ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 18
The soles of her bare feet pound against the hardened dirt, kicking up a trail of leaves in her wake. She weaves frantically through the forest floor, swatting low-leaning branches, leaping over bulging roots as she traverses these unfamiliar surroundings. Scantily clad, wearing nothing but her underwear and a mint green hospital gown, her frenetic pace is all that keeps her warm, the cool midnight air inciting goosebumps across the exposed patches of skin, growing more pronounced as the stray foliage gradually tears her clothing to shreds. Her vigorous pace is matched only by that of her heart, pumping what little oxygen she can spare into her tiring limbs, growing weary with each passing step. If only she could catch her breath, securing a moment of recuperation for what will most likely be a long and harrowing journey, she would do so. But, with her pursuers fast approaching, not one glimmer of hope for rescue that she can see in her dismal future, she knows the risk would far outweigh the reward. Her name is Tiffany but, though the letters scrawled on her clothing, she is Subject 1044-C, property of the Helix Corporation, and right now, she is on the receiving end of a repossession.
Having been accepted into one of the most prestigious graduate programs in the country, the twenty-three-year-old Tiffany was on her way to reaping the benefits of a higher education. Pursuing her Master’s Degree in Marine Biology, she was on the path to success, her friends and family humorously reminding her that soon the world would be her oyster. However, the realities of life couldn’t escape this aspiring young woman, slammed with crippling student loan debt, her monthly food and rent bills threatening to undermine her college career. Given her situation, she had no choice but to find alternative sources of income, combing through internet listings late into the night to secure a few extra spending dollars. The odds were stacked against her: she couldn’t secure a part-time job given the rigors of her course study and, unlike her short-sighted roommate, she couldn’t participate in anything she wouldn’t want her future boss dropping his pants to online. However, Tiffany felt that great fortune had finally shone upon her, coming across one night an online listing for a research study on the changing physiology of young women. To participate, she would have to submit a detailed application listing everything from her medical history to her state of physical health and fitness, body measurements, all the way down to her skin and hair color. The pay significant and workload minimal, she jumped at the chance, sending off her detailed personal profile without a blink of regret.
Her fiery red hair, tangled by the twists and turns of her perilous journey, cascades over her shoulders, maintaining her brisk pace despite the three miles she was sure to have covered. She knew there was little hope for escape, for despite being aided by the cover of darkness, her situation was dire: she was hopelessly outnumbered, an army of scientists and guards combing every crack and crevice of the underbrush, searching for their valuable asset. The contrast of her green clothing and milky white skin made camouflage all but hopelessly impossible, leaving the only hope for escape a tireless run, not stopping before she hits salvation. She can see the faint shimmer of flashlights behind her waving to and fro, their neon light barely illuminating her path from time to time. She can hear voices piercing through the trees, barely tangible some moments while eerily clear the next. They call her by name, reassuring her that the only option for her is to give up, ensuring her no harm has been done, and that she will be received with open arms. But she knows as well as they do that’s not true, the very moment she took her first step without their permission was what will have sealed her fate. Yet with every passing minute, her situation becomes more desperate, the voices seeming to close in no matter how fast she runs. But, despite all that is presented in contrast, she’s determined to escape this time, for it may just be the last chance she can.
It was three days after submitting her application that she received notice, directing her to their field office for orientation the following morning. Having followed the address indicated, she gazes upon the rundown building, its vacant façade a note of concern for her, checking the address on her phone just to make sure her sleep-deprived eyes hadn’t betrayed her. Discouraged, she resolved it to be a mere hoax, yet another scam intended to open up fraudulent bank accounts with her personal information (fat chance, just wait until they see her credit history). However, just as she is about to arrange a ride back to her cramped apartment, several masked figures, exiting from an enclosed stoop three yards away, suddenly grab her from behind. They ensnare her at each limb, keeping her arms pinned to her sides as she desperately attempts to fight her way out of their grasp. Muffling her screams with a thick white rag, they begin pulling her into an unmarked van parked in an adjacent alley, tossing her inside as the door latches shut. Having her bound and secured, strapping a large ball gag in between her gleaming white teeth, they speed away, not leaving hide nor hair of her presence.
She makes her way through a desolate clearing, not noticing the indentation in the ground she was fast approaching. Catching it at the very last moment, she slides down the steep embankment, cruising down on her heels only to hit the dirt hard by her bottom. Not missing a beat, she picks herself up, continuing through the scarcely tread path. Her years of track and field have conditioned her to handle the rigors of off-road exercise, a fact that had most likely been to her disadvantage through the horrendous nature of her ordeal. Even her stature, standing at an impressive five feet eight inches, has aided her up until this point. The further she travels away from the compound, the denser the forest becomes, hoping it will eventually cover her escape for good. However, a sense of discouragement slowly invades her consciousness, having never ventured out this far her entire stay, unsure of what is waiting for her: what traps might be out here, lying in wait for her to be ensnared, making sure she would never have another chance of escape for as long as she is able. Given the hopelessness she has been consumed by until now, it was inevitable her doubt would slowly start to overtake her trembling legs. Was this all a risk she’d be willing to take?
A twelve-hour drive outside of town led her to the front gate of a secluded compound, lines of guards greeting her as she enters. Spanning well over twelve acres in total, its concrete structure would strike fear in anybody waltzing their way by. Three layers of fencing, each lined with barbed wire and electrifying symbols, deter even a squirrel from scaling their formidable design. With a hood over her head, her wrists and ankles bound with thick nylon rope, and the ball gag still nestled in her mouth, she is carried through the large front door. Strapped down to a gurney, Tiffany is wheeled several meters through the winding hallways, struggling mightily to no avail. She is finally placed in what seemed to be a medical examination room, its rows of interior cupboards shrouding horrific implements she is soon to become familiar with. They strip her of her down to her bra and panties, leaving her bound spread eagle atop the examination table. Thick medical leather straps keeping her at the wrists and ankles, with two wide leather straps binding her at the knees and midsection, the hood and gag being removed for her to indulge the sights. Not three seconds pass before the doors again swing open, two figures in surgical masks entering the room, ready to begin Tiffany’s orientation.
