The-Tickling-Master
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It was Monday, and like most weeks leading up to tonight, Becky Lynch felt like the world’s biggest fool. One would think she would have learned her lesson by now – after all, in the world of professional wrestling, where had trust ever gotten here? Nowhere but trouble, that’s where.
And yet – when veterans Trish came knocking, how could she say no? The Canadian bombshell that was one of the icons of the early millennium in Wrestling. Trailblazer for all women in wrestling. Becky Lynch likely would not get to be the superstar she was if she hadn’t walked a path that Trish paved with blood, sweat and by enduring a lot of misogyny. So, could anyone really blame her when she decided to give her childhood role model a chance?
Naturally, everything fell through. Everything always falls through. And now she was dealing with a vindictive Trish Stratus. Becky was past the point of being fair to her; Trish felt unappreciated, but that was purely her ego talking. Becky never failed to respect her. And gratitude? She has been grateful to Trish for every day of her goddamn life. That doesn’t mean she’s gonna crawl up to Trish, kissing the ground she walks on, saying ‘Thank You’ every day. To expect so is narcissistic. But you know what they say – never meet your heroes. Becky violated that wisdom, and paid the price.
Things got worse when Trish found someone who was willing to be the suck-up that Becky was not: Zoey Starks. Now Becky had two problems, and no one to help her. Not that she was willing to trust anyone else. She learned her lesson. No more tag-teams, no more trusting anyone except her daughter. And since the baby was, obviously, not capable of facing her opponents in the ring… Becky would deal with them herself. Alone. She was strong enough. She was, after all, The Man.
Her theme hit, and the thoughts were washed away. It was time to perform. Do what she does best: Be the best. At the sounds of 10 thousand people chanting “WHO-O-O-O-O-O-OOOH, Becky strolled confidently down the ramp, ready to face whatever the crazy world of the WWE wanted to throw at her. Tonight, she had opted for something a bit more extravagant, a bit more cyberpunk, for her outfit; the lower body was a leotard with fishnets, exposing the legs she was quite proud of; the upperbody covered her on the entirety, but not quite – her midsection had a translucent, fishnet-like cloth that highlighted and exposed her body while still offering some protection from the cold. It ended in a more opaque black top when it reached her torso. Last time she wore this, she had opted to go for black pauldrons on the shoulder and long sleeves; tonight, she decided to leave those at home, instead having the top act as a sleeveless shirt. Finally, her white glasses, big and with thick black lenses, complemented the look. Comfortable, exposing enough to present her body while still being classy, which was a tone she quite enjoyed. She was ready for a fight.
What she was not prepared for was to be blindsided by Trish from behind. Foolish, perhaps, but true. She felt the impact, felt the world go dark, and only hazily started remembering what happened when she started coming back to consciousness in a dimly lit room.
The back of her head really hurt. She tried to massage it to soothe the pain, and yet for some reason, despite her brain firing the signal, the arm didn’t raise. She got worried about nerve damage for a moment, before the brain finished processing what was going on. She wasn’t paralyzed – she was tied up! Her arms were already raised, but far past her head, tied together to one of the many spare structures that the production team had lying around in case they needed to hook up something or whatever. This one seemed to be a support for a steel cage, so there was no hope of Becky making it budge. Her arms were essentially locked above her head, and her legs weren’t doing much better, tied down to another metal structure. She was essentially spread like an I, each squirm making her flop like a damn fish atop the thin mattress she had been placed on. Hey, at least they gave her that, rather than the cold floor. So nice of them, so humane.
She didn’t see the attacker, but it didn’t take much brainpower to figure out. She was going to gut Trish when she got out of here.
“HEEEY!! Production! Security! Someone? I’m locked in here!” She screamed. She could still hear the sounds of the crowd. The show was still going on. So, people would be around; someone was bound to hear her.
What came back from the darkness around her was a scoffing laughter. Light switches were flipped somewhere, and Becky went blind for a moment. As her eyes adjusted, she saw exactly who she expected: Zoey and Trish. She rolled her eyes.
“Cool supervillain entrance. Now what?” She said, paying little to not respect to the two of them. If they thought they could scare her, they were in for a surprise.
