MoroseopsFables
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Warning: Contains an overall dark tone, and mean-spirited, non-consensual tickle torture, familial verbal and ticklish abuse, nudity, bondage, and some orgasm denial.
My baby sister Zoey never amounted to much in her past life. Our parents were wise enough to see that. Zoey always whined and complained about how “horrible” and “hard” school was for her. She always disappointed Mom and Dad with her garbage grades, only ever excelling in the useless art electives she took. She couldn’t even muster up some good marks for gym, the way she always ate.
My whole life, I had to work hard, to ensure at least one of their daughters could make Mom and Dad proud. While Zoey floundered in academics, I thrived in math and science. While she ballooned, I built a six-foot-tall wall of muscle. I left home at age eighteen to pursue my Master’s, while Zoey’s only plans still seemed to be, as usual, to cry into her sketchbook.
People tended to tell me I didn’t love Zoey, and that I was a horrible big sister. Zoey herself insisted as much. It simply wasn’t true– I had to constantly remind my sister that she wasn’t pushing herself hard enough. Mom and Dad, often busy, counted on me to babysit her, and from a young age, I proved I could establish firm control of the household.
I first discovered Zoey’s ticklish weakness simply by prodding at her pudgy gut as I teased her in jest. The same night, I saw she was slacking on her homework, and it occurred to me to experiment with that newfound vulnerability of hers to punish her for her avolition. Without warning, I came upon her, pinning her beneath my weight, and tickled, mercilessly. She went ballistic. She screamed, she thrashed, she broke down into tears, she tried to use her usual excuse that the assignment was “too hard,” and all that any of those useless efforts ever accomplished was motivate me to tickle even more. Putting her in her place like that, harvesting a hysterical smile where an unsightly, pouty frown usually plastered her face, and the sheer effectiveness of the tactic made me instantly obsessed. I tickled until she fainted that night, and when she woke up, still at my side, I assured her I’d do it all over again if she didn’t catch up on her studies.
For weeks after that, I’d use tickling as my means of keeping Zoey on the right path. When she wasn’t doing her schoolwork, there I would be, prepared with an arousal of tools that the internet searches informed me would bring the tickling to unspeakable, new heights. She’d try to sneak in time doodling in her sketchbook, distracting from her progress as a student. In those instances, I liked to sit on her ankles and draw all over her stout, bare soles with a fine-pointed ink pen, scrub my canvas clean with some brushes, and repeat, all night long. Nothing truly beat the simplicity of merely digging my fingers into her fat belly, staring into her teary eyes with a delighted smirk on my face.
Eventually, Zoey become much more docile, increasingly motivated not to incur my wrath. She did her homework, and quit wasting time in her doodle diary, like a good girl. I had to come to terms with the truth that I still thirsted for the next chance to destroy her with another tickle attack. I caught myself pulling excuses out of thin air to punish her, even if it impeded on the development in her academic performance I justified all of the tickling with. I’d scrutinize the answers of her homework, and give a session lasting one minute for every wrong answer. I found her trying to draw in the margins of her worksheets, and matched the offense with consecutive hours of scratching and squeezing at the skin beneath her lifted shirt. I tickled till her entire midriff glowed red with overstimulation. She promised never to sketch a single shape, ever, for as long as she lived, and I, inwardly, couldn’t have cared less, because no matter what she did, I only wished to have her blubbering, sobbing, and squealing beneath my fingers.
I left for college just a season after graduation. I truly missed my baby sister. My memories with her inspired me to get invested with studying neurology, and see if studying intense tickling in-depth could produce any practical discoveries about the mind and body. I became world-renowned in my field, shortly after the years of hard work manifested in my degree. While the average, less-scholastic individual would be unlikely to be aware of the impact of my work, those in my field envied the chance to aid me in my experiments, or just the privilege of employment in my very own facility.
As the family expected, Zoey never had much success in the real world. Her art skills apparently didn’t match up with the industry standard of talent. The apparent existence of any sort of industry just for doodling about was news to me. Mom and Dad got sick of the space she took up, as she failed to keep up with rent. I was very happy to hear them ask me if I could offer her work at my esteemed institute.
