This is one of the first stories where I legitimately have no idea what to title it, so we get a descriptive title instead. Blame it on my programming professors.
----------
It had been a simple breakfast. A pair of slices of fatty bacon coupled with a single egg and some buttered toast. Not exactly the most extravagant meal the shapely woman with shoulder-length light brown hair had ever had, but filling nonetheless. She hadn't used to eat breakfast in the morning. It'd always struck her as a bit of a waste of time. A glass of water and a bagel before going off to work would suffice if she bothered with anything at all. Now she understood that a good breakfast was important for keeping her strength up through the day. A nice, simple, normal routine to start off the day. It was one of life's little joys. She didn't know how she'd last without it.
After taking her time thoroughly washing the dishes she headed towards the old record player sitting in the corner of the studio apartment. A hand idly reached into the shelf beside it to pull out a record at random and toss it onto the turntable. It didn't particularly matter which song she chose, it wasn't like the thing worked in the first place. Throwing the power switch and putting the needle down didn't even get a faint scratching sound.
Next, the woman went to retrieve her favorite dancing partner. It had been a little awkward at first. The mannequin lacking any sort of arms made it difficult for her to drag around, but she'd gotten used to wrapping her thin arms tight around it so she could awkwardly carry it in step with her. The woman had never been into other women before, but these days she took a bit of perverse pleasure out of pressing her bare, ample breasts and nestling her unprotected groin up against the female doll's overly detailed privates. Her shoulder-length light brown hair lightly tickled her bare shoulders as she twirled and danced to music only she could hear, her blood red eyes unfocusing a little as she enjoyed one of the few pleasures she was still afforded.
The last time the woman had stopped to think about her situation had caused her collapse in despair. Spending her life in one of the few intact apartments of the blasted remains of a city she'd woken up in, having to go all day every day completely naked outside of a pair of thigh high nylons her captors forced her to wear for their sick pleasure, and one of the only forms of entertainment in her life being to lewdly grind herself against a mannequin in the facsimile of a dance was so depressing she had to wonder what was keeping her from committing suicide already. It's not like there was anybody out there to save her. She didn't even remember her own name or how she'd ended up in this situation. The pretty 20-year-old had woken up one day in an underground bunker and ventured outside to find herself in an apocalyptic wasteland.
A scratching sound outside made her squeeze her eyes shut in fear, but she continued to dance. As poor of an excuse for fun as it was, it was the only thing she had to combat the hell that that sound warned her was coming. She'd long since given up on running. They'd always caught her. Hiding was pointless. They'd always found her. And it had long since been drilled into her that whatever short reprieve she'd get from the daily torture far paled in comparison to the punishment they'd inflict on her tight, nubile body the moment they caught her. She winced hearing the telltale sound of the doorknob turning and resignedly turned to face her torturers.
A pair of robots entered the room. They looked like oversized metallic pills with half a dozen metal spider legs sticking out of the sides. The woman didn't even try to evade when compartments opened on one of them to reveal a quartet of cuffs on the end of appendages. She simply dropped the mannequin where she stood and waited for the appendages to reach forward to grab her wrists and ankles and guide her to lie on the carpet spread-eagle. She shivered in fear, she knew what was about to emerge from the other robot, but at the same time she didn't want to look she couldn't keep from staring as a pair of artificial hands covered in synthetic skin emerged from the other robot.
"Tehehehehe! Stohohohp! Noohoho more! Plehehehahahase, stohop thihihehehs!" As usual there was no mercy today. The robot had started off the session by attacking her feet, her worst spot, as it always did. The woman broke out giggling and spluttering out pleas for it to stop as it began to delicately drag its synthetic fingers down her nylon clad soles so that she could feel both the slim pads of its artificial fingers and its long nails trailing down her foot. She knew in her head that begging did anything but help. As far as she could tell the robots were only programmed to understand what she was saying so that they could use begging as one of various inputs that the tickling was effective. But she couldn't help it. Being tickled made her beg as naturally as it made her laugh. She could no more effectively stop herself from trying to coax a hint of mercy out of her cold, unfeeling torturers as she could stop herself from screaming as they abused her.