“No one is gonna hear you, Becky. We’re on the very last supplies rooms. Last time anyone got in here to fetch something mid-show was in 2006.” Trish said. Becky knew she was right, but did not give her the satisfaction, maintaining a smug grin. “And they likely won’t pack this room up until tomorrow morning… No one is coming to save you.” Trish said, a smirk spreading through her own face; if she was indignant at Becky’s expression, she did not show as much. She seemed very self-satisfied, very confident of her control of the situation.
“Fine, fine, then what do you want? If you were going to beat me up, I expected you to do so out there. Humiliate me and all that.”
Trish scoffed once more, and approached. Now, her smirk was freaking Becky out a bit. She seemed to actually have something planned. “G-get away, you freak!” Becky ordered, trying to lounge at her, but only managing to flop on the bonds. Zoey laughed, approaching as well.
“I was looking at the WWE Archives, and I found this… most interesting match from a few years ago.” She said – and Becky knew what she was referring to before she even said anything else. That cursed match with Charlotte, back in 2016. The most humiliating night of her life – when she was tickled in the ring, and forced to tap out to it. People still made memes and jokes about it, which she always stoically no-sold. Can’t let them know how much it hurt her, after all.
But now, it seems the issue is coming back around. She took a deep breath. She needed to keep a strong face… Even if her insides were freezing cold. For she knew how weak she was to that torment. And while she was no longer the woman she was then… While she could maybe handle it out there, in front of everyone, now that she had The Man’s image to protect… Here, in the backstage, when it was just her, Zoey and Trish… She was afraid that strength would fail her.
No! Focus, Becky. You can do this. It’s just… It’s just… tic-tickl…
“Tickling. Of all things to break the mighty Becky Lynch in a championship match, tickling was what did it.” Trish taunts. Becky glared at her.
“Is that the big plan? Get me here and tickle me? Fine. I’ll survive, and I’ll kick you ass next week.” Becky said, defiance burning in her tone. Trish merely laughed.
“There won’t need to be a next week, Becky. We can end this tonight.” Trish said, and by now, she was right besides Becky, sitting down on the floor, evaluating her captive. “You know what I want. It’s time we both move on to bigger and better things…” She said. “All you have to do is pay me the respect I’m owed. Thank me – and thank me sincerely – and this all ends.”
“Go to hell, you egocentric bitch.” Was Becky’s response.
“Not before I send you there.” Was Trish’s answer and, without warning, without build-up or teasing, her hands went straight for Becky’s exposed armpits, and The Man was made to howl. She was still just as sensitive as on that day so many years ago, as sensitive as she had been all life. Her body immediately started struggling with all its might, despite her desire to take it slow and conserve energy.
“FUHUHUHUHUCK YOHOHOHOHOHOUHUHUHU!!!” Becky cursed with all the anger she could muster, hating Trish like she never hated anyone before for bringing that horrid torrent of sensations into her life; the hatred, however, meant very little, and seemed almost a bit silly, in contrast with the pouring laughter. It was a hateful contrast – it sounded like a playful jab, rather than the declaration of anger it truly was.
One could get philosophical about how tickling makes one laugh while suffering, making it look like they weren’t suffering at all – but Becky didn’t have the brainpower for that and, truth be told, that wasn’t what made her hate it. She simply hated the raw intensity of it; how horrible the sensations felt, how much her body screamed for her to make it stop somehow, anyhow. And yet, she could not – it didn’t matter how strong her arms and legs were, how effortlessly she could slam a grown woman into the mat, the ability to escape those bonds were beyond her - and that, too, she hated.
“HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!! KYEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH!!” She refused to beg. She wanted to insult her, but she didn’t trust herself to say anything and not plead, so she opted to just laugh.
“Such a cute laugh, Becky.” Trish taunted. “I bet Seth would love to see you like this.”
Becky would have blushed if she processed the words, but she could think of nothing else besides how much she wanted that to stop. It’s barely been a minute, she knows so, and yet she would be willing to pay all the money on her wallet to end the torture here and there. But she knew that was not how it worked. She was under Trish’s mercy now, under the mercy of those long nails raking her hollows and making her dance.