A ray of light pierces the thick tree line, its sudden presence throwing Tiffany in a panic. She hears the revving engine pass her by, ducking into a thicket, keeping deathly silent just until the high beams are far out of sight. Breathing a sigh of relief, she continues her trek, this time at a much slower pace. How easy it would be to just hop on the main dirt road, her dress being ripped to tatters through all the vegetation. Surely it would end somewhere, either a winter cabin or maybe even a small borough, something to infuse just a glimmer of hope into dire circumstances. However, she knows just how susceptible she is out in the open, how powerless she is against all their procurement technology she has fallen victim to time and time again. She knows her best chance is to use her surroundings to her benefit, shrouded in the darkness that has kept her from being caught up until this point. But, as her feet begin to throb, the burning in her chest making every step she takes that much more laborious, she has to ask herself: just how long does she think it will all last?
Over the course of her six-month confinement, she had come to know the true purpose of the facility: to conduct experiments upon its unwillingly procured participants, the primary vehicle of which being extensive tickling sessions of every flavor. The preliminary examination was bad enough, being bound helpless as several masked individuals caress every inch of her exposed flesh, taking note of each spot that elicits a ticklish response. Though knowing herself to be ticklish, Tiffany could hardly fathom their surgical accuracy, extracting a response from seemingly every place they touched. With one taking dictation on their clipboard, they explored her sensitivity levels, determining what spots prove to be the most ticklish for future reference. They expose her to myriad of tools and techniques, each seemingly more terrible than the next, coldly dictating them out loud as she shrieks and cackles wildly for hours on end. They even took different colored highlighters, marking her with symbols indicating which of her spots were the worst, and in what methodology proved most effective. Once a specially colored light was implemented, she lit up like a Christmas tree, every spot being illuminated for whoever was attending to her, a roadmap of ticklish torments for the untrained eye. Such a diagram lasted for six weeks until the attending physicians felt they had memorized it in full, prompting them to vigorously scrub away any residual ink much to Tiffany’s vocal protest.
She sees a small shed in the distance, a ramshackle hut with a single broken window, hopefully a place she can hide and catch her breath. Taking what’s left of her tattered gown in her hands, she bolts it towards the structure. Surely it would be an obvious hiding spot, conspicuous despite its matte appearance. However, nothing was out of the realm of possibility, hoping there would be some loose compartment to shroud herself for the night. Besides, if there was one thing to help defend herself from the impending guards and scientists, be it a shovel, a hammer, even a shard of broken glass, it would all be worth it. Anything to keep her going, she supposed.
Night after night, day in and day out, she is the subject of tickling experiments beyond belief. The depravity these men and women stoop to, locking her in the most disturbing of contraptions, ravaging her tender body to no end. Each session proved to satiate their innate curiosity, and each proved successful in extracting the most primal of reactions from the hypersensitive woman. Though she shared her suffering with many other detainees, only being able to catch a glance of them as she is wheeled back to her cell, her youth and stamina made her a popular subject for long-duration sessions. If those alone had been considered unbearable, her punishment for her frequent escape attempts were unfathomably cruel in their own right. During her first attempt, having been captured only three feet outside her holding cell by a passing guard, she had been taken outside to the gardening shed, buried in a shallow hole with nothing but her head and feet sticking out. Her soles coated in fish brine, she was forced to watch the compound’s felines lick the substance away, their sandpaper tongues scraping across her soles, flossing their way in between each and every one of her toes, screaming and cursing as the guards watched on in glee. Oh if she had only learned her lesson the first time.
She forces her way into the room, thrusting her shoulder against the creaking wooden door, scraping against the rotting floorboards. She glances around the darkened space, the silhouette of furniture barely tangible through the shrouding darkness. Feeling her way against the wall, hoping to take hold of a pickaxe or something hanging from it, she stumbles upon what seems to be a light switch. She flips it, only to have the knot in her throat drop down to her stomach: bright fluorescent lights illuminate a panel of computers, radios, and GPS devices. A live feed is connected to the main control tower, the sound of the watch commander’s voice trying to communicate to her. Paralyzed with fear, she peers out the window, seeing the approaching lights encroaching upon her position. She has just signaled to the world her location, and now, she is trapped.
Her last escape attempt proved the most successful, having made it to the guard tower, tranquilized just as she was trying to scale the preliminary security fence. Clad in a thick straightjacket, she was wheeled into the examination, where five other detainees were waiting for her. The attending physician said they were testing empathy levels post-operation, but they were really inflicting her punishment upon her, using other subjects to do their bidding. They were told that it was Tiffany who had caused their privileges to be revoked, her reckless escape attempts causing them that much more discomfort. They were told that her feet would be the key to making her more docile, given free rein to the myriad of tool at their disposal. Ravenously they tickled her, making her suffer for eight hours of unbridled tickle torture, her screams going unheeded. She begged them, her hapless tears and shrieks for mercy falling on deaf ears, all the way until the guards finally felt pity for her, taking her back to her cell for three days of extended rest and recuperation.
Tiffany searches through the desks, wishing for something to defend herself to no avail. Suddenly, the door swings open, several guards in riot gear blocking her escape. She tosses the HAM radio through the broken widow, hoping to create a hole large enough to leap through. Too late: she hears a poom behind her as a band wraps itself around her ankles, sending the rest of her body tumbling to the ground. She looks down, witnessing several strands of thick twine wrapped around her shins. Just as she is about to untie them, a large net is thrown over her, its interior coated with a sticky substance catching every limb. The more she tries to struggle, the more the substance takes hold, leaving her completely constricted after only a few moments. Her ordeal is over, but her torment has just begun.