Her giggling was upgraded to laughter after the robot had taken a few more trips down the lengths of her soles and started its next routine. The fingers picked up speed to flutter the nails all around from the bottom of her heels to the base of her toes in random patterns. The woman truly hated the randomness of it. Everywhere on her hyper-sensitive feet was ticklish, but if she was lucky the hands would end up working over the comparatively less ticklish areas of her heels and the balls of her feet. If she was unlucky it'd mercilessly hammer her arches or the base of her toes. And she was proving to be having the terrible luck today. She screamed, thrashed, and desperately wiggled her feet to dislodge the nails that had spent the last couple minutes incessantly bobbing up and down to work over the length and width of her sensitive arches. The sheer fabric of the nylons amplified the sensations from terrible to unbearable. To her, one of the most sadistic tortures she faced every day was being forced to wear the nylons she was provided to heighten her own suffering when the tickling started or face days of the robots double teaming her feet as punishment.
Her desperate attempts to wiggle her feet enough to get the nails away from her tender feet proved to be a little too effective. The woman cursed herself and sucked in as much air as she could get once she realized that the punishment subroutine had kicked in. She knew she'd need it when she saw a second pair of hands emerge out of the robot for the express purpose of peeling back her toes and leaving her feet stretched taut. Her back arched and she let out a scream of agony feeling the nails on the tickling hands come together to mercilessly saw back and forth across the base of her toes. She repeatedly slammed her butt against the carpet in an attempt to distract herself from the horrible tickling until the robot holding her down produced a large claw to pin her waist down as well. It was no use. With her feet stretched taut and immobilized as they were she couldn't escape, and it tickled too much for anything she did to detract from it. All she could do was scream apologies and promise that she'd be a good girl who'd hold still for them to tickle next time, just like she had every session before.
It was over 20 minutes of toe tickling before the machine's algorithms came to the conclusion that her apologies had grown desperate enough for her to be considered appropriately chastised. The machine gave her a short break so its metallic eye could sweep over her naked, shivering, sweat covered body. The woman gratefully took in one of her rare breaks to gulp in more air while the spider clacked its way around her to stand by her upper body.
The despairing young woman was torn about how she felt about the upper body portions of her sessions. Nowhere on her upper body was as ticklish as her lower half. It didn't matter if the robot put all 4 hands to work teasingly tracing up and down her sides, drawing random patterns across her stomach, played the rib counting game, abused the depths of her ticklish hollows, poked her hips, or explored inside of her bellybutton, it didn't tickle as much as when it abused her feet, teased the back of her knees, or squeezed her thighs. It was a break in a way. It was still torture of course. She still bounced around as much as her bondage would allow her. She still howled with tortured laughter, thrashed in her bondage, clawed at the carpet trying to escape, and threw away her dignity promising everything she could think of in the name of making it stop. But at least it didn't tickle as much as the foot torture that the robots started off every session with did.
The issue she had with it was that the upper body tickling was always done as a form of cruel endurance game. The problem wasn't the comparative severity of the tickling, it was the length. The upper body tickling absolutely never let up for a second to give her a chance to breathe. It was like the robots were taunting her that they'd let her get away with them focusing on her less ticklish spots as long as she didn't lose. And she hated the losing condition of the game. It was layering an additional dose of humiliation on top of all of the other torture she was put through.
She could feel pressure building in her bladder. The young brunette squeezed her legs shut as much as she could in an attempt to hold it in. But it was pointless. The robot tickling her reacted to her change in posture by focusing all 4 of its hands back on her lower stomach. The woman howled and shook, screamed and begged, but there was nothing she could do to get relief. The hands continued to tease her until she couldn't hold it in anymore. A large stain spread in between her legs as she wet herself from the non-stop tickle torture.