I never forgot my most precious memories I had with Zoey, those that inspired me to take the path I did. When she came to my door with what little she could carry on her back, her facial expression glum and broken, I could tell she hadn’t, either. I explained to her that I couldn’t offer her a job just for being my sister, and perhaps bluffed about how few openings there were available. Still, there was one high-paying position we were always in search of applicants for, I explained.
Stranded in a completely new state, with no other place to go, I cornered Zoey into a contract. My rental rate matched Mom and Dad’s, and she’d need a good-paying position to keep up. I remember the look on her face as the nature of her new role became clear to her. She didn’t seem to truly believe her circumstances to even be possible. I read her through procedures for tests we would run on the volunteer assuming the position, laid out the real-world practicality of our unorthodox operation, and the grim truth of her unenviable financial situation.
“If I had a family of people who actually loved me, I wouldn’t be stuck here. I failed because everybody scolded me for doing what I was good at. I’m fat, and ugly, and miserable because that’s all anybody told me I was!” she broke down. Tears dripped onto the paper, where her shaking hand penned her signature where it needed to be. As was typical for her, she blamed the world for her problems. Someday, she’ll see how lucky she was to have a big sister willing to pull her out of her self-dug ditch.
The first week of Zoey’s life as a test subject for tickling experiments was gentle, aiming to ease her into her duties. Despite her legal agreement, my staff had to hold her down and work together to strap her into the bondage chair. Zoey cried, screamed for help, promised we could sue her for breaking contract, and did anything else she could to evade an honest day’s work. Our equipment would read her brain activity as my orderlies tickled every spot of her body. Without proper coordination on Zoey’s part, we had to carefully snip and tear her clothes off while she was in her restraints.
Looking at Zoey’s nude body, I swore I could make out an inexplicable glow. Something only I could perceive, that somehow told me, loud and clear, where she was most ticklish. Her incapacitated, bare little feet, her abundant breasts, and the same, bulgy belly I hadn’t laid my fingers on in years. I could hardly swallow my salivation in that moment.
We mapped out the most ticklish spots on Zoey’s body in just the first day. A long first day, however. Everywhere had to be literally tickled pink. We ran trials with different tools. Scrubbing brushes at her feet provoked deafeningly-pitched screams, and the buzzing point of an electric flosser to her toes had her begging for ‘anything else!’ Above all else, plan fingernails savagely tearing into her tummy produced the wildest reactions, and readings. I had to adjust to how surreal the sight before me was. Never would I have dreamed that poor Zoey could ever be tickled into such a state.
Very early into the work day, Zoey lost the energy to properly laugh, or truly struggle. She only trembled, coughed, and whimpered. We monitored her consciousness, as a fainted subject couldn’t produce any data. Our richest readings come from when a victim is trapped lingering between lucidity and collapse.
We’d need readings for every possible scenario. How did she react to demeaning baby-talk, or the other dozens of tickle tools we had yet to torment her with? It sank in for me just how long we would have to find out.
Very early on into her first week, Zoey attempted to duck out of her duties as a test subject. Something in her must have snapped– just moments before being strapped down for the day, she abruptly darted past my staff and out the room. From then on, the option in her contract to obligate her to remain on-site through in-facility lodging was exercised. Zoey was retrieved, and strapped in as planned, punished for her non-compliance with an extended shift of fully-body testing. We tickled, and tickled, without mercy, with no sympathy, as my troublesome baby sister sobbed and atrophied the whole way through. After that night, it was agreed to keep her in restraints for the entirety of her tenure in her position.
Zoey was routinely sent to bed in a straitjacket, beneath thick straps that kept her pinned like an unstable mental patient. I had to explain to her what she had done to lose the privilege of freedom, as she had shown herself uncooperative in a high-paying position, that, frankly, she should have been grateful for. She never did properly express any gratitude for the help I was giving her.