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She is wheeled into a brightly lit room, its countless fluorescent lights blinding her but momentarily. Bound to that familiar gurney, multiple leather straps at her knees, waist, chest, and forehead, she is reduced once again to the same state she found herself in so many months ago. She hears the low mumbling of several figures, her curiosity subdued by her bondage keeping her unable to peer about the room. Having been left in merely her underwear, a, ominous chill crawls its way up her spine, a mixture of the cool air and unbridled suspense encroaching upon her person.
“Is the subject ready for processing?” a woman’s voice solemnly dictates, its tone familiar to Tiffany, though as of yet she just can’t quite put her finger on it.
“Yes Dr. Lyla,” a man’s voice responds, dropping Tiffany’s heart into the pit of her stomach. The details surrounding Dr. Lyla were as much myth as they were reality. Her six-inch stilettos would echo down the corridor, a ponytail of platinum blonde hair swinging in her wake, as the devil incarnate made her rounds. Countless times Dr. Lyla had overseen Tiffany’s tickling procedures, gazing in calculating fashion over her subject void of even the slightest sliver of regard. The inhumanity that is Dr. Lyla’s soul knows no depths, her cold and callous indifference to Tiffany’s suffering making each of her ordeals even more unbearable than the last. Playing the part of puppet master in this endless freak show, she has pushed for even less accountability within the walls of this institution: laxed oversight, reduced safety protocols, and limited psychological screenings for test subjects. In practice, having pushed Tiffany to her absolute physical limits, she had chosen to go further, the protest of her subordinates the only thing keeping Tiffany sane if momentarily. Now, her presence no doubt meant to severely punish the girl for even thinking about escape, she will be in control of Tiffany’s fate.
“You may proceed,” Dr. Lyla orders, as two burly guards surround the ensnared test subject.
Having her bonds undone, Tiffany is carried to the front of a large contraption placed in the center of the chamber, its design foreign but no less menacing. Seated in a large padded chair, her wrists are hoist high above her head, latched into place automatically by a pair of metal cuffs, each receding from its stainless-steel surface. A metal bar extends from either side of her, its padded interior pressed against her elbows, further immobilizing them from any unnecessary bending. A thick leather belt is excised from the chair as well, wrapped tightly around Tiffany’s midsection, buckled just at her left hip for security. Another belt is strapped just above her knees, tightened to keep her legs held straight over its indentation. Her ankles are then placed in a sturdy set of stocks just in front of her, the height of which keeping the poor creature from being able to observe her hidden feet. A physician, standing at the control panel ten feet to her left, engages a small red lever, prompting the stocks to secure her even further. She can feel the plush material encasing her ankles slowly tightening around them, as several compartments within it are inflated perfectly snug, a detail making this a one-size-fits-all design. She can also feel a fuzzy material being lassoed around each of her toes, as one of the guards begins flossing a thick strand of string through them, its length extending from the stocks themselves. Taking a small crank at the side of the stocks, he begins tightening the coiling materials, gradually pulling her toes back towards the contraption, leaving her soles completely vulnerable. The complexity of this device is reason enough for Tiffany to panic, knowing nothing this well-conceived would spare her any inch of suffering. Just as the final bond is cinched, a thumbs-up given by the guard standing to her right, Dr. Lyla turns to address the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for this little exercise we have arranged for you today,” Dr. Lyla calls out, directing Tiffany’s attention to the rows of windows she hadn’t even noticed before. Little did she know they were in the observation wing of the compound, only hearing whispers of its existence, its use infrequent but those having experienced it firsthand never truly being the same. Lining the rows of slightly tinted windows are the curious eyes of several observers, including what seems to be the entirety of the facility’s occupants, faculty and detainees alike.
“We, for the past seventeen years of operation, have been concerned merely with the body: it’s capabilities, and its limitations, but we have never once delved into the intersection between that and the mind, but that is all going to change. Today, this young lady, who through the force of her actions has volunteered herself for this experiment, will be the first in what will hopefully be a long line of participants. I just hope all our patients watching will understand what happens when you betray your better interests.”
She approaches the distraught Tiffany, her stern demeanor almost unfathomable. Dr. Lyla, with downturned eyes, inspecting every inch of the contraption she had surely designed herself, sighs a breath of pride, knowing she has been given the opportunity she has been waiting for, her curiosity left open, and her vengeance unbridled. She glances into Tiffany’s eyes, not one sliver of pity as tears begin collecting in the crevices of the young captive’s eyelids.
“Because you deserve it,” Dr. Lyla whispers, touching Tiffany’s chin in the most tender way she has ever been addressed. “Just remember that next time, if there ever is one."
“No please I’m sorry!” Tiffany begs to the good doctor as she inspects her clipboard, her downturned eyes not even giving the pathetic plea one thought. “I’ll never do it again, I swear! Please! Just listen to me!” Giving her the cold shoulder, Dr. Lyla swiftly turns her back on a most pathetic sight, her high heels clasping against the cement flooring as she approaches the control panel.
“Now let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” she says, clutching the yellow-and-black painted lever atop the panel, its coloring denoting a most perilous implication. With one careful swipe, she directs the first phase of her torments. Ever so gradually, Tiffany hears a subtle buzzing just in front of her, the sound of tiny mechanisms churning just out of reach. She knows it to be at her feet but, given her limited view, she can only sift through a myriad of torture devices she had been exposed to these past six months. If she had only put two and two together, as a pair of rotating cleaning brushes were extending from the contraption on either side of her feet. With a width able to cover the entirety of Tiffany’s tenderized feet, they would prove effective in doing as many jobs as they were assigned. The suspense is unbearable, as Tiffany begins struggling against her inescapable bonds, knowing full well that every possible escape attempt would swiftly be neutralized. Just at the very last moment, as the tiny bristles are placed atop her tender soles, she looks up to the doctor, giving her last plea-drenched glance before the procedure begins.