"Oh no..." the woman whimpered. "I'm sorry... I'm a big girl. I swear, I'm a big girl. Please no more. No. NO! StohohohoHOHOHOP! HEHEHEHEHAHAHAHA ENOHOHOHUGH! GEHEHET THOHOHOHOSEHEHEHEHE AWAY FROHOHOHOM MEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The spider robot had made its way back to stand by her feet. Its hands reached down to tear holes in her nylons to leave her feet bare. The woman sobbed and begged watching jars of baby oil be produced and slowly turned over to dribble the horrible liquid that would make the tickling infinitely worse over her soles. She would've sworn that it was deliberately taking its time producing long pieces of twine to tie back each individual toe one at a time back towards her shapely legs. Her sobbing transformed into screams as her punishment for wetting herself began. Long combs began to saw back and forth across the base of her toes. She could feel hairbrushes scrubbing her sensitive arches. Nails were poking and prodding their way around the balls of her feet and gently fluttering against the bottom of her heels.
It was torture. It was pure, unadulterated torture. The woman's face went red as she screamed with laughter as hard as she could. She didn't have the slightest bit of control of how her entire body spasmmed and shook in a last ditch effort to flee. The bondage made it all a million times worse. She could barely wiggle her upper body enough to make her breasts shake, much less squirm her feet enough to get away from even a millisecond of the abuse being rained down on her hyper ticklish feet.
But that wasn't the end. The robot holding her down took this as an opportunity to join in the fray. A vibrator was produced to press against her clit. The woman threw her head back and screamed feeling an orgasm rip through her. This is what pushed it from torturous to truly hellish for the poor woman. Once she started cumming she couldn't stop. Her mind was being torn to pieces by the barrage of non-stop orgasms and tickling.
The punishment continued for over an hour unabated before the vibrator was removed and the robot working over her feet moved back up to her upper body. This was the part that always made her wonder if the machines were truly only following the programming of whatever psychopath had created them or had gained sentience to become sadistic monsters themselves. The next couple minutes of upper body tickling weren't a change in routines, an attempt at varying her torture up, or because it mistakenly believed that it could tickle her more up there. It was a taunt. She had come to understand that it was the machine's way of taunting her by reminding her of how much less it would tickle if only she hadn't wet herself. And after a couple minutes of teasingly light trips from her stomach up to her armpits and back down again it ended like it always did. The spider robot walked back down to her feet, the vibrator came back, a fresh coat of baby oil was applied to her feet, and the foot tickling resumed.
The machines continued to coldly torture the woman until sunset, just like they always did. The brunette lay wheezing on the on the carpet soaked in her own sweat and urine trying to recover from her ordeal. It hurt too much to move. She squeezed her eyes shut in exhausted annoyance. The machines had left her their usual presents. Groceries to make dinner for tonight and tomorrow's breakfast so she'd have the energy to be tickled again tomorrow. A new set of nylons to wear so the foot tickling would start off just as horrible as it had today. Cosmetics and creams that would insure that her skin was as soft, supple, and sensitive as possible. And a video of her being tickled, taken courtesy of the robots' camera eyes. The ceiling of the apartment was a giant TV screen now displaying a video of how her nylon-covered feet had been tickled with a picture in picture shot of her face twisted in agonized laughter. It looked like she was going to be serenaded to sleep tonight by her own screams again.
The woman gathered up the nylons and cosmetics and hobbled off to take a shower. It was one of life's little joys that she was granted the mercy of having hot water to bathe with. She didn't know what those robots were, how the city had ended up this way, or why she was being tortured every day. She didn't even know if there were any other victims in the same predicament as her. Her one attempt to follow her tormentors back to wherever they came from had resulted in her being tickled so bad as punishment that she had no intention of taking the risk to find out. The woman knew only one thing for certain: that if somebody informed her that she'd died and gone to hell then she wouldn't doubt them for a second. She had long since given up hope of escaping or being rescued. As horrible as the daily torture was, she had to admit that she was simply too much of a coward to kill herself to get out of it.
Today was going to be repeated tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. And the day after that. The woman knew that it was never going to stop, and she had neither the ability nor courage to do anything about it.