Every Friday, Zoey is sent to bed without a straitjacket. I decided upon Friday nights to be moments to reward myself with some quality time with my sister. Her nude body is sprawled across the bed with simple, but firm restraints splaying her out spread-eagle. I have to admit, legally having my sister all tied up and ready for a long night of tickle torture is an intoxication that never expires, no matter how many Friday nights go by. It started with me tearing into her with my fingernails, listening to my heart as a guide. Every time I tickled, squeezed, blew raspberries into, and kissed her adorable tummy, I had the bliss of knowing it was my attentions only that were provoking Zoey to laugh and cry, and nobody else’s. Zoey’s Friday night sessions have progressed into the most intense sessions of her work week. My appetite exponentialized during our one-on-one times; I simply had to do more than just playfully tickling her with my nails. Setting the sessions up takes much longer now than before. A sturdy set of stocks is fixed to the foot of the mattress, so that I can oil, brush, draw all over, scratch, and tease Zoey’s feet. Just as she’s getting too weak to properly laugh, I fit her with a blindfold, gag, and earmuffs, to maximize her feelings of helplessness, as I make it impossible to detect from where I’ll next strike.
On nights where Zoey faints, and refuses to wake up, I keep track of the time lost, and carry it over to the next Friday night session. The cumulative debt of lost tickle time can’t be fit into a whole month anymore, much less a single night. Recently, I’ve made room for Saturday and Sunday nights for Zoey to pay off the debt. She cried when I informed her of the change, that she could look forward to more of our one-on-one sessions every weekend. At this point, I didn't think she had any spirit left to break.
So much time has passed since Zoey’s stay in the institute began. We’ve largely run out of new forms of data to seek, but Zoey’s contract has no end in sight. We’re free to run as many repeat tests as we’d like, though, and we’re always devising new positions and apparatuses to set Zoey up in. From our isolation tests, we have a compartment that all of Zoey’s body, save for her feet, can be boxed into. It slides into the wall, reducing Zoey to nothing but a pair of bare soles to the outside world. We take turns tickling them, unendingly, relentlessly, with every tool at our disposal, until their toes are too tired to even twitch, and until the molested skin sears an ominous red color. We have a device that pins Zoey to her knees and holds her arms over her head. It’s my favorite, because it offers no escape for her tummy. My subordinates favor the vac bed, which coats her in a latex seal that entirely immobilizes her body. Not a muscle can twitch as everyone’s nails come upon a seal so tight, tickling it is as if you’re simply titillating the bare skin beneath.
Zoey has grown a long way from the reluctant employee she began working as, and as the crybaby without a life’s path that had knocked on my door. Every morning, her feet have been tickled to wake her, and remind her to respect the authority we have over her. Between tickle sessions, we give her mandated work breaks, during which she’s assigned menial chores to complete. Even in tight wrist and ankle cuffs, with a tether around her neck to maintain docility, she can still do the same basic cleaning. She now does these tasks with enthusiasm, learning to appreciate the value of honest work in the face of a harsher alternative. When we have no chores for Zoey to do, we tie her down to a device that splays her legs, and invites us to stimulate her vagina with an assortment of toys and soft brushes. I have one girl who is really good at guiding Zoey to the edge of orgasm, and keeping her there, for as long as she desires. Never has Zoey been allowed to cum, and we reinforce this with special chastity garments that encase her pelvis and breasts with metal that completely blocks her off from relief. This practice aims to enforce self-control in Zoey, and reaffirm her respect for authority.
The heftiest difference of all in Zoey is her weight. She’s been hustled and tickled so exhaustively that it has been proven to have a positive effect on her figure. Her tummy has deflated to an hourglass frame, and rows of ticklish ribs revealed themselves after years of hiding. It’s sad to see her pudge go, but I adore her newly-prominent ribs. Squeezing and pinching at those divots in her chest inspires a similar euphoria as molesting her tummy does. With how much more tickling is in store for Zoey, I project she will very soon drop below the triple digits in weight, and her ribs will feel all the more tender to squeeze and toy with.
I hope to break Zoey’s mind into desiring this treatment for the rest of our lives. It’s not that she isn’t giving in over time, but she still aspires for a life outside the facility, for freedom that I honestly still don’t trust her not to waste. I dream of a subject who will eagerly throw herself into her restraints, because she knows it pleases me. I want to be able to trust her with small freedoms, knowing she would never, ever want to leave her new home. I would go nuts if, one day, Zoey let me mark her tummy with a tattoo of text declaring her the institute’s property. We have much time to make her consider it. It won’t cost me too much to hold her overtime, either. Even though I pay her, she still legally claims residence in my house, and since her stuff has been taking up room in there since her arrival, I’m docking her rent, with interest, from her pay.