“Initiate cleaning protocol,” Dr. Lyla’s cold voice rings through Tiffany’s ears, the flashing red button illuminating the panel being engaged for the very first time. Vigorously and without hesitation, the brushes begin scrubbing the bottoms of her feet.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!” Tiffany wails, her cries echoing through loudspeakers into the observation deck above, immersing the crowd in her suffering. She is thrown into a frenzy, the effectiveness of the procedure indescribable, their protruding bristles scraping every last shred of dirt and dust left on her defenseless soles. Slowly they begin moving, scaling the length of her size eight feet, ascending and descending as to not leave one inch of them uncleansed.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! MERCYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!” Their pace increases, rotating in circles, diverting both vertically and horizontally, keeping her on her toes (as merely in the form of an expression). She had no idea each brush was a myriad of soft and hard bristles, its diversity of sensations making it impossible for the hapless woman’s nerve endings to adapt. Little could she fathom, her brittle psyche slowly dissolving under such relentless stimulation.
“As can be seen viewers,” Dr. Lyla dictates through a microphone protruding from the console, “the subject’s naturally high sensitivity levels are being suppressed by the thick coating of dirt upon her person.” Opening a hidden compartment on the side of the preliminary lever, Dr. Lyla engages an enclosed green button. “We will now administer our proprietary compound to take care of that, which will be delivered through special compartments built into the brushes themselves.” Tiffany can hear the high-pitched vibrations lower to that of a murmur, as a bubblegum pink substance is administered through these openings, gradually covering every inch the brushes happen to graze over.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! THAT’S WORSEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!” As the viscous substance is administered atop her soles, its frothing material coating her defenseless feet, she submits to the horrifying sensation that has merely amplified.
“They say it’s best to kill two birds with one stone, astute observers,” Dr. Lyla dictates with a slight hint of delight. “Apart from providing a frictionless surface for the brushes to do their work, this patented substance had the auxiliary effect of augmenting the subject’s sensitivity levels.”
“AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! GET IT OFF!!” Tiffany screams through her primal cackles, her voice slowly morphing into a distorted reflection of a once melodiously alto voice. She thrashes her head about, pounding it against the soft padding of the chair that was so considerately installed before she arrived. She is absolutely livid, every nerve ending in her feet lighting up like a Christmas tree, her clenching toes turning white from all the force she is exerting attempting to free herself. Unfortunately for her, Dr. Lyla’s eyes never miss such a hopeless sight.
“If I’m not mistaken, I’d say the subject’s toes are feeling a bit left out,” she says, poking fun at Tiffany’s laugh, inciting a most awkward laugh from the crowd above. “Let’s see if we can fix that.” Tiffany, in her distraught state, momentarily tried to calculate just how many switches, levers, buttons, latches, and pullies could be installed in that square foot of console space. Little could she imagine the extent of what was in store for her.
There were knobs too, and Dr. Lyla just happened to find herself the right one.
Tiffany, currently inundated with horrendous tickle torture, can hardly imagine anything being thrown on top of it all. Much to her dismay, she finds the twine trapping each and every one of her toes suddenly vibrating, realizing its purpose not limited to securing her feet. In fact, not only are the individual bands vibrating, but they are moving as well, their fuzzy texture caressing the periphery of her toes in the process.
“OH GOD!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAIT!!” her screams ascend up another octave, the fuzzy material shifting its way into the contraption, on rotation around her helplessly supple toes. She can feel the same compound invading the gaps between her toes, as each strand is coated in a thick layer of it during its passing through the machine.
“Just how long do you think she will last viewers?” Dr. Lyla asks, ignoring the obvious concern scrawled across their faces. “Oh we can tire the body all we want, but it’s really the mind that is the highest obstacle to scale. Have you ever seen a young woman’s spirit broken in two, right before your very eyes? Me neither, let’s experience the magic together.”
Again, the churning mechanisms incite her senses, this time being just adjacent to her sides. Peering downward through tear-drenched eyes, she witnesses as two compartments are opened, releasing a pair of pulsating machines approaching her. They begin pulsating into the crevices of her ribs, gyrating their knobs into the dastardly gaps that seem to be made for them.
“BWAHAHAHAHAHAH!! NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! HEEEEEEEEELP!!” she is barely able to eek out a cry for assistance, most of her reactions dissolving into incoherence. What extensive detail Dr. Lyla had gone into for this session, no doubt crafting the most unadulterated of tickling experiences to inflict upon Tiffany’s unfortunate soul. How she drooled over each session, extracting every primal reaction out of her, knowing just a little bit more about what truly made her tick.
“I’m sure everyone is wondering exactly what I am this very moment: am I going too far? Is there a limit that shouldn’t be crossed? We’ll never know until we find out for ourselves. I’d like to introduce you to the name I gave to my pet project here, one I think fits the very purpose it holds: I call it: The Punisher. Let me show you why.” She reveals a hidden compartment, lifting the façade of the control panel, a touch screen underneath. Pressing her palm into the neon lit surface, she activates the final measure: dozens of partitions open up around Tiffany, revealing a myriad of autonomous tickling instruments, slowly making their approach.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! I'M SOOOOOOORRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!” is the last thing Tiffany can say before they descend upon her person, ravaging every inch of untouched flesh.
Rotating brushes, the same cascading over her feet, now scraping their way across the tender flesh of her underarms, excreting the same substance in tandem. A tiny rotating device, its crown a collection of fine feathers, swirls its way into her bellybutton, locked into place no matter how much she attempts to move. Large kneading devices clasped around her thighs and calves dig deep into the muscles of her straining legs, as the pulsating knobs begin scaling the entirety of her ribs and sides. Tiffany has now reached the denouement of her ordeal, one which has been six months in the making for this once promising twenty-three-year-old college student who once believed the world to be her oyster.
What has become of this poor creature is a sight to behold: her bright red hair matted against the sweat-covered surface of her face, shifting between piercing screams and silent breathy laughter juxtaposed against one another. Her chest, coated in a film of sweat, tears, and saliva, elevates from what little oxygen she can force in before having to relinquish it. Every muscle in her body has gone numb, the result of three hours in this horrendous machine passing excruciatingly slowly. Her boundless stamina syphoned out of her person, she is left clinging onto that last ledge of sanity she has been dangling from since the very beginning. However, this time, she feels herself finally slipping off.