----------
It had been a simple breakfast. A pair of slices of fatty bacon coupled with a single egg and some buttered toast. Not exactly the most extravagant meal the shapely woman with shoulder-length light brown hair had ever had, but filling nonetheless. She hadn't used to eat breakfast in the morning. It'd always struck her as a bit of a waste of time. A glass of water and a bagel before going off to work would suffice if she bothered with anything at all. Now she understood that a good breakfast was important for keeping her strength up through the day. A nice, simple, normal routine to start off the day. It was one of life's little joys. She didn't know how she'd last without it.
After taking her time thoroughly washing the dishes she headed towards the old record player sitting in the corner of the studio apartment. A hand idly reached into the shelf beside it to pull out a record at random and toss it onto the turntable. It didn't particularly matter which song she chose, it wasn't like the thing worked in the first place. Throwing the power switch and putting the needle down didn't even get a faint scratching sound.
Next, the woman went to retrieve her favorite dancing partner. It had been a little awkward at first. The mannequin lacking any sort of arms made it difficult for her to drag around, but she'd gotten used to wrapping her thin arms tight around it so she could awkwardly carry it in step with her. The woman had never been into other women before, but these days she took a bit of perverse pleasure out of pressing her bare, ample breasts and nestling her unprotected groin up against the female doll's overly detailed privates. Her shoulder-length light brown hair lightly tickled her bare shoulders as she twirled and danced to music only she could hear, her blood red eyes unfocusing a little as she enjoyed one of the few pleasures she was still afforded.
The last time the woman had stopped to think about her situation had caused her collapse in despair. Spending her life in one of the few intact apartments of the blasted remains of a city she'd woken up in, having to go all day every day completely naked outside of a pair of thigh high nylons her captors forced her to wear for their sick pleasure, and one of the only forms of entertainment in her life being to lewdly grind herself against a mannequin in the facsimile of a dance was so depressing she had to wonder what was keeping her from committing suicide already. It's not like there was anybody out there to save her. She didn't even remember her own name or how she'd ended up in this situation. The pretty 20-year-old had woken up one day in an underground bunker and ventured outside to find herself in an apocalyptic wasteland.
A scratching sound outside made her squeeze her eyes shut in fear, but she continued to dance. As poor of an excuse for fun as it was, it was the only thing she had to combat the hell that that sound warned her was coming. She'd long since given up on running. They'd always caught her. Hiding was pointless. They'd always found her. And it had long since been drilled into her that whatever short reprieve she'd get from the daily torture far paled in comparison to the punishment they'd inflict on her tight, nubile body the moment they caught her. She winced hearing the telltale sound of the doorknob turning and resignedly turned to face her torturers.
A pair of robots entered the room. They looked like oversized metallic pills with half a dozen metal spider legs sticking out of the sides. The woman didn't even try to evade when compartments opened on one of them to reveal a quartet of cuffs on the end of appendages. She simply dropped the mannequin where she stood and waited for the appendages to reach forward to grab her wrists and ankles and guide her to lie on the carpet spread-eagle. She shivered in fear, she knew what was about to emerge from the other robot, but at the same time she didn't want to look she couldn't keep from staring as a pair of artificial hands covered in synthetic skin emerged from the other robot.
"Tehehehehe! Stohohohp! Noohoho more! Plehehehahahase, stohop thihihehehs!" As usual there was no mercy today. The robot had started off the session by attacking her feet, her worst spot, as it always did. The woman broke out giggling and spluttering out pleas for it to stop as it began to delicately drag its synthetic fingers down her nylon clad soles so that she could feel both the slim pads of its artificial fingers and its long nails trailing down her foot. She knew in her head that begging did anything but help. As far as she could tell the robots were only programmed to understand what she was saying so that they could use begging as one of various inputs that the tickling was effective. But she couldn't help it. Being tickled made her beg as naturally as it made her laugh. She could no more effectively stop herself from trying to coax a hint of mercy out of her cold, unfeeling torturers as she could stop herself from screaming as they abused her.