I eagerly await years ahead with my beloved baby sister, shaped into a purposed, obedient worker who I can finally, truly be proud to declare blood relation to.
My baby sister Zoey never amounted to much in her past life. Our parents were wise enough to see that. Zoey always whined and complained about how “horrible” and “hard” school was for her. She always disappointed Mom and Dad with her garbage grades, only ever excelling in the useless art electives she took. She couldn’t even muster up some good marks for gym, the way she always ate.
My whole life, I had to work hard, to ensure at least one of their daughters could make Mom and Dad proud. While Zoey floundered in academics, I thrived in math and science. While she ballooned, I built a six-foot-tall wall of muscle. I left home at age eighteen to pursue my Master’s, while Zoey’s only plans still seemed to be, as usual, to cry into her sketchbook.
People tended to tell me I didn’t love Zoey, and that I was a horrible big sister. Zoey herself insisted as much. It simply wasn’t true– I had to constantly remind my sister that she wasn’t pushing herself hard enough. Mom and Dad, often busy, counted on me to babysit her, and from a young age, I proved I could establish firm control of the household.
I first discovered Zoey’s ticklish weakness simply by prodding at her pudgy gut as I teased her in jest. The same night, I saw she was slacking on her homework, and it occurred to me to experiment with that newfound vulnerability of hers to punish her for her avolition. Without warning, I came upon her, pinning her beneath my weight, and tickled, mercilessly. She went ballistic. She screamed, she thrashed, she broke down into tears, she tried to use her usual excuse that the assignment was “too hard,” and all that any of those useless efforts ever accomplished was motivate me to tickle even more. Putting her in her place like that, harvesting a hysterical smile where an unsightly, pouty frown usually plastered her face, and the sheer effectiveness of the tactic made me instantly obsessed. I tickled until she fainted that night, and when she woke up, still at my side, I assured her I’d do it all over again if she didn’t catch up on her studies.
For weeks after that, I’d use tickling as my means of keeping Zoey on the right path. When she wasn’t doing her schoolwork, there I would be, prepared with an arousal of tools that the internet searches informed me would bring the tickling to unspeakable, new heights. She’d try to sneak in time doodling in her sketchbook, distracting from her progress as a student. In those instances, I liked to sit on her ankles and draw all over her stout, bare soles with a fine-pointed ink pen, scrub my canvas clean with some brushes, and repeat, all night long. Nothing truly beat the simplicity of merely digging my fingers into her fat belly, staring into her teary eyes with a delighted smirk on my face.
Eventually, Zoey become much more docile, increasingly motivated not to incur my wrath. She did her homework, and quit wasting time in her doodle diary, like a good girl. I had to come to terms with the truth that I still thirsted for the next chance to destroy her with another tickle attack. I caught myself pulling excuses out of thin air to punish her, even if it impeded on the development in her academic performance I justified all of the tickling with. I’d scrutinize the answers of her homework, and give a session lasting one minute for every wrong answer. I found her trying to draw in the margins of her worksheets, and matched the offense with consecutive hours of scratching and squeezing at the skin beneath her lifted shirt. I tickled till her entire midriff glowed red with overstimulation. She promised never to sketch a single shape, ever, for as long as she lived, and I, inwardly, couldn’t have cared less, because no matter what she did, I only wished to have her blubbering, sobbing, and squealing beneath my fingers.
I left for college just a season after graduation. I truly missed my baby sister. My memories with her inspired me to get invested with studying neurology, and see if studying intense tickling in-depth could produce any practical discoveries about the mind and body. I became world-renowned in my field, shortly after the years of hard work manifested in my degree. While the average, less-scholastic individual would be unlikely to be aware of the impact of my work, those in my field envied the chance to aid me in my experiments, or just the privilege of employment in my very own facility.
As the family expected, Zoey never had much success in the real world. Her art skills apparently didn’t match up with the industry standard of talent. The apparent existence of any sort of industry just for doodling about was news to me. Mom and Dad got sick of the space she took up, as she failed to keep up with rent. I was very happy to hear them ask me if I could offer her work at my esteemed institute.
I never forgot my most precious memories I had with Zoey, those that inspired me to take the path I did. When she came to my door with what little she could carry on her back, her facial expression glum and broken, I could tell she hadn’t, either. I explained to her that I couldn’t offer her a job just for being my sister, and perhaps bluffed about how few openings there were available. Still, there was one high-paying position we were always in search of applicants for, I explained.