Her head droops forward, only the soft teetering of helpless giggles falling from her voluptuous lips, an eerie smile scrawled across her face. She is broken: not one ounce of the woman left inside, that fire and passion extinguished for the crowd to witness, nothing but the endless buzzing of autonomous mechanisms to be heard forevermore.
The End
Having been accepted into one of the most prestigious graduate programs in the country, the twenty-three-year-old Tiffany was on her way to reaping the benefits of a higher education. Pursuing her Master’s Degree in Marine Biology, she was on the path to success, her friends and family humorously reminding her that soon the world would be her oyster. However, the realities of life couldn’t escape this aspiring young woman, slammed with crippling student loan debt, her monthly food and rent bills threatening to undermine her college career. Given her situation, she had no choice but to find alternative sources of income, combing through internet listings late into the night to secure a few extra spending dollars. The odds were stacked against her: she couldn’t secure a part-time job given the rigors of her course study and, unlike her short-sighted roommate, she couldn’t participate in anything she wouldn’t want her future boss dropping his pants to online. However, Tiffany felt that great fortune had finally shone upon her, coming across one night an online listing for a research study on the changing physiology of young women. To participate, she would have to submit a detailed application listing everything from her medical history to her state of physical health and fitness, body measurements, all the way down to her skin and hair color. The pay significant and workload minimal, she jumped at the chance, sending off her detailed personal profile without a blink of regret.
Her fiery red hair, tangled by the twists and turns of her perilous journey, cascades over her shoulders, maintaining her brisk pace despite the three miles she was sure to have covered. She knew there was little hope for escape, for despite being aided by the cover of darkness, her situation was dire: she was hopelessly outnumbered, an army of scientists and guards combing every crack and crevice of the underbrush, searching for their valuable asset. The contrast of her green clothing and milky white skin made camouflage all but hopelessly impossible, leaving the only hope for escape a tireless run, not stopping before she hits salvation. She can see the faint shimmer of flashlights behind her waving to and fro, their neon light barely illuminating her path from time to time. She can hear voices piercing through the trees, barely tangible some moments while eerily clear the next. They call her by name, reassuring her that the only option for her is to give up, ensuring her no harm has been done, and that she will be received with open arms. But she knows as well as they do that’s not true, the very moment she took her first step without their permission was what will have sealed her fate. Yet with every passing minute, her situation becomes more desperate, the voices seeming to close in no matter how fast she runs. But, despite all that is presented in contrast, she’s determined to escape this time, for it may just be the last chance she can.
It was three days after submitting her application that she received notice, directing her to their field office for orientation the following morning. Having followed the address indicated, she gazes upon the rundown building, its vacant façade a note of concern for her, checking the address on her phone just to make sure her sleep-deprived eyes hadn’t betrayed her. Discouraged, she resolved it to be a mere hoax, yet another scam intended to open up fraudulent bank accounts with her personal information (fat chance, just wait until they see her credit history). However, just as she is about to arrange a ride back to her cramped apartment, several masked figures, exiting from an enclosed stoop three yards away, suddenly grab her from behind. They ensnare her at each limb, keeping her arms pinned to her sides as she desperately attempts to fight her way out of their grasp. Muffling her screams with a thick white rag, they begin pulling her into an unmarked van parked in an adjacent alley, tossing her inside as the door latches shut. Having her bound and secured, strapping a large ball gag in between her gleaming white teeth, they speed away, not leaving hide nor hair of her presence.
She makes her way through a desolate clearing, not noticing the indentation in the ground she was fast approaching. Catching it at the very last moment, she slides down the steep embankment, cruising down on her heels only to hit the dirt hard by her bottom. Not missing a beat, she picks herself up, continuing through the scarcely tread path. Her years of track and field have conditioned her to handle the rigors of off-road exercise, a fact that had most likely been to her disadvantage through the horrendous nature of her ordeal. Even her stature, standing at an impressive five feet eight inches, has aided her up until this point. The further she travels away from the compound, the denser the forest becomes, hoping it will eventually cover her escape for good. However, a sense of discouragement slowly invades her consciousness, having never ventured out this far her entire stay, unsure of what is waiting for her: what traps might be out here, lying in wait for her to be ensnared, making sure she would never have another chance of escape for as long as she is able. Given the hopelessness she has been consumed by until now, it was inevitable her doubt would slowly start to overtake her trembling legs. Was this all a risk she’d be willing to take?
A twelve-hour drive outside of town led her to the front gate of a secluded compound, lines of guards greeting her as she enters. Spanning well over twelve acres in total, its concrete structure would strike fear in anybody waltzing their way by. Three layers of fencing, each lined with barbed wire and electrifying symbols, deter even a squirrel from scaling their formidable design. With a hood over her head, her wrists and ankles bound with thick nylon rope, and the ball gag still nestled in her mouth, she is carried through the large front door. Strapped down to a gurney, Tiffany is wheeled several meters through the winding hallways, struggling mightily to no avail. She is finally placed in what seemed to be a medical examination room, its rows of interior cupboards shrouding horrific implements she is soon to become familiar with. They strip her of her down to her bra and panties, leaving her bound spread eagle atop the examination table. Thick medical leather straps keeping her at the wrists and ankles, with two wide leather straps binding her at the knees and midsection, the hood and gag being removed for her to indulge the sights. Not three seconds pass before the doors again swing open, two figures in surgical masks entering the room, ready to begin Tiffany’s orientation.