She couldn’t help but notice that Trish seemed to have some skill behind what she was doing. If Becky had her full thinking abilities right now, she would maybe be able to look at how Zoey Starks was blushing slightly upon watching her ordeal, and connect the dots. Unfortunately, she was already using every ounce of focus to not completely lose her mind – and even then, the prospects seemed dire.
“YOHOHOHOHUULLL BEHEHEHEH SHOHOHOHORRYY!!!” Becky screamed with the modicum of defiance she still had in her. Trish merely scoffed.
When Trish stopped, quite a few minutes later, Becky hated the wave of relief that took over her as well. It was dangerous to be that happy over something her enemy had control over. She knew that much.
“Reconsidering, Becky dearest?” Trish would ask. This time, Becky didn’t respond immediately. She needed to catch her breath, first. She definitely did not need to gather courage too – or at least, she’d never admit it.
“I am not.. going to give you the satisfaction, Trish. You don’t deserve it.” She said, finally, and even managed to not let her voice crack or show any fear. She stared at Trish, and saw just the faintest hint of indignation, and that made the defiance feel worth it. But the veteran recomposed quickly – and, as she started moving, and Becky knew where she was going, the feeling disappeared, replaced by dread. “Trish! Get away! I’m warning you!!” She said, barely managing to stop herself from saying please, from begging, as Trish made her way to her feet.
Many years ago, Becky thought her armpits were her weakness – and God, they are horrible – but over the years, as more than one boyfriend decided to treat her to ‘playful’ ticklish sessions, she came to realize the feet were worse. It depended on the technique, but if one could hit the right patches of flesh on her soles, it was absolute torture. She reflexively started struggling once more, her body making a desperate last stand against an impossible odd, to avoid an unacceptable fate.
Naturally, it proved pointless. Trish reached her feet just the same, sat dawn in front of it, and started to undo the laces of her boots. As she pulled them out, Becky looked at her with pleading eyes, and hated herself for it, but couldn’t stop – the feeling of the boots sliding through her calves and off her feet filled her with dread, like the moments in which a balloon is being filled and about to burst. Worse – she knew Trish noticed, and Trish knew she knew, and that felt like losing the battle altogether. The socks soon followed, and her soles were faced with the reality of the chilly, stagnant air of the room against her soles, making her twitch them slightly.
But she hadn’t lost, she repeated to herself. She hadn’t given up. She had not given Trish the satisfaction. And she wouldn’t. She… wouldn’t…?
As the hellish nails made contact with the soles, Becky lost her mind once more. She would. At that moment, she knew she would. The reality of torment was far too overwhelming even for her stubbornness and pride. However, one hope remained. She knew she would not be able to endure those nails on her feet forever, but she could hope to last long enough. Long enough for her to save her, to miss her, to come looking, to check this area. Or maybe that she could last long enough for Trish to get tired. Yes! Trish wouldn’t have infinite stamina or patience. At some point, she’d figure out this wasn’t working and try something else. Something that Becky could handle better.
Her hated enemy started dragging the nails down, rhythmically, from the very top of her toes all the way down to her heels, before re-starting. Like a machine in a loop, barely fluctuating in speed or intensity, just nails scraping on flesh, making Becky wish she had never been born in a world where these sensations existed. Becky cursed, but did not break.
Trish tried to focus on Becky’s incredibly sensitive arches, a little fact the redhead did not enjoy learning about herself, as she was made to laugh like a maniac as the fingers skittered on the soft skin. Becky struggled, but did not break.
Trish even decided to add an extra humiliating and gross layer by reaching forward and starting to nibble and lick Becky’s feet, tongue swirling devilishly between Becky’s toes, which brought her closer than ever before to pleading for her to stop, the mixture of the ticklish sensation and the raw weirdness of the tongue’s texture against her feet sending her for a spiral. Becky suffered, but did not break.
And then, Trish stopped. Becky felt triumphant relief run through her soul. She had endured it. She had made Trish realize how pointless her tickling torture was, and…
She raised her eyes, seeing Trish taking a hairbrush out of a backpack, and her soul sunk into her stomach.