Stranded in a completely new state, with no other place to go, I cornered Zoey into a contract. My rental rate matched Mom and Dad’s, and she’d need a good-paying position to keep up. I remember the look on her face as the nature of her new role became clear to her. She didn’t seem to truly believe her circumstances to even be possible. I read her through procedures for tests we would run on the volunteer assuming the position, laid out the real-world practicality of our unorthodox operation, and the grim truth of her unenviable financial situation.
“If I had a family of people who actually loved me, I wouldn’t be stuck here. I failed because everybody scolded me for doing what I was good at. I’m fat, and ugly, and miserable because that’s all anybody told me I was!” she broke down. Tears dripped onto the paper, where her shaking hand penned her signature where it needed to be. As was typical for her, she blamed the world for her problems. Someday, she’ll see how lucky she was to have a big sister willing to pull her out of her self-dug ditch.
The first week of Zoey’s life as a test subject for tickling experiments was gentle, aiming to ease her into her duties. Despite her legal agreement, my staff had to hold her down and work together to strap her into the bondage chair. Zoey cried, screamed for help, promised we could sue her for breaking contract, and did anything else she could to evade an honest day’s work. Our equipment would read her brain activity as my orderlies tickled every spot of her body. Without proper coordination on Zoey’s part, we had to carefully snip and tear her clothes off while she was in her restraints.
Looking at Zoey’s nude body, I swore I could make out an inexplicable glow. Something only I could perceive, that somehow told me, loud and clear, where she was most ticklish. Her incapacitated, bare little feet, her abundant breasts, and the same, bulgy belly I hadn’t laid my fingers on in years. I could hardly swallow my salivation in that moment.
We mapped out the most ticklish spots on Zoey’s body in just the first day. A long first day, however. Everywhere had to be literally tickled pink. We ran trials with different tools. Scrubbing brushes at her feet provoked deafeningly-pitched screams, and the buzzing point of an electric flosser to her toes had her begging for ‘anything else!’ Above all else, plan fingernails savagely tearing into her tummy produced the wildest reactions, and readings. I had to adjust to how surreal the sight before me was. Never would I have dreamed that poor Zoey could ever be tickled into such a state.
Very early into the work day, Zoey lost the energy to properly laugh, or truly struggle. She only trembled, coughed, and whimpered. We monitored her consciousness, as a fainted subject couldn’t produce any data. Our richest readings come from when a victim is trapped lingering between lucidity and collapse.
We’d need readings for every possible scenario. How did she react to demeaning baby-talk, or the other dozens of tickle tools we had yet to torment her with? It sank in for me just how long we would have to find out.
Very early on into her first week, Zoey attempted to duck out of her duties as a test subject. Something in her must have snapped– just moments before being strapped down for the day, she abruptly darted past my staff and out the room. From then on, the option in her contract to obligate her to remain on-site through in-facility lodging was exercised. Zoey was retrieved, and strapped in as planned, punished for her non-compliance with an extended shift of fully-body testing. We tickled, and tickled, without mercy, with no sympathy, as my troublesome baby sister sobbed and atrophied the whole way through. After that night, it was agreed to keep her in restraints for the entirety of her tenure in her position.
Zoey was routinely sent to bed in a straitjacket, beneath thick straps that kept her pinned like an unstable mental patient. I had to explain to her what she had done to lose the privilege of freedom, as she had shown herself uncooperative in a high-paying position, that, frankly, she should have been grateful for. She never did properly express any gratitude for the help I was giving her.
Every Friday, Zoey is sent to bed without a straitjacket. I decided upon Friday nights to be moments to reward myself with some quality time with my sister. Her nude body is sprawled across the bed with simple, but firm restraints splaying her out spread-eagle. I have to admit, legally having my sister all tied up and ready for a long night of tickle torture is an intoxication that never expires, no matter how many Friday nights go by. It started with me tearing into her with my fingernails, listening to my heart as a guide. Every time I tickled, squeezed, blew raspberries into, and kissed her adorable tummy, I had the bliss of knowing it was my attentions only that were provoking Zoey to laugh and cry, and nobody else’s. Zoey’s Friday night sessions have progressed into the most intense sessions of her work week. My appetite exponentialized during our one-on-one times; I simply had to do more than just playfully tickling her with my nails. Setting the sessions up takes much longer now than before. A sturdy set of stocks is fixed to the foot of the mattress, so that I can oil, brush, draw all over, scratch, and tease Zoey’s feet. Just as she’s getting too weak to properly laugh, I fit her with a blindfold, gag, and earmuffs, to maximize her feelings of helplessness, as I make it impossible to detect from where I’ll next strike.