Her giggling was upgraded to laughter after the robot had taken a few more trips down the lengths of her soles and started its next routine. The fingers picked up speed to flutter the nails all around from the bottom of her heels to the base of her toes in random patterns. The woman truly hated the randomness of it. Everywhere on her hyper-sensitive feet was ticklish, but if she was lucky the hands would end up working over the comparatively less ticklish areas of her heels and the balls of her feet. If she was unlucky it'd mercilessly hammer her arches or the base of her toes. And she was proving to be having the terrible luck today. She screamed, thrashed, and desperately wiggled her feet to dislodge the nails that had spent the last couple minutes incessantly bobbing up and down to work over the length and width of her sensitive arches. The sheer fabric of the nylons amplified the sensations from terrible to unbearable. To her, one of the most sadistic tortures she faced every day was being forced to wear the nylons she was provided to heighten her own suffering when the tickling started or face days of the robots double teaming her feet as punishment.
Her desperate attempts to wiggle her feet enough to get the nails away from her tender feet proved to be a little too effective. The woman cursed herself and sucked in as much air as she could get once she realized that the punishment subroutine had kicked in. She knew she'd need it when she saw a second pair of hands emerge out of the robot for the express purpose of peeling back her toes and leaving her feet stretched taut. Her back arched and she let out a scream of agony feeling the nails on the tickling hands come together to mercilessly saw back and forth across the base of her toes. She repeatedly slammed her butt against the carpet in an attempt to distract herself from the horrible tickling until the robot holding her down produced a large claw to pin her waist down as well. It was no use. With her feet stretched taut and immobilized as they were she couldn't escape, and it tickled too much for anything she did to detract from it. All she could do was scream apologies and promise that she'd be a good girl who'd hold still for them to tickle next time, just like she had every session before.
It was over 20 minutes of toe tickling before the machine's algorithms came to the conclusion that her apologies had grown desperate enough for her to be considered appropriately chastised. The machine gave her a short break so its metallic eye could sweep over her naked, shivering, sweat covered body. The woman gratefully took in one of her rare breaks to gulp in more air while the spider clacked its way around her to stand by her upper body.
The despairing young woman was torn about how she felt about the upper body portions of her sessions. Nowhere on her upper body was as ticklish as her lower half. It didn't matter if the robot put all 4 hands to work teasingly tracing up and down her sides, drawing random patterns across her stomach, played the rib counting game, abused the depths of her ticklish hollows, poked her hips, or explored inside of her bellybutton, it didn't tickle as much as when it abused her feet, teased the back of her knees, or squeezed her thighs. It was a break in a way. It was still torture of course. She still bounced around as much as her bondage would allow her. She still howled with tortured laughter, thrashed in her bondage, clawed at the carpet trying to escape, and threw away her dignity promising everything she could think of in the name of making it stop. But at least it didn't tickle as much as the foot torture that the robots started off every session with did.
The issue she had with it was that the upper body tickling was always done as a form of cruel endurance game. The problem wasn't the comparative severity of the tickling, it was the length. The upper body tickling absolutely never let up for a second to give her a chance to breathe. It was like the robots were taunting her that they'd let her get away with them focusing on her less ticklish spots as long as she didn't lose. And she hated the losing condition of the game. It was layering an additional dose of humiliation on top of all of the other torture she was put through.
She could feel pressure building in her bladder. The young brunette squeezed her legs shut as much as she could in an attempt to hold it in. But it was pointless. The robot tickling her reacted to her change in posture by focusing all 4 of its hands back on her lower stomach. The woman howled and shook, screamed and begged, but there was nothing she could do to get relief. The hands continued to tease her until she couldn't hold it in anymore. A large stain spread in between her legs as she wet herself from the non-stop tickle torture.