A ray of light pierces the thick tree line, its sudden presence throwing Tiffany in a panic. She hears the revving engine pass her by, ducking into a thicket, keeping deathly silent just until the high beams are far out of sight. Breathing a sigh of relief, she continues her trek, this time at a much slower pace. How easy it would be to just hop on the main dirt road, her dress being ripped to tatters through all the vegetation. Surely it would end somewhere, either a winter cabin or maybe even a small borough, something to infuse just a glimmer of hope into dire circumstances. However, she knows just how susceptible she is out in the open, how powerless she is against all their procurement technology she has fallen victim to time and time again. She knows her best chance is to use her surroundings to her benefit, shrouded in the darkness that has kept her from being caught up until this point. But, as her feet begin to throb, the burning in her chest making every step she takes that much more laborious, she has to ask herself: just how long does she think it will all last?
Over the course of her six-month confinement, she had come to know the true purpose of the facility: to conduct experiments upon its unwillingly procured participants, the primary vehicle of which being extensive tickling sessions of every flavor. The preliminary examination was bad enough, being bound helpless as several masked individuals caress every inch of her exposed flesh, taking note of each spot that elicits a ticklish response. Though knowing herself to be ticklish, Tiffany could hardly fathom their surgical accuracy, extracting a response from seemingly every place they touched. With one taking dictation on their clipboard, they explored her sensitivity levels, determining what spots prove to be the most ticklish for future reference. They expose her to myriad of tools and techniques, each seemingly more terrible than the next, coldly dictating them out loud as she shrieks and cackles wildly for hours on end. They even took different colored highlighters, marking her with symbols indicating which of her spots were the worst, and in what methodology proved most effective. Once a specially colored light was implemented, she lit up like a Christmas tree, every spot being illuminated for whoever was attending to her, a roadmap of ticklish torments for the untrained eye. Such a diagram lasted for six weeks until the attending physicians felt they had memorized it in full, prompting them to vigorously scrub away any residual ink much to Tiffany’s vocal protest.
She sees a small shed in the distance, a ramshackle hut with a single broken window, hopefully a place she can hide and catch her breath. Taking what’s left of her tattered gown in her hands, she bolts it towards the structure. Surely it would be an obvious hiding spot, conspicuous despite its matte appearance. However, nothing was out of the realm of possibility, hoping there would be some loose compartment to shroud herself for the night. Besides, if there was one thing to help defend herself from the impending guards and scientists, be it a shovel, a hammer, even a shard of broken glass, it would all be worth it. Anything to keep her going, she supposed.
Night after night, day in and day out, she is the subject of tickling experiments beyond belief. The depravity these men and women stoop to, locking her in the most disturbing of contraptions, ravaging her tender body to no end. Each session proved to satiate their innate curiosity, and each proved successful in extracting the most primal of reactions from the hypersensitive woman. Though she shared her suffering with many other detainees, only being able to catch a glance of them as she is wheeled back to her cell, her youth and stamina made her a popular subject for long-duration sessions. If those alone had been considered unbearable, her punishment for her frequent escape attempts were unfathomably cruel in their own right. During her first attempt, having been captured only three feet outside her holding cell by a passing guard, she had been taken outside to the gardening shed, buried in a shallow hole with nothing but her head and feet sticking out. Her soles coated in fish brine, she was forced to watch the compound’s felines lick the substance away, their sandpaper tongues scraping across her soles, flossing their way in between each and every one of her toes, screaming and cursing as the guards watched on in glee. Oh if she had only learned her lesson the first time.
She forces her way into the room, thrusting her shoulder against the creaking wooden door, scraping against the rotting floorboards. She glances around the darkened space, the silhouette of furniture barely tangible through the shrouding darkness. Feeling her way against the wall, hoping to take hold of a pickaxe or something hanging from it, she stumbles upon what seems to be a light switch. She flips it, only to have the knot in her throat drop down to her stomach: bright fluorescent lights illuminate a panel of computers, radios, and GPS devices. A live feed is connected to the main control tower, the sound of the watch commander’s voice trying to communicate to her. Paralyzed with fear, she peers out the window, seeing the approaching lights encroaching upon her position. She has just signaled to the world her location, and now, she is trapped.
Her last escape attempt proved the most successful, having made it to the guard tower, tranquilized just as she was trying to scale the preliminary security fence. Clad in a thick straightjacket, she was wheeled into the examination, where five other detainees were waiting for her. The attending physician said they were testing empathy levels post-operation, but they were really inflicting her punishment upon her, using other subjects to do their bidding. They were told that it was Tiffany who had caused their privileges to be revoked, her reckless escape attempts causing them that much more discomfort. They were told that her feet would be the key to making her more docile, given free rein to the myriad of tool at their disposal. Ravenously they tickled her, making her suffer for eight hours of unbridled tickle torture, her screams going unheeded. She begged them, her hapless tears and shrieks for mercy falling on deaf ears, all the way until the guards finally felt pity for her, taking her back to her cell for three days of extended rest and recuperation.
Tiffany searches through the desks, wishing for something to defend herself to no avail. Suddenly, the door swings open, several guards in riot gear blocking her escape. She tosses the HAM radio through the broken widow, hoping to create a hole large enough to leap through. Too late: she hears a poom behind her as a band wraps itself around her ankles, sending the rest of her body tumbling to the ground. She looks down, witnessing several strands of thick twine wrapped around her shins. Just as she is about to untie them, a large net is thrown over her, its interior coated with a sticky substance catching every limb. The more she tries to struggle, the more the substance takes hold, leaving her completely constricted after only a few moments. Her ordeal is over, but her torment has just begun.
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She is wheeled into a brightly lit room, its countless fluorescent lights blinding her but momentarily. Bound to that familiar gurney, multiple leather straps at her knees, waist, chest, and forehead, she is reduced once again to the same state she found herself in so many months ago. She hears the low mumbling of several figures, her curiosity subdued by her bondage keeping her unable to peer about the room. Having been left in merely her underwear, a, ominous chill crawls its way up her spine, a mixture of the cool air and unbridled suspense encroaching upon her person.
“Is the subject ready for processing?” a woman’s voice solemnly dictates, its tone familiar to Tiffany, though as of yet she just can’t quite put her finger on it.
