSTYDUHAHAHEUSTYDUUHUHUHUHSTYUUUUuuooOOOOHohOHOOHAHHAHAHHAHAOH!” Another shameful display, her backside clinching, her hips rocking, and another, and the pool of lust was pruning the soles of her captor.

“Good girl. Good little Broken Ghost.”

The utter mindfuck of it all was too much to take. Blake sobbed, her entire body dripping in sweat, her skin blindingly pink, her hair a clumped and drenched mess. The ripcord licked across the undersides of her toes, and she spread them out wide shamelessly, welcoming the Lashes, wanting them to sear her flesh forever with tickles because it was hellish and it felt so good and she was overwhelmed and full tendrils scrubbed the arches she held out perfectly so they were smooth as possible for their touch.

One each of the Lash tendrils from both sides of her underarms joined in across the tops of her breasts, allowing for more focused attacks. They started at the undersides of her breasts, and Blake arched back, mindlessly, helplessly, her body thirsting for more, fully availing her breasts to their welcoming ticklish caress. Varied lengths licked upward, covering over the tops, the ripeness and their fullness begging to be fondled and groped and cuddled. They traveled down the valley between them, darting up and down and around her sternum. Every bellow and roaring laugh was punctuated by a fresh surrender, a guttural moan. Her nipples ached to be touched. Just one little touch was all it would take to set her off. She wanted it. More than anything in the world, she wanted it. She tried to move her body into the path of the Lashes, but each time she drew her swollen nipples close, they’d deftly avoid them.

Ripe, like Pookian suckleberries, swollen so painfully that they needed to be touched or she would die. Every little bump, every little depression, her areola rising up with bright pink and wanting. The very tips of her nipples were ready, so ready. But there they were, those Lashes, taking their sweet time, countless minutes, riding along the edge, and then, and then, and then OHGOD! the touch, all four tendrils fondling, tickling, caressing, rolling her nipples. She came. Like a good little girl, she came for them as a thank you, as a gift, and if she ever got out of here she would bend her knees to whoever took pity on her and chose to tickle her nipples.

And then, there was the single tendril flicking the very tip. Over and over. Each one rippled through her pouting lips. Every calculated flick caused a spasm, a clinch. Tickled. Every little bit of it tickled and she didn’t care because she deserved it and bathed in it and wanted to grow old within it and she was everything she ever feared she’d become.

A dial turn. Sixth level.

Her body was their altar. Their treasure. But for Downey, it was more. It was everything. A monument to all of the Ashen Ghost’s sins. Every tickle was a blade, now thousands of times sharper than when they’d began. Every shriek. Every howl. Every giggle and every smile and every grin. Hers. A tribute for her to wash away her nightmares in cleansing fire.

Every piece of electric humming glow was a sword, a spear, stabbing into a twisted hunk of meat. Blake was gone. The guffaws and screaming and begging and it was balling her blackened soul and tossing it away.

Downey’s arms left those luscious hips, instead slithering between her captive’s inner thighs. They were a sticky, hazy mess of cum and swollen labia lips. Every piece and part of her mound shimmered an overstimulated red, deep from blood flow, puffed out and inflamed and burning. The smell of Blake’s cum was a siren’s song, so thick that Downey was choking on the endorphin rush. Her vengeance was uncompromising. She, herself, had climaxed during her captive’s writhing agony, but even with her knees threatening to buckle at any moment, she was steady and firm and in control.

Those feathered fingers. There was nothing like them in the galaxy. Soft down in feel, yet firm. They explored, tickling across Blake’s outer lips, her palm then pressing deep against her throbbing mound. “Who owns you?”

Those words. THOSE. FUCKING. WORDS. Her brain pounded and her body relented and the intensity had fried her and she yielded. Yielded to her better. Yielded to the skilled artist who played her and made her betray herself and knew who she was and what she was made for deep down in her soul. She didn’t deserve her, though. She didn’t deserve to feel this way. She had to treasure it as much as she could. To be turned into this. Twisted into this. She didn’t hesitate. She blurted it out for all to hear. “YOU! YOUYOUYOUYOUYOOOOUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Nipple flicks and underarm scrubs and her inner thighs a wash, a sea, bleeding want, her soles and toes and arches and heels held open for whatever the tortures desired because it was only fair. An empire, and now it laid in ruin and she didn’t care. She refused to feel anything but the mutinous joy her true purpose gave her, the ultimate clarity it provided.

Every toe, every bit of her pale arches, those devil’s tickled. She came into Downey’s palm and ground into the heel of her hand and laughed and laughed and laughed, cried, shrieked, and then, the world collapsed and all that remained was the shell and the body and the spirit locked deep inside, unable to get out, no matter how hard it tried and roared and raged. This was life now. She accepted it. “YOURS! YOURS! BROKENHEHENEHEN GHOST! YOURS!”

Those that watched over time could make out what she was saying, through the garble of words and moans and laughter. Level six always broke her. And when it didn’t? There was always level Seven. Or level Eight. Or level Twelve. What a glorious day level Twelve would be.

Downey knew what she was doing. Her cum soaked hand continued unabated. She reached her other arm up from under, gently pinching her captive’s clit along it’s underside, a constant glide of feathered kisses, creamy lust coloring the plumes. The other fingers were busy petting along the silken soft outer labia lips, their ticklish path running and swirling from left flank to right. She could feel another burst ready to explode. “And for how long?”

Nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing. Nothing ever. Nothing ever could compare to the sensations she was feeling. The depth of her desire. “YOUHEHAHAHAHAHARSGODDESSFOREVERHEHAHAHAHEHEHAHAHAGODDESS!”

Downey couldn’t help herself. Her voice wrapped around her captive’s fractured little mind like honey. “And what do you want your Goddess to do, Broken Ghost?”

“TICKLEME! TICKLEME! MAKEHAHAHAHAMECoooOOooOOoooUHM!” The heaviest cream. It squirted out of her in a torrent. It painted the hands of her intended. “CUUUMFORGODDESSTICKLEUMMMMPH!” Another. Rapid fire. Climax inside of climax. Downey reached around, her fingertips strumming along the crack of her captive’s ass, across the full pucker of her asshole, steady flicks and all. She snuck her bladed fingers along her inner walls and tantalized them with the most impossibly seductive tickle. “GODDESSLOUHAHAHAUHOoooooooOOOOOOOOOOOUMPH!” There was no stopping, no slowing. She spread her fingers along her inner walls, across their tips, and her thumb and index finger found the pearl of her clit, trapping it, rolling it, sinful ticklish touch, and every part of her rejoiced and screamed and felt alive and bathed in light as Downey milked the richest ticklish cum from her body in furious splatters. “ILOVEYOU!ILOOOOOVEYOU! ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEpleeeeeeease…”

Please. So many had begged her please. Every member of the Danneskold had begged please. Colonies and captains. All begged her please. Downey knew today was a special day. She felt it in her bones. And as the sea of faceless watched her, she chuckled at the thoughts swirling inside her mind. The Broken Ghost, laid bare, turned into nothing more than some mindless toy, ready to be tickled to tatters and milked for her cum. And there was so much more time left to go.

Downey thought of Dusty as she turned the dial to level Seven for the very first time, and the primal scream she heard from Blake would stick with her until the day she died.