“N-no…” She couldn’t help but say, noticing only too late. Feeling the first shade of giving up form itself within her. It was not an unfamiliar feeling – it was exactly what she felt when she was considering tapping out to a submission maneuver. But she couldn’t. She needed to remain strong and—
The train of thought was derailed by the feeling of the brush on her soles; she screamed, louder than ever before, loud enough to wake up an entire city block. Unfortunately, the crowd watching the show roared at the same time, and whatever faint hopes she had of being heard died in her throat. Only torment was left.
The bristles dragged through her wrinkly soles, leaving a path of destruction that repeated itself over and over, multiple times a second. It was far too intense. It was torture, pure torture, inhumane, unbearable. “THRIHIHIHISSH!!!” She called, but this time the voice wasn’t fueled by fury, but despair; it wasn’t a call for battle, but a pleading whimper. “STOHOHOHPPP!! PLEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHASSHEHEHH!! NOHOHOHHOTT THAHAHAHAHATTT!!!!”
She could realize she was breaking, and she was powerless to stop it. She could feel herself becoming more amenable to Trish’s desire, her thoughts coming to her like a movie presented externally, but slowly merging with her own identity. She realized the horrible reality of torture, how it morphed you in your very soul – for this WAS torture, she didn’t care how many memes those losers on Reddit would make if they ever learned of it. She would sacrifice so much money, she would betray so many friends, she would do SO MUCH to make this stop…
In comparison, giving Trish what she wanted felt small. Achievable. Easy, even… And yet, the words died in her throat, a higher part of herself stopping her. She would plead and beg; she could concede that much. But not thank Trish. Not feed her ego at the expense on Becky’s own. She was The Man, dammit! And it’s not like things could get worse…
That thinking was interrupted as she felt hands dig into her armpits once more. But, how?? Trish was down at her feet still, rubbing that cursed hairbrush on her soles! Becky’s eyes rose to meet Zoey Stark grinning at her. The Man’s brain went into short-circuit. While her feet was worse, her armpits were still bad – both at the same time was too much. Just too much.
“IHIHIHIHMM SOHOHORRYYY!! THAHAHAHNK YOHOHOHOHUU!!! THAHAHHHHHAHAHANNNKK YOHHOOHOHUUUU TRIIHIHIHIHIHISHSHSH!!!”
Trish smirked. The brushes stopped. Oh thank God, the brushes stopped. It was worth it. Even with Zoey still tormenting her armpits, making her cry in tortured laughter, it had been fucking worth it, ego and shame be damned.
“Thank you for what? I want to verify you’re being genuine.” Trish said. “Let’s list… Say… ten things you should thank me for, how about that? You can start now.”
But she couldn’t think!! How could she list anything while her body was under assault by Zoey Stark’s fingers; while she was howling with laughter, every muscle in her body exhausted from twitching against her bonds?
“I’ll give you tirthy seconds… Or the brushes start again.”
Becky quickly found some things. She needed to. She couldn’t allow the brushes. Amidst crazed laughter, she thanked Trish for being a pioneer in women’s wrestling. For all the amazing moves she presented to the entire WWE universe. For… For… How pretty she was!
That was not received as well. “While the compliment is appreciated, my beauty does not impact your life. Find something else.” Trish ordered, and Becky couldn’t think fast enough. And when the brushes were reapplied, she couldn’t speak, even though ideas poured through her mind, coaxed by torment and despair.
As the night dragged on, as the list grew from ten to twenty to fifty items, as Becky’s gear started being discarded as more and more flesh became exposed and targeted, as sweat pooled on her skin and sanity quickly drained from her mind, Becky learned how introspective she could be. She needed to be, to spare her sensitive feet even one more minute of torture.
When things ended, Trish was satisfied – and Becky, broken, her confidence shattered. She went on to lose to Trish on the upcoming pay-per-view, and as she laid there under the lights, all she could think of is how grateful she was that she was not tied down and under the Canadian’s mercy once more, for there she learned forever her place in the WWE’s pecking order – a ticklish girl, easily shattered by the right pressure. The Man was no more, suffocated on their own laughter at the hands of someone she was forced to recognize was her better…
And she hated herself for it.
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It was Monday, and like most weeks leading up to tonight, Becky Lynch felt like the world’s biggest fool. One would think she would have learned her lesson by now – after all, in the world of professional wrestling, where had trust ever gotten here? Nowhere but trouble, that’s where.
And yet – when veterans Trish came knocking, how could she say no? The Canadian bombshell that was one of the icons of the early millennium in Wrestling. Trailblazer for all women in wrestling. Becky Lynch likely would not get to be the superstar she was if she hadn’t walked a path that Trish paved with blood, sweat and by enduring a lot of misogyny. So, could anyone really blame her when she decided to give her childhood role model a chance?
Naturally, everything fell through. Everything always falls through. And now she was dealing with a vindictive Trish Stratus. Becky was past the point of being fair to her; Trish felt unappreciated, but that was purely her ego talking. Becky never failed to respect her. And gratitude? She has been grateful to Trish for every day of her goddamn life. That doesn’t mean she’s gonna crawl up to Trish, kissing the ground she walks on, saying ‘Thank You’ every day. To expect so is narcissistic. But you know what they say – never meet your heroes. Becky violated that wisdom, and paid the price.
Things got worse when Trish found someone who was willing to be the suck-up that Becky was not: Zoey Starks. Now Becky had two problems, and no one to help her. Not that she was willing to trust anyone else. She learned her lesson. No more tag-teams, no more trusting anyone except her daughter. And since the baby was, obviously, not capable of facing her opponents in the ring… Becky would deal with them herself. Alone. She was strong enough. She was, after all, The Man.
Her theme hit, and the thoughts were washed away. It was time to perform. Do what she does best: Be the best. At the sounds of 10 thousand people chanting “WHO-O-O-O-O-O-OOOH, Becky strolled confidently down the ramp, ready to face whatever the crazy world of the WWE wanted to throw at her. Tonight, she had opted for something a bit more extravagant, a bit more cyberpunk, for her outfit; the lower body was a leotard with fishnets, exposing the legs she was quite proud of; the upperbody covered her on the entirety, but not quite – her midsection had a translucent, fishnet-like cloth that highlighted and exposed her body while still offering some protection from the cold. It ended in a more opaque black top when it reached her torso. Last time she wore this, she had opted to go for black pauldrons on the shoulder and long sleeves; tonight, she decided to leave those at home, instead having the top act as a sleeveless shirt. Finally, her white glasses, big and with thick black lenses, complemented the look. Comfortable, exposing enough to present her body while still being classy, which was a tone she quite enjoyed. She was ready for a fight.
What she was not prepared for was to be blindsided by Trish from behind. Foolish, perhaps, but true. She felt the impact, felt the world go dark, and only hazily started remembering what happened when she started coming back to consciousness in a dimly lit room.
The back of her head really hurt. She tried to massage it to soothe the pain, and yet for some reason, despite her brain firing the signal, the arm didn’t raise. She got worried about nerve damage for a moment, before the brain finished processing what was going on. She wasn’t paralyzed – she was tied up! Her arms were already raised, but far past her head, tied together to one of the many spare structures that the production team had lying around in case they needed to hook up something or whatever. This one seemed to be a support for a steel cage, so there was no hope of Becky making it budge. Her arms were essentially locked above her head, and her legs weren’t doing much better, tied down to another metal structure. She was essentially spread like an I, each squirm making her flop like a damn fish atop the thin mattress she had been placed on. Hey, at least they gave her that, rather than the cold floor. So nice of them, so humane.
She didn’t see the attacker, but it didn’t take much brainpower to figure out. She was going to gut Trish when she got out of here.
“HEEEY!! Production! Security! Someone? I’m locked in here!” She screamed. She could still hear the sounds of the crowd. The show was still going on. So, people would be around; someone was bound to hear her.
What came back from the darkness around her was a scoffing laughter. Light switches were flipped somewhere, and Becky went blind for a moment. As her eyes adjusted, she saw exactly who she expected: Zoey and Trish. She rolled her eyes.
“Cool supervillain entrance. Now what?” She said, paying little to not respect to the two of them. If they thought they could scare her, they were in for a surprise.
“No one is gonna hear you, Becky. We’re on the very last supplies rooms. Last time anyone got in here to fetch something mid-show was in 2006.” Trish said. Becky knew she was right, but did not give her the satisfaction, maintaining a smug grin. “And they likely won’t pack this room up until tomorrow morning… No one is coming to save you.” Trish said, a smirk spreading through her own face; if she was indignant at Becky’s expression, she did not show as much. She seemed very self-satisfied, very confident of her control of the situation.
“Fine, fine, then what do you want? If you were going to beat me up, I expected you to do so out there. Humiliate me and all that.”
Trish scoffed once more, and approached. Now, her smirk was freaking Becky out a bit. She seemed to actually have something planned. “G-get away, you freak!” Becky ordered, trying to lounge at her, but only managing to flop on the bonds. Zoey laughed, approaching as well.
“I was looking at the WWE Archives, and I found this… most interesting match from a few years ago.” She said – and Becky knew what she was referring to before she even said anything else. That cursed match with Charlotte, back in 2016. The most humiliating night of her life – when she was tickled in the ring, and forced to tap out to it. People still made memes and jokes about it, which she always stoically no-sold. Can’t let them know how much it hurt her, after all.
But now, it seems the issue is coming back around. She took a deep breath. She needed to keep a strong face… Even if her insides were freezing cold. For she knew how weak she was to that torment. And while she was no longer the woman she was then… While she could maybe handle it out there, in front of everyone, now that she had The Man’s image to protect… Here, in the backstage, when it was just her, Zoey and Trish… She was afraid that strength would fail her.
No! Focus, Becky. You can do this. It’s just… It’s just… tic-tickl…
“Tickling. Of all things to break the mighty Becky Lynch in a championship match, tickling was what did it.” Trish taunts. Becky glared at her.
“Is that the big plan? Get me here and tickle me? Fine. I’ll survive, and I’ll kick you ass next week.” Becky said, defiance burning in her tone. Trish merely laughed.
“There won’t need to be a next week, Becky. We can end this tonight.” Trish said, and by now, she was right besides Becky, sitting down on the floor, evaluating her captive. “You know what I want. It’s time we both move on to bigger and better things…” She said. “All you have to do is pay me the respect I’m owed. Thank me – and thank me sincerely – and this all ends.”
“Go to hell, you egocentric bitch.” Was Becky’s response.
“Not before I send you there.” Was Trish’s answer and, without warning, without build-up or teasing, her hands went straight for Becky’s exposed armpits, and The Man was made to howl. She was still just as sensitive as on that day so many years ago, as sensitive as she had been all life. Her body immediately started struggling with all its might, despite her desire to take it slow and conserve energy.
“FUHUHUHUHUCK YOHOHOHOHOHOUHUHUHU!!!” Becky cursed with all the anger she could muster, hating Trish like she never hated anyone before for bringing that horrid torrent of sensations into her life; the hatred, however, meant very little, and seemed almost a bit silly, in contrast with the pouring laughter. It was a hateful contrast – it sounded like a playful jab, rather than the declaration of anger it truly was.
One could get philosophical about how tickling makes one laugh while suffering, making it look like they weren’t suffering at all – but Becky didn’t have the brainpower for that and, truth be told, that wasn’t what made her hate it. She simply hated the raw intensity of it; how horrible the sensations felt, how much her body screamed for her to make it stop somehow, anyhow. And yet, she could not – it didn’t matter how strong her arms and legs were, how effortlessly she could slam a grown woman into the mat, the ability to escape those bonds were beyond her - and that, too, she hated.
“HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!! KYEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH!!” She refused to beg. She wanted to insult her, but she didn’t trust herself to say anything and not plead, so she opted to just laugh.
“Such a cute laugh, Becky.” Trish taunted. “I bet Seth would love to see you like this.”
Becky would have blushed if she processed the words, but she could think of nothing else besides how much she wanted that to stop. It’s barely been a minute, she knows so, and yet she would be willing to pay all the money on her wallet to end the torture here and there. But she knew that was not how it worked. She was under Trish’s mercy now, under the mercy of those long nails raking her hollows and making her dance.
She couldn’t help but notice that Trish seemed to have some skill behind what she was doing. If Becky had her full thinking abilities right now, she would maybe be able to look at how Zoey Starks was blushing slightly upon watching her ordeal, and connect the dots. Unfortunately, she was already using every ounce of focus to not completely lose her mind – and even then, the prospects seemed dire.
“YOHOHOHOHUULLL BEHEHEHEH SHOHOHOHORRYY!!!” Becky screamed with the modicum of defiance she still had in her. Trish merely scoffed.
When Trish stopped, quite a few minutes later, Becky hated the wave of relief that took over her as well. It was dangerous to be that happy over something her enemy had control over. She knew that much.
“Reconsidering, Becky dearest?” Trish would ask. This time, Becky didn’t respond immediately. She needed to catch her breath, first. She definitely did not need to gather courage too – or at least, she’d never admit it.
“I am not.. going to give you the satisfaction, Trish. You don’t deserve it.” She said, finally, and even managed to not let her voice crack or show any fear. She stared at Trish, and saw just the faintest hint of indignation, and that made the defiance feel worth it. But the veteran recomposed quickly – and, as she started moving, and Becky knew where she was going, the feeling disappeared, replaced by dread. “Trish! Get away! I’m warning you!!” She said, barely managing to stop herself from saying please, from begging, as Trish made her way to her feet.
Many years ago, Becky thought her armpits were her weakness – and God, they are horrible – but over the years, as more than one boyfriend decided to treat her to ‘playful’ ticklish sessions, she came to realize the feet were worse. It depended on the technique, but if one could hit the right patches of flesh on her soles, it was absolute torture. She reflexively started struggling once more, her body making a desperate last stand against an impossible odd, to avoid an unacceptable fate.
Naturally, it proved pointless. Trish reached her feet just the same, sat dawn in front of it, and started to undo the laces of her boots. As she pulled them out, Becky looked at her with pleading eyes, and hated herself for it, but couldn’t stop – the feeling of the boots sliding through her calves and off her feet filled her with dread, like the moments in which a balloon is being filled and about to burst. Worse – she knew Trish noticed, and Trish knew she knew, and that felt like losing the battle altogether. The socks soon followed, and her soles were faced with the reality of the chilly, stagnant air of the room against her soles, making her twitch them slightly.
But she hadn’t lost, she repeated to herself. She hadn’t given up. She had not given Trish the satisfaction. And she wouldn’t. She… wouldn’t…?
As the hellish nails made contact with the soles, Becky lost her mind once more. She would. At that moment, she knew she would. The reality of torment was far too overwhelming even for her stubbornness and pride. However, one hope remained. She knew she would not be able to endure those nails on her feet forever, but she could hope to last long enough. Long enough for her to save her, to miss her, to come looking, to check this area. Or maybe that she could last long enough for Trish to get tired. Yes! Trish wouldn’t have infinite stamina or patience. At some point, she’d figure out this wasn’t working and try something else. Something that Becky could handle better.
Her hated enemy started dragging the nails down, rhythmically, from the very top of her toes all the way down to her heels, before re-starting. Like a machine in a loop, barely fluctuating in speed or intensity, just nails scraping on flesh, making Becky wish she had never been born in a world where these sensations existed. Becky cursed, but did not break.
Trish tried to focus on Becky’s incredibly sensitive arches, a little fact the redhead did not enjoy learning about herself, as she was made to laugh like a maniac as the fingers skittered on the soft skin. Becky struggled, but did not break.
Trish even decided to add an extra humiliating and gross layer by reaching forward and starting to nibble and lick Becky’s feet, tongue swirling devilishly between Becky’s toes, which brought her closer than ever before to pleading for her to stop, the mixture of the ticklish sensation and the raw weirdness of the tongue’s texture against her feet sending her for a spiral. Becky suffered, but did not break.
And then, Trish stopped. Becky felt triumphant relief run through her soul. She had endured it. She had made Trish realize how pointless her tickling torture was, and…
She raised her eyes, seeing Trish taking a hairbrush out of a backpack, and her soul sunk into her stomach.
“N-no…” She couldn’t help but say, noticing only too late. Feeling the first shade of giving up form itself within her. It was not an unfamiliar feeling – it was exactly what she felt when she was considering tapping out to a submission maneuver. But she couldn’t. She needed to remain strong and—
The train of thought was derailed by the feeling of the brush on her soles; she screamed, louder than ever before, loud enough to wake up an entire city block. Unfortunately, the crowd watching the show roared at the same time, and whatever faint hopes she had of being heard died in her throat. Only torment was left.
The bristles dragged through her wrinkly soles, leaving a path of destruction that repeated itself over and over, multiple times a second. It was far too intense. It was torture, pure torture, inhumane, unbearable. “THRIHIHIHISSH!!!” She called, but this time the voice wasn’t fueled by fury, but despair; it wasn’t a call for battle, but a pleading whimper. “STOHOHOHPPP!! PLEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHASSHEHEHH!! NOHOHOHHOTT THAHAHAHAHATTT!!!!”
She could realize she was breaking, and she was powerless to stop it. She could feel herself becoming more amenable to Trish’s desire, her thoughts coming to her like a movie presented externally, but slowly merging with her own identity. She realized the horrible reality of torture, how it morphed you in your very soul – for this WAS torture, she didn’t care how many memes those losers on Reddit would make if they ever learned of it. She would sacrifice so much money, she would betray so many friends, she would do SO MUCH to make this stop…
In comparison, giving Trish what she wanted felt small. Achievable. Easy, even… And yet, the words died in her throat, a higher part of herself stopping her. She would plead and beg; she could concede that much. But not thank Trish. Not feed her ego at the expense on Becky’s own. She was The Man, dammit! And it’s not like things could get worse…
That thinking was interrupted as she felt hands dig into her armpits once more. But, how?? Trish was down at her feet still, rubbing that cursed hairbrush on her soles! Becky’s eyes rose to meet Zoey Stark grinning at her. The Man’s brain went into short-circuit. While her feet was worse, her armpits were still bad – both at the same time was too much. Just too much.
“IHIHIHIHMM SOHOHORRYYY!! THAHAHAHNK YOHOHOHOHUU!!! THAHAHHHHHAHAHANNNKK YOHHOOHOHUUUU TRIIHIHIHIHIHISHSHSH!!!”
Trish smirked. The brushes stopped. Oh thank God, the brushes stopped. It was worth it. Even with Zoey still tormenting her armpits, making her cry in tortured laughter, it had been fucking worth it, ego and shame be damned.
“Thank you for what? I want to verify you’re being genuine.” Trish said. “Let’s list… Say… ten things you should thank me for, how about that? You can start now.”
But she couldn’t think!! How could she list anything while her body was under assault by Zoey Stark’s fingers; while she was howling with laughter, every muscle in her body exhausted from twitching against her bonds?
“I’ll give you tirthy seconds… Or the brushes start again.”
Becky quickly found some things. She needed to. She couldn’t allow the brushes. Amidst crazed laughter, she thanked Trish for being a pioneer in women’s wrestling. For all the amazing moves she presented to the entire WWE universe. For… For… How pretty she was!
That was not received as well. “While the compliment is appreciated, my beauty does not impact your life. Find something else.” Trish ordered, and Becky couldn’t think fast enough. And when the brushes were reapplied, she couldn’t speak, even though ideas poured through her mind, coaxed by torment and despair.
As the night dragged on, as the list grew from ten to twenty to fifty items, as Becky’s gear started being discarded as more and more flesh became exposed and targeted, as sweat pooled on her skin and sanity quickly drained from her mind, Becky learned how introspective she could be. She needed to be, to spare her sensitive feet even one more minute of torture.
When things ended, Trish was satisfied – and Becky, broken, her confidence shattered. She went on to lose to Trish on the upcoming pay-per-view, and as she laid there under the lights, all she could think of is how grateful she was that she was not tied down and under the Canadian’s mercy once more, for there she learned forever her place in the WWE’s pecking order – a ticklish girl, easily shattered by the right pressure. The Man was no more, suffocated on their own laughter at the hands of someone she was forced to recognize was her better…
And she hated herself for it.