“Yes Dr. Lyla,” a man’s voice responds, dropping Tiffany’s heart into the pit of her stomach. The details surrounding Dr. Lyla were as much myth as they were reality. Her six-inch stilettos would echo down the corridor, a ponytail of platinum blonde hair swinging in her wake, as the devil incarnate made her rounds. Countless times Dr. Lyla had overseen Tiffany’s tickling procedures, gazing in calculating fashion over her subject void of even the slightest sliver of regard. The inhumanity that is Dr. Lyla’s soul knows no depths, her cold and callous indifference to Tiffany’s suffering making each of her ordeals even more unbearable than the last. Playing the part of puppet master in this endless freak show, she has pushed for even less accountability within the walls of this institution: laxed oversight, reduced safety protocols, and limited psychological screenings for test subjects. In practice, having pushed Tiffany to her absolute physical limits, she had chosen to go further, the protest of her subordinates the only thing keeping Tiffany sane if momentarily. Now, her presence no doubt meant to severely punish the girl for even thinking about escape, she will be in control of Tiffany’s fate.
“You may proceed,” Dr. Lyla orders, as two burly guards surround the ensnared test subject.
Having her bonds undone, Tiffany is carried to the front of a large contraption placed in the center of the chamber, its design foreign but no less menacing. Seated in a large padded chair, her wrists are hoist high above her head, latched into place automatically by a pair of metal cuffs, each receding from its stainless-steel surface. A metal bar extends from either side of her, its padded interior pressed against her elbows, further immobilizing them from any unnecessary bending. A thick leather belt is excised from the chair as well, wrapped tightly around Tiffany’s midsection, buckled just at her left hip for security. Another belt is strapped just above her knees, tightened to keep her legs held straight over its indentation. Her ankles are then placed in a sturdy set of stocks just in front of her, the height of which keeping the poor creature from being able to observe her hidden feet. A physician, standing at the control panel ten feet to her left, engages a small red lever, prompting the stocks to secure her even further. She can feel the plush material encasing her ankles slowly tightening around them, as several compartments within it are inflated perfectly snug, a detail making this a one-size-fits-all design. She can also feel a fuzzy material being lassoed around each of her toes, as one of the guards begins flossing a thick strand of string through them, its length extending from the stocks themselves. Taking a small crank at the side of the stocks, he begins tightening the coiling materials, gradually pulling her toes back towards the contraption, leaving her soles completely vulnerable. The complexity of this device is reason enough for Tiffany to panic, knowing nothing this well-conceived would spare her any inch of suffering. Just as the final bond is cinched, a thumbs-up given by the guard standing to her right, Dr. Lyla turns to address the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for this little exercise we have arranged for you today,” Dr. Lyla calls out, directing Tiffany’s attention to the rows of windows she hadn’t even noticed before. Little did she know they were in the observation wing of the compound, only hearing whispers of its existence, its use infrequent but those having experienced it firsthand never truly being the same. Lining the rows of slightly tinted windows are the curious eyes of several observers, including what seems to be the entirety of the facility’s occupants, faculty and detainees alike.
“We, for the past seventeen years of operation, have been concerned merely with the body: it’s capabilities, and its limitations, but we have never once delved into the intersection between that and the mind, but that is all going to change. Today, this young lady, who through the force of her actions has volunteered herself for this experiment, will be the first in what will hopefully be a long line of participants. I just hope all our patients watching will understand what happens when you betray your better interests.”
She approaches the distraught Tiffany, her stern demeanor almost unfathomable. Dr. Lyla, with downturned eyes, inspecting every inch of the contraption she had surely designed herself, sighs a breath of pride, knowing she has been given the opportunity she has been waiting for, her curiosity left open, and her vengeance unbridled. She glances into Tiffany’s eyes, not one sliver of pity as tears begin collecting in the crevices of the young captive’s eyelids.
“Because you deserve it,” Dr. Lyla whispers, touching Tiffany’s chin in the most tender way she has ever been addressed. “Just remember that next time, if there ever is one."
“No please I’m sorry!” Tiffany begs to the good doctor as she inspects her clipboard, her downturned eyes not even giving the pathetic plea one thought. “I’ll never do it again, I swear! Please! Just listen to me!” Giving her the cold shoulder, Dr. Lyla swiftly turns her back on a most pathetic sight, her high heels clasping against the cement flooring as she approaches the control panel.
“Now let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” she says, clutching the yellow-and-black painted lever atop the panel, its coloring denoting a most perilous implication. With one careful swipe, she directs the first phase of her torments. Ever so gradually, Tiffany hears a subtle buzzing just in front of her, the sound of tiny mechanisms churning just out of reach. She knows it to be at her feet but, given her limited view, she can only sift through a myriad of torture devices she had been exposed to these past six months. If she had only put two and two together, as a pair of rotating cleaning brushes were extending from the contraption on either side of her feet. With a width able to cover the entirety of Tiffany’s tenderized feet, they would prove effective in doing as many jobs as they were assigned. The suspense is unbearable, as Tiffany begins struggling against her inescapable bonds, knowing full well that every possible escape attempt would swiftly be neutralized. Just at the very last moment, as the tiny bristles are placed atop her tender soles, she looks up to the doctor, giving her last plea-drenched glance before the procedure begins.
“Initiate cleaning protocol,” Dr. Lyla’s cold voice rings through Tiffany’s ears, the flashing red button illuminating the panel being engaged for the very first time. Vigorously and without hesitation, the brushes begin scrubbing the bottoms of her feet.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!” Tiffany wails, her cries echoing through loudspeakers into the observation deck above, immersing the crowd in her suffering. She is thrown into a frenzy, the effectiveness of the procedure indescribable, their protruding bristles scraping every last shred of dirt and dust left on her defenseless soles. Slowly they begin moving, scaling the length of her size eight feet, ascending and descending as to not leave one inch of them uncleansed.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! MERCYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!” Their pace increases, rotating in circles, diverting both vertically and horizontally, keeping her on her toes (as merely in the form of an expression). She had no idea each brush was a myriad of soft and hard bristles, its diversity of sensations making it impossible for the hapless woman’s nerve endings to adapt. Little could she fathom, her brittle psyche slowly dissolving under such relentless stimulation.
“As can be seen viewers,” Dr. Lyla dictates through a microphone protruding from the console, “the subject’s naturally high sensitivity levels are being suppressed by the thick coating of dirt upon her person.” Opening a hidden compartment on the side of the preliminary lever, Dr. Lyla engages an enclosed green button. “We will now administer our proprietary compound to take care of that, which will be delivered through special compartments built into the brushes themselves.” Tiffany can hear the high-pitched vibrations lower to that of a murmur, as a bubblegum pink substance is administered through these openings, gradually covering every inch the brushes happen to graze over.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! THAT’S WORSEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!” As the viscous substance is administered atop her soles, its frothing material coating her defenseless feet, she submits to the horrifying sensation that has merely amplified.
“They say it’s best to kill two birds with one stone, astute observers,” Dr. Lyla dictates with a slight hint of delight. “Apart from providing a frictionless surface for the brushes to do their work, this patented substance had the auxiliary effect of augmenting the subject’s sensitivity levels.”
“AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! GET IT OFF!!” Tiffany screams through her primal cackles, her voice slowly morphing into a distorted reflection of a once melodiously alto voice. She thrashes her head about, pounding it against the soft padding of the chair that was so considerately installed before she arrived. She is absolutely livid, every nerve ending in her feet lighting up like a Christmas tree, her clenching toes turning white from all the force she is exerting attempting to free herself. Unfortunately for her, Dr. Lyla’s eyes never miss such a hopeless sight.
“If I’m not mistaken, I’d say the subject’s toes are feeling a bit left out,” she says, poking fun at Tiffany’s laugh, inciting a most awkward laugh from the crowd above. “Let’s see if we can fix that.” Tiffany, in her distraught state, momentarily tried to calculate just how many switches, levers, buttons, latches, and pullies could be installed in that square foot of console space. Little could she imagine the extent of what was in store for her.
There were knobs too, and Dr. Lyla just happened to find herself the right one.
Tiffany, currently inundated with horrendous tickle torture, can hardly imagine anything being thrown on top of it all. Much to her dismay, she finds the twine trapping each and every one of her toes suddenly vibrating, realizing its purpose not limited to securing her feet. In fact, not only are the individual bands vibrating, but they are moving as well, their fuzzy texture caressing the periphery of her toes in the process.
“OH GOD!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAIT!!” her screams ascend up another octave, the fuzzy material shifting its way into the contraption, on rotation around her helplessly supple toes. She can feel the same compound invading the gaps between her toes, as each strand is coated in a thick layer of it during its passing through the machine.
“Just how long do you think she will last viewers?” Dr. Lyla asks, ignoring the obvious concern scrawled across their faces. “Oh we can tire the body all we want, but it’s really the mind that is the highest obstacle to scale. Have you ever seen a young woman’s spirit broken in two, right before your very eyes? Me neither, let’s experience the magic together.”
Again, the churning mechanisms incite her senses, this time being just adjacent to her sides. Peering downward through tear-drenched eyes, she witnesses as two compartments are opened, releasing a pair of pulsating machines approaching her. They begin pulsating into the crevices of her ribs, gyrating their knobs into the dastardly gaps that seem to be made for them.
“BWAHAHAHAHAHAH!! NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! HEEEEEEEEELP!!” she is barely able to eek out a cry for assistance, most of her reactions dissolving into incoherence. What extensive detail Dr. Lyla had gone into for this session, no doubt crafting the most unadulterated of tickling experiences to inflict upon Tiffany’s unfortunate soul. How she drooled over each session, extracting every primal reaction out of her, knowing just a little bit more about what truly made her tick.
“I’m sure everyone is wondering exactly what I am this very moment: am I going too far? Is there a limit that shouldn’t be crossed? We’ll never know until we find out for ourselves. I’d like to introduce you to the name I gave to my pet project here, one I think fits the very purpose it holds: I call it: The Punisher. Let me show you why.” She reveals a hidden compartment, lifting the façade of the control panel, a touch screen underneath. Pressing her palm into the neon lit surface, she activates the final measure: dozens of partitions open up around Tiffany, revealing a myriad of autonomous tickling instruments, slowly making their approach.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! I'M SOOOOOOORRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!” is the last thing Tiffany can say before they descend upon her person, ravaging every inch of untouched flesh.
Rotating brushes, the same cascading over her feet, now scraping their way across the tender flesh of her underarms, excreting the same substance in tandem. A tiny rotating device, its crown a collection of fine feathers, swirls its way into her bellybutton, locked into place no matter how much she attempts to move. Large kneading devices clasped around her thighs and calves dig deep into the muscles of her straining legs, as the pulsating knobs begin scaling the entirety of her ribs and sides. Tiffany has now reached the denouement of her ordeal, one which has been six months in the making for this once promising twenty-three-year-old college student who once believed the world to be her oyster.
What has become of this poor creature is a sight to behold: her bright red hair matted against the sweat-covered surface of her face, shifting between piercing screams and silent breathy laughter juxtaposed against one another. Her chest, coated in a film of sweat, tears, and saliva, elevates from what little oxygen she can force in before having to relinquish it. Every muscle in her body has gone numb, the result of three hours in this horrendous machine passing excruciatingly slowly. Her boundless stamina syphoned out of her person, she is left clinging onto that last ledge of sanity she has been dangling from since the very beginning. However, this time, she feels herself finally slipping off.
Her head droops forward, only the soft teetering of helpless giggles falling from her voluptuous lips, an eerie smile scrawled across her face. She is broken: not one ounce of the woman left inside, that fire and passion extinguished for the crowd to witness, nothing but the endless buzzing of autonomous mechanisms to be heard forevermore.
The End
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