On nights where Zoey faints, and refuses to wake up, I keep track of the time lost, and carry it over to the next Friday night session. The cumulative debt of lost tickle time can’t be fit into a whole month anymore, much less a single night. Recently, I’ve made room for Saturday and Sunday nights for Zoey to pay off the debt. She cried when I informed her of the change, that she could look forward to more of our one-on-one sessions every weekend. At this point, I didn't think she had any spirit left to break.
So much time has passed since Zoey’s stay in the institute began. We’ve largely run out of new forms of data to seek, but Zoey’s contract has no end in sight. We’re free to run as many repeat tests as we’d like, though, and we’re always devising new positions and apparatuses to set Zoey up in. From our isolation tests, we have a compartment that all of Zoey’s body, save for her feet, can be boxed into. It slides into the wall, reducing Zoey to nothing but a pair of bare soles to the outside world. We take turns tickling them, unendingly, relentlessly, with every tool at our disposal, until their toes are too tired to even twitch, and until the molested skin sears an ominous red color. We have a device that pins Zoey to her knees and holds her arms over her head. It’s my favorite, because it offers no escape for her tummy. My subordinates favor the vac bed, which coats her in a latex seal that entirely immobilizes her body. Not a muscle can twitch as everyone’s nails come upon a seal so tight, tickling it is as if you’re simply titillating the bare skin beneath.
Zoey has grown a long way from the reluctant employee she began working as, and as the crybaby without a life’s path that had knocked on my door. Every morning, her feet have been tickled to wake her, and remind her to respect the authority we have over her. Between tickle sessions, we give her mandated work breaks, during which she’s assigned menial chores to complete. Even in tight wrist and ankle cuffs, with a tether around her neck to maintain docility, she can still do the same basic cleaning. She now does these tasks with enthusiasm, learning to appreciate the value of honest work in the face of a harsher alternative. When we have no chores for Zoey to do, we tie her down to a device that splays her legs, and invites us to stimulate her vagina with an assortment of toys and soft brushes. I have one girl who is really good at guiding Zoey to the edge of orgasm, and keeping her there, for as long as she desires. Never has Zoey been allowed to cum, and we reinforce this with special chastity garments that encase her pelvis and breasts with metal that completely blocks her off from relief. This practice aims to enforce self-control in Zoey, and reaffirm her respect for authority.
The heftiest difference of all in Zoey is her weight. She’s been hustled and tickled so exhaustively that it has been proven to have a positive effect on her figure. Her tummy has deflated to an hourglass frame, and rows of ticklish ribs revealed themselves after years of hiding. It’s sad to see her pudge go, but I adore her newly-prominent ribs. Squeezing and pinching at those divots in her chest inspires a similar euphoria as molesting her tummy does. With how much more tickling is in store for Zoey, I project she will very soon drop below the triple digits in weight, and her ribs will feel all the more tender to squeeze and toy with.
I hope to break Zoey’s mind into desiring this treatment for the rest of our lives. It’s not that she isn’t giving in over time, but she still aspires for a life outside the facility, for freedom that I honestly still don’t trust her not to waste. I dream of a subject who will eagerly throw herself into her restraints, because she knows it pleases me. I want to be able to trust her with small freedoms, knowing she would never, ever want to leave her new home. I would go nuts if, one day, Zoey let me mark her tummy with a tattoo of text declaring her the institute’s property. We have much time to make her consider it. It won’t cost me too much to hold her overtime, either. Even though I pay her, she still legally claims residence in my house, and since her stuff has been taking up room in there since her arrival, I’m docking her rent, with interest, from her pay.
I eagerly await years ahead with my beloved baby sister, shaped into a purposed, obedient worker who I can finally, truly be proud to declare blood relation to.