"Oh no..." the woman whimpered. "I'm sorry... I'm a big girl. I swear, I'm a big girl. Please no more. No. NO! StohohohoHOHOHOP! HEHEHEHEHAHAHAHA ENOHOHOHUGH! GEHEHET THOHOHOHOSEHEHEHEHE AWAY FROHOHOHOM MEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The spider robot had made its way back to stand by her feet. Its hands reached down to tear holes in her nylons to leave her feet bare. The woman sobbed and begged watching jars of baby oil be produced and slowly turned over to dribble the horrible liquid that would make the tickling infinitely worse over her soles. She would've sworn that it was deliberately taking its time producing long pieces of twine to tie back each individual toe one at a time back towards her shapely legs. Her sobbing transformed into screams as her punishment for wetting herself began. Long combs began to saw back and forth across the base of her toes. She could feel hairbrushes scrubbing her sensitive arches. Nails were poking and prodding their way around the balls of her feet and gently fluttering against the bottom of her heels.
It was torture. It was pure, unadulterated torture. The woman's face went red as she screamed with laughter as hard as she could. She didn't have the slightest bit of control of how her entire body spasmmed and shook in a last ditch effort to flee. The bondage made it all a million times worse. She could barely wiggle her upper body enough to make her breasts shake, much less squirm her feet enough to get away from even a millisecond of the abuse being rained down on her hyper ticklish feet.
But that wasn't the end. The robot holding her down took this as an opportunity to join in the fray. A vibrator was produced to press against her clit. The woman threw her head back and screamed feeling an orgasm rip through her. This is what pushed it from torturous to truly hellish for the poor woman. Once she started cumming she couldn't stop. Her mind was being torn to pieces by the barrage of non-stop orgasms and tickling.
The punishment continued for over an hour unabated before the vibrator was removed and the robot working over her feet moved back up to her upper body. This was the part that always made her wonder if the machines were truly only following the programming of whatever psychopath had created them or had gained sentience to become sadistic monsters themselves. The next couple minutes of upper body tickling weren't a change in routines, an attempt at varying her torture up, or because it mistakenly believed that it could tickle her more up there. It was a taunt. She had come to understand that it was the machine's way of taunting her by reminding her of how much less it would tickle if only she hadn't wet herself. And after a couple minutes of teasingly light trips from her stomach up to her armpits and back down again it ended like it always did. The spider robot walked back down to her feet, the vibrator came back, a fresh coat of baby oil was applied to her feet, and the foot tickling resumed.
The machines continued to coldly torture the woman until sunset, just like they always did. The brunette lay wheezing on the on the carpet soaked in her own sweat and urine trying to recover from her ordeal. It hurt too much to move. She squeezed her eyes shut in exhausted annoyance. The machines had left her their usual presents. Groceries to make dinner for tonight and tomorrow's breakfast so she'd have the energy to be tickled again tomorrow. A new set of nylons to wear so the foot tickling would start off just as horrible as it had today. Cosmetics and creams that would insure that her skin was as soft, supple, and sensitive as possible. And a video of her being tickled, taken courtesy of the robots' camera eyes. The ceiling of the apartment was a giant TV screen now displaying a video of how her nylon-covered feet had been tickled with a picture in picture shot of her face twisted in agonized laughter. It looked like she was going to be serenaded to sleep tonight by her own screams again.
The woman gathered up the nylons and cosmetics and hobbled off to take a shower. It was one of life's little joys that she was granted the mercy of having hot water to bathe with. She didn't know what those robots were, how the city had ended up this way, or why she was being tortured every day. She didn't even know if there were any other victims in the same predicament as her. Her one attempt to follow her tormentors back to wherever they came from had resulted in her being tickled so bad as punishment that she had no intention of taking the risk to find out. The woman knew only one thing for certain: that if somebody informed her that she'd died and gone to hell then she wouldn't doubt them for a second. She had long since given up hope of escaping or being rescued. As horrible as the daily torture was, she had to admit that she was simply too much of a coward to kill herself to get out of it.
Today was going to be repeated tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. And the day after that. The woman knew that it was never going to stop, and she had neither the ability nor courage to do anything about it.
Last edited:
