Sense Junkie (?/f, sexual)

[meangry1]

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.

-King Lear, Shakespeare


***​

Cynthia Oratorio relaxed into her office chair as the hands in her tall ash wood clock hit six. The evening sky was turning caramel. She vacantly stared out the window, cracking her knuckles before rolling the right sleeve of up her navy blue pantsuit. Turning her palm upward, she caressed up and along her forearm with her fingers, closing her eyes and humming as she thought about all the places she wanted to be but here.

Much of her life had been spent as a child prodigy, her life ceaselessly shifting between work and study, shifting between changing school systems, shifting between acting her age while also fitting in with peers who were much older than she was. She lingered in her seat, gingerly teasing along her forearm as a smile curled across her face. While spending her time facedown in books ensured that her features weren’t prematurely aged, it had caused quite a stir of inner isolation.

Inner isolation that had manifested itself in an expressive manner. She tried using cross-training as a way to vent her frustrations, to vent the energy she’d stored from sitting in a chair all day staring at the green screens. A base exercise of long distance running, as well as a light toning workout done three times a week, had been working wonders.

The requisite morning calisthenics were never enough.

She was far more interested in the touch of her unpainted nails as they traced her inner forearm.

Her chin was rounded, filtering upward to candy apple cheeks along with a small straight nose. Her skin was a tinge pale, her emerald eyes striking in their intensity. Her black hair was tied into a tight bun, held in place by chopsticks that she said were from China, but in reality, had come with dinner a few weeks before. She was strong, lithe. Her banana figure gave way to a well proportioned bosom.

As the caramel melted to dark, she rolled up her sleeve and got up from her chair. Gathering her purse and evening frock, she locked her office. The Community Health Services Center was a monolith of steel, the vast spaces plated with red marble. It looked like a post-modern airplane hanger, plumbing and electrical conducts exposed and snared around the massive support beams that acted as a foundation. An ornate skylight pressed into a skeleton of corrugated beams, the glass running across the center of the building. The entire place shined.

She’d begun making her way to the parking garage, stopping when, suddenly, her eyes caught the reception area that rested in the building’s center. Don‘t blush don‘t blush don‘t blush she thought as her gaze met the striking young man dressed in combat fatigues. He looked towards her. She staggered and tried to flit her head away but it was too late and her cheeks burned like fire. Fuck!

Officer Tim Covington always seemed to have that effect on her.

He was seated behind a fortress of glass, a large telescreen scrolling bars of news and stock market text and security levels and lord knew what else. She never paid attention. Stuck in nervous gridlock, Cynthia chewed on her bottom lip. She just wanted to go home. Just needed to get out of the office for a spell. She tried to motivate herself to move, to make her way to the parking garage. She couldn’t control her breathing. Her steps were bringing her to his glass vestibule. Don‘t act like a schoolgirl. Act calm. Natural.

The first thing she did when she propped her elbows on marble overlay right underneath the glass partition was blurt out a nervous chuckle. She fought with her smile, but it never went away. Covington returned it, tipping his beret. “Happy holidays, Ms. Oratorio.”

Cynthia gathered herself just long enough to respond. “Whatever could you mean, Mr. Covington?” She hoped she didn’t stutter as she spoke. Her palms felt like lava.

“Since being stationed, I don’t think I’ve noticed you take time off. Figured it had to be for a special occasion or something.” He was young but poised and strong; had he walked into her life before she went for her Doctorate, she would have fallen head over heels for him and followed him to the ends of the Earth. Childish love games might have been so alluring, so captivating had she not been examining the abject and jouissance. “I ain’t the smartest guy in the world, obviously.”

She would have clasped his hand, to show him some affection. Damn that partition. “I‘d love to have you here for longer,” she started did I just say love, “but the Army’s been coy about your temporary placement. You know how it goes. Maybe when your enlistment is up in a few months?”

“Yeah,” his cheeks flushed. “Two years without a vacation has got to have you running a bit ragged. Having to shoulder the burdens of other's and all. Not sure if I could handle all that.”

“Oh, my week off will fly by in no time,” she nodded, propping her chin against the heels of her hands. You’re a doctor! Conduct yourself like one! “Besides, I'm going to spend most of the time in my private study. It's not exactly like I will have much in the way of company.”

“Maybe we could do something,” he started. She froze. Her eyes grew wide. Nervous energy shimmied up her spine and pooled in her stomach. “Maybe a dinner, or a date at a coffee shop.” He paused as their eyes locked, the color draining from his face. “I didn't mean date. I just meant something like that, you know?”

Suddenly, she didn’t feel so foolish after all; the thought of an Army Officer who had seen combat in Vietnam and the Sudan balling up when asking her out seemed so cute, so innocent, so real.

It wasn‘t enough to help her compose herself any better. “I...well...” she stammered. Her mind was only able to function at a basic motor survival level. “Yes. I suppose that would break the tedium of books.” She was stumbling over words; blood rushed into her face. She felt drunk. She’d never had much experience in this sort of setting.

“I...alright. We can figure it out later. I'll give you my number, so we can get in touch.” he peeled off a sheet of paper from his notepad, scrawling his name (as if she could forget) along with his work and private numbers. He folded the paper up before pushing it through the small opening available at the bottom the partition.

Tremors sparked through her midsection like electricity, her body visibly shaking from the sheer weight of her overbearing nervousness. She reached to grab the paper, making sure to steal a touch from his hand. Her fingernails traced down his palm, to his wrist. He didn't stop her. Her face was flushed and she didn‘t care if he saw anymore. “I...I'll call this sometime in the next few days.”

Through the glass, the pair held hands. For some odd reason, the act felt voyeuristic for her. She just loved the touch. Loved his touch. It was rugged, firm. Her other hand combed behind her neck, her nails lightly scratching around the brass of her neck socket.

***​

“Synth culture is creating the abhorrent moral divide we see in today's society.” The voice on the radio was testy and loud. It hurt Cynthia's cochlea implants in spite of the volume being fixed at a steady six rather than her usual nine. Back in humanity's lean times, she would have had to reach for the console on her automobile to adjust sound pitches and radio frequencies. Now, all high end radio signals could be transmitted straight into the ear.

Such was the power of the new and evolved mankind.

Darkness blanketed the Capital skies, but city’s light posts screamed fluorescent white in all directions. The distance was littered with neon glowing skyscrapers that housed everything from multinational banks and corporate offices to apartment complexes that scratched the clouds. “I don't believe you can cast synthetics as completely to blame for the fractured moral dilemma your group seems to posit. What is being allowed is cleaner access to web related services.”

“I would argue that we have more deviants because of jacking in. More and more, we are seeing people forgo work, church service, and so on—”

“My issue is with the synth culture, not necessarily the accessibility of easier to maneuver internet. Synth culture is in direct violation of the laws nature has given us. It's spitting in the face of God!”

Always fun on Showcase Tonight she thought as she continued to listen to the regular trio belabor their points and scream overtop of each other.

“So you are arguing that augmentation is the issue while simultaneously accepting it?”

“Easier access to webspace is one thing, Mr. Frost. It's another to graft USB ports and sockets into human flesh. It's another to allow people to remove whole sections of their body and replace them with abominations of flesh and machinery.”

“I believe limb replacements are only offered to those who have sustained major injuries.”

“Then how do you explain radio implants into the base of the ear? How do you explain the neurological ramifications of wiring a human brain to be able to read code through a machine?”

“And it's getting worse. Children, at formative stages of their development, are getting synthetic implants. I heard a story the other day where a young five year old student was placed on academic probation. When they investigated the reasons for the child's unwillingness to learn, it had to do with a mobile internet device which allowed him to play games. He sat docile in class and simply was wandering God knows where on the internet. And this a five year old! Think about what happens in junior high schools, or high schools? We‘re dealing with people escaping into avatars and being able to do as they please!”

“But Spokeswoman, avatar based programs are not new. In reality, they have been around since the net has been used as a networking entity between different groups of people.”

“But those were just graphic and text based. People are able to pour their essence onto the net and stay there. It's as if they are able to have entire secondary lives, ones which cannot be patrolled, which cannot be monitored.”

“Again, nothing new--”

“You cannot create your own world, that's the work of God.”

“And the decadence of our culture is showcased in full. The very nature of—”

Cynthia's blood pressure increased as she listened to the oblivious panel talking about technology that scared them, that shattered their construct on reality until, finally, she turned it all off. Hanging a sharp left at the intersection, she then pulled straight forward and down the ramp to the underground parking lot of her apartment complex. The place looked like a brick and mortar relic compared to the glass obelisks just out of reach. Exiting and locking her car, she looked both ways inside the glowing static concrete confines and relaxed her shoulders. Pawing the inside of her purse, she pulled out a black film tube, popping the top off with her thumb before reaching inside and pulling out a cigarette. She brought the lighter out of the purse, lighting up and taking a long overdue drag. Creature comforts such as these were becoming fewer and farther between. She breathed out her drag, strangely feeling mischievous. If her folks knew she smoked...

There was no airflow in the parking garage. There was nothing to feel, only bleak colors to look at. Fluorescent bulbs hummed incessantly, sounding so loud it broke her concentration. A queer rush overtaking her. What if a patient saw her? What if her folks came to visit? What if…the what if's always plagued her mind. She felt constricted. She had trouble filling her lungs with air. She dropped her cigarette after two puffs. It was a waste for someone who thought the only way to justify the price of cigarettes was to smoke them to the filter, but it didn‘t matter. She rarely smoked; she still received head rushes from the tobacco. With purpose, she walked towards the elevator, her surroundings fading and bleaching out. The path she walked was blanked from her mind. She was walking, but the act of getting from one point to the other was so minute and unmemorable that she only saw day dreams in her mind. She was operating on autopilot.

“It's been a long day,” she whined, out loud, to no one. The doors were closing on the elevator. Had she pressed the button to her floor? Yes Tim, I would love to go back to your place. The urge to smoke bore down upon her again. No war stories Tim. I'm not interested in that right now. She unbuttoned the collar of her white blouse underneath her pantsuit. Actually, I'm much more interested in your touch— Another button undone. Just gentle for now, Timothy. She be gentle for me now. Another button. She felt her skin erupt with foreign feelings, natural feelings, feelings which needed to be repressed. The rough touch can come in later.

The elevator doors opened just in time to blow some cool air over her overheating skin, but the gust was fleeting. She felt even warmer as she reached for her keys. I may be inexperienced, but I promise I‘ll melt in your hands if you touch me just the right way. She fiddled with her keys, nearly dropping them. She didn’t know which one was right. She tried them all and fought with the doorknob and burst into her apartment. She went past her study, went past her living room. Her pumps were giving her trouble, so with brisk kicks, gravity removed them and allowed her to go barefoot, revealing her black painted nails. In the bedroom, she swiftly unbuttoned her pantsuit, tossing it into a crumpled heap on her bed. “Too much...too much,” she whispered and closed her eyes, imagining what that wonderful touch would feel like when he cupped her hip. Her hands were shaking as she unbuttoned her blouse, tossing it on top of the pantsuit that was at the foot of her bed.

Once stripped to her black satin panties and tank top, she collapsed onto her bed. The feeling of the sheets against her sweaty, clammy skin felt oddly comfortable.

Her lewd thoughts had stoked a fire inside her stomach, and now, as reality was settling in around her, she was absolutely terrified. What if he calls? Oh God, what if he calls? What if he wants to do something tonight? What if he invites you in? She wanted him to. All of it. She wanted this seal to be finally broken. This couldn't possibly be normal she reasoned.

He can't call me, not like this. He has too much control. He has to earn it. All of a sudden, her panic went away. The choir of naysayers and prudes in her mind were silenced by one defiant voice. Let him call. String him along. Play the game. Make him show his cards. Her thoughts were dripping with venom.

Cynthia's ornate study was filled with books with pristine bindings. The chair and lamp were Indian, and quite expensive. The rug was Persian. Her living room featured a treadmill and exercise ball, all very stereotypical and clean. Her home was filled with muted colors, all an extension of an equally muted persona. But inside her office, where she kept her computer and data ports, the walls were bright, pasted with intrinsically designed murals and Anarchist propaganda fliers. Uneven stacks of vinyl ranging from The Beatles to The Clash to The Grails to Radiohead littered the floor alongside dated dime store romance novels and political manifestos. Her desk was a sea of scented candles and ash trays. She had a carton of premium cigarettes threatening to fall into a pile of Melville and Marx. She felt no rush to save them.

It was all neat.

In a very disorganized fashion.

Cynthia grabbed hold of a cigarette from a nearby pack, lighting it up as her jagged and clumsy steps transformed to a practiced cheetah sashay saturated in her confidence. All things, even those in discord, were part of a grander design; an affirmation of the cracked and fragile identity Ms. Oratorio thought was her own. Resting in the all too comfortable confines of her leather chair, she lit a line of peppermint candles and reached for the metal spike on her desk before worming her fingers through the tangled cord. Smoke bellowed out from her nostrils as she undid the granny knots and general kinks. Ashing the cigarette for a final time, she took the plastic guard from the back of her neck, steadying the spike into the opening. Metal touched metal, fastening the spike inside her head.

She was safe now.

She could be who she wanted to be.

All she saw was binary.

***​

Without a conscious chorus to keep her inner deviant at bay, the identity Cyn had been born. Cyn was much of Cynthia but Cynthia wasn't much of Cyn; addiction was taking a gut wrenching hold on her psyche, making even basic human functionality a difficult process. Cynthia felt bottled up, unable to hold tangible conversations with normal people. Cynthia was a job, a physical regimen, and a degree. Cyn was an outlet for that repression.

The binary was only for the start up; what came afterward was a flood of neon grunge, a futuristic creation which had a feel and touch and appearance surprisingly more real than reality. There was a breeze here.

She stood in the middle of an abandoned street, her attire quickly gripping onto her body. Her black form fitting sleeveless body suit with matching gauntlets shone in the setting sun, as did the spiked bracelets she wore on her wrists. Her black hair framed her face in a wild and untamed manner. Her lips were a full red, her eyes layered thinly with black and green shadow. This was to accentuate the lines of her eyes. She wanted to present herself as a feast to behold, to act as the tantalizing bait before snapping hold of some innocent prey from the bottom.

A gently breeze flew through her, giving her chills. Standing in the middle of the street, she shivered as she closed her eyes, turning her head upward. A contented smirk spread across her face as the last wisps of wind passed, allowing her to bring her head down fully and begin her practiced saunter towards her play place; Random Rendezvous.

At Random Rendezvous, the only limiting factor possible was the human mind. It was a unisex fetish club built on the foundation of sharing and frequented by high rollers and beautiful people in need of misplaced spice in their love lives. Dominant personalities had the ability to choose their play partner, and the play partner was able to choose the setting. It was set in a dingy warehouse in the industrial district with corroding sheet metal and dirt driveways complete with deep pot holes filled to the brim by rain water. Techno and electronica throbbed through its cracks.

Approaching the reinforced steel entrance door, Cyn’s heels ground against the cement stairs. She knocked on the door three times, an eye slant opening from the other side. “I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, Sir, because I'm not myself you see,” she purred.

The door cracked open, revealing an impeccably well pressed suit wrapped around a man slightly shorter than Cyn. He was chiseled out of granite, filling the suit wonderfully. His beard had a subtle hint of gray. “Been over a week, Cyn. You must be missing someone like me.”

“Of course, Geist,” she coyly smirked as she lightly pressed her back against him, seductively stepped inside. The entire place was screaming in neon red and blue flashes with hundreds of people nestled together, grinding into each other indiscriminately. She looked around and began walking through the small openings of people.

He followed closely behind. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Green and orange began flashing overhead, bathing the dance floor in strobbing light. They carried on their conversation in spite of the music assaulting the airways. “For as much as it costs? No, for the five-hundredth time.”

“Maybe if you had a drink, the obvious knots in your lower back would come undone,” He smirked, teasing his hand along the small of her back.

She slowly turned around, nestling close to him. “What’s the problem Geist? Am I too hard to ensnare?” Her smile was demure and devious as it planted premeditated trail of kisses down his right cheek. Each one burned a ruby blemish from where her lips originally grazed. “What rooms are open?”

He stammered through his answer. “It’s kinda standard fare.”

She drew even closer, her left thigh massaging his hip. “One fifty-eight then?” she whispered into his ear,

Her sultry tone caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. “Can‘t you stay here for a while?” he breathlessly asked.

“Brush your mustache next time, Geist, and I shall.”

“Just watch yourself, okay? Some bad shit has gone down here.”

Her gaze became quizzical. “Anything you’d like to share?”

“It’s sort of private, but surely you can handle anything out there.”

She eased herself off him, letting him go to disappearing into the crowd before making her way towards the back of Random Rendezvous. The faceless attempted to paw at her, the siren look making her all the more desirable. After making her way through the maelstrom, she arrived at the real nerve center of the establishment. Against the wall was a bank of doors which stretched out longer than physically possible within the confines of the building, all covered in velvet with numbered tags bolted into place. She walked into room one hundred fifty-eight, the door sliding up as she stepped inside.

When she opened her eyes, all she could see was whiteness that stretched as far as the eye could see. A gust of wind pressed against her. And then, all was silent. “Room, I'd like preset one—”

She heard the grinding of gears, then the distinctive metallic locking noise used when a selection had been made. Her brow furrowed. “I haven’t selected—”

“Please hold.” A monotone female voice interrupted her.

Looking around, Cyn stomped a few steps forward. “Cease hold, load preset—”

The monotone voice interceded once again. “Subject found. Please feel free to precede, and enjoy your time at Random Rendezvous.”

Her hands touched the latex around her hips before tensing around them. “Subject cancel. Load room preset—” A loud automated buzz interrupted her once again.

This buzz was not familiar. Suddenly, the screeching light died.

She couldn’t help herself; she was frightened. “Room. Room. Room?”

When the lights came back on, there was a pool of black tar pressed against the floor mere feet away from her boots. “My my, what have we here?” The voice took on many octaves which all echoed seamlessly. It was unfamiliar, but from what she could tell, it sounded male. “I don't believe that this is the Cynthia Oratorio the world is accustomed to seeing.”

Her heart pinned. Nobody knew her name here.

“Rather, I would imagine you'd love to keep Random Rendezvous trips as secret as possible. But Cyn is not about keeping her voyeuristic personality on the down low.”

She stood still momentarily, watching as the pool grew in diameter. A ripple shot through it, the wave glowing white before transitioning to green. A drop shot up from the puddle, landing on her boot. She tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t budge. “You’ve got the wrong girl,“ she stammered. She had never seen anything like this before.

“Girl? Sorry? You are no girl[./b]” Bubbles began to float up from the center of the tar pool, a face now beginning to form. “No, the real Cynthia Oratorio is a lost young woman who doesn't know the first thing about sexual experience yet has a high fluent sense of sexuality.”

Cyn’s eyes were fixed on the face forming in the pool; it was a Venetian mask, ornate inscriptions outlining its eyes and lips. What the inscriptions meant exactly she couldn’t say; she was, however, entranced by the cuts, which began to give off a somber blue glow. “Cyn demands the finest of deviant artists whereas Cynthia can't help but stumble through simple sentences when a dense soldier asks her for simple pleasantries. Cyn is the walking submissive paradox; she only semi-gives of herself and passes herself off as submissive when in reality she is grabbing her partner by the throat and leading them through a rugged tango. But don't worry, Cyn, we will fix that.”

Her heart was racing. The words had punctured through her veneer, cutting her deeply to the bone. What was said was hypnotically true. She couldn’t respond. The face motioned upwards. There were no eyes. The lips began to move. “We'll fix everything in here.”

Startled by metallic mask emoting a satisfied smirk, Cyn stumbled backward, falling on her backside. Tendrils spat out from the pool, grabbing onto her wrists and ankles. She fought for a moment, but the tar wrapped around her joints like a second skin. She had anticipated a texture of some sort, but she couldn’t feel anything. The tendrils forced her arms above her head, leaving her airborne and spread eagle.

“What the fuck?!” She spat out as another tendril shot from the viscous tar and pushed against the latex of her bodysuit, parting her breasts, It cut through her attire and caused the clingy material of her suit to slacken. She was afforded some small form of modesty; the latex still covered her bosom.

The face dangled above her head precariously, the eye holes glancing into her eyes. Without eyes, what stared back at her was emotionless. Cold. “No no...that should do well enough for now. The gentle peel will work fine on this one.” Its words were weighed down in arrogance.

It made Cyn’s blood boil.

“What are you?” She scrambled to respond. She was attempting to steady her breathing. Even with the intensifying rage in the pit of her stomach starting to rise in temperature, there was a brush back of fear because of her predicament. With her arms locked in, she couldn’t press the manual escape on the back of her neck. She had to make sure her nerves were steady, and hopefully, she would be afforded an opportunity. She had no allusions; before she could escape, she was going to be in for a wild ride.

“I’m aware, as it were. Perhaps hyper aware. Cynthia, you have to understand, this raging fetish is threatening to split you into two. Let me unify you. Let me make you whole. Let me heal that temptress voice which has manifested itself inside of you.”

The voice washed over her mind, tried to massage her into an accepting lull. The cracking of her veneer was quickly pieced back together. He thinks he can save you. You’ve done this dozens of times. You’ve done this before. Her face went completely calm, her eyes closing. The mask lowered itself to her level. “I just want you to know—” she trailed off with a giggle, pursing her lips together into a cocksure pout, “—you’re mad”.

Both capturer and captured gave the other a hearty laugh. Hers was of defiance. Its was of satisfaction. “No.” Her eyes opened as two more tendrils came from the pool and made their way through the air into her line of sight. “But you will be, now that you have wasted your one opportunity to escape from this unscathed. I will not apologize for what is about to occur.”

Struggle shot through her muscles, her arms and legs trying valiantly to escape. “Let go of me! Let fucking go of me!”

Her demand fell on deaf ears. “I’m sorry, but do you seem to believe you are in any semblance of control?” The tendrils snaked through the opening of her latex, beginning to massage their way underneath the material. “Let me show you just how meek you really are.”

Being a sensation junkie, Cyn was mindful of what she was feeling. At first, all she knew was that there was something slinking across her ribcage. It felt hollow, empty, weightless and without a signature. But suddenly the touch grew warm. It felt like the palm of a hand was caressing her. The tendril began to spread in mass, going from narrow tentacle to a flat pancake pressed against her side. She shuddered.

Sensation prodded against her sides, rolling across the taut muscles of her stomach. Her anticipation had been towards fondling; at worst, she felt, she would have to deal with pain. But the feeling she had from the pool was something dangling close to the playful, towards the testing. Outside of her comfort zone, she felt her nerves becoming more receptive. She pressed her lips together. Hard. When her reaction threatened to spill out, her oxygen was sucked in through her nose in hard snorts which started to occur in rapid fire succession as the prodding continued. She pressed her lips inward, using her teeth to keep her mouth latched shut. Her eyes closed. Her head began to quiver.

“I could say all sorts of cliché things right now, but Cynthia, your greatest weakness is a full on manifested fetish.” The voice didn’t help. “All those books and all that repression. All you really want is to be touched.”

It was true. Any fantasy she had concocted involved intimate touch. Toys were plastic and paddles were metal. A knowing, grazing touch would leave her begging and pleading for more. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t manage the words or the thoughts as they ran through her head. It felt like fingers were rolling the skin around the top of her ribcage. She coughed. She squealed. Her eyes opened in realization. The rolling stopped. “Don’t do this,” she was far from defeated, but her voice was muted.

“Stop what?” The touch slithered upward, reaching the hollows of her underarms.

Almost instantaneously, her fighting started anew. “Don’t do this to me.”

“I prefer the laughter.”

She lowered her eyes from the glare. “Don’t do this to me, please.”

“How about we go back to your laughter?” The question was rhetorical, and she knew it. The teasing pokes she felt in the center of her hollows caused her to freeze. Her eyelids opened as a result of the sensation shock. It felt like she was being poked in her armpits and she was unable to bat the hands away. She knew she was in trouble. Her entire underarm was covered.

These were just test pokes.

The poking began to be intermixed with scratches. There was no order to the actions. Her brow furled in frustration. The little dutch boy was growing tied of keeping his finger in the dike. The gentle caress was taking its toll; the teasing pokes in her underarms caused her to wear an idiot’s grin. She couldn’t speak. All she could do was breathe through her forced smile.

“You seem to be having some trouble. Here, let me fix you right up.” That’s when she could feel the sensation of twenty tiny finger tips gently stroke all over the skin of each of her underarms.

“Goddammit!”

There was no longer a use to keeping herself from laughing. She cackled as she felt this damn teasing touch constantly and effortlessly stroking her armpits. This being was capable of manipulating her in unimaginable ways.

The notion sent shivers rippling down her spine.

The mask smiled towards Cyn, watching her fight the sensation. She couldn’t help but swing her head to and fro. Forced to laugh, she felt assaulted as the teasing tickling sensation continued without ceasing or growing tired. Giggles spurted out of her mouth.

“Maybe you should have thought this through more thoroughly.” The mask teased.

“You think?” Cyn shouted as her head tilted backward, the tickling overpowering her and causing her to fidget wildly. The tar stuck to her like a glove. And its touch never grew tired. It was mechanical; the scratching was just gentle enough to light up her nerves with ticklish waves.

“No. I know.” The feeling began to dissipate for a moment, only to come alive in an intense charge of electricity. At first startled by the shock, Cyn could merely yelp. But when the next shock went through to her underarms, all she could do was squeal.

“Oh fuck me.”

No response. Just another shock. And then another. And then another. Each one caused her to tense up. Each one forced out a squeal. Anticipating another shock, she squished her facial features together. Nothing came. She couldn’t believe it at first; she knew the second she opened her eyes she would have the electric tickles coarse through her armpits.

She kept them closed. She gritted her teeth. Kept her eyes screwed shut.

The next shock was constant and intense, causing her face to unclench and her head to swing wildly as laughter poured out of her mouth. Her lungs began to ache as tickles burned the entirety of her underarms. Her muscle response went into desperate overdrive. Her movements became so powerful that she was able to sway the tendrils keeping her bound. Her hearty laughter became frantic as her body made an attempt to escape.

With a snap, Cyn broke free of the tendrils.

Laughter was still the only sound in the room. While she was able to free her arms and legs by breaking free from the tendrils, her underarms were still latched onto. She closed her pits, hoping that would dampen the electricity tickling her underarms. It did not. It only served to make them more intense.

She began backing away, stumbling around in a hazy state of forced mirth. The tendrils around her wrists and ankles remained. The pool began to close in.

“Stay away from me!” she shouted as she tried to move her hand to the back of her neck, to press the manual escape which would free her from the room and back into her home. The burst of tickling that came from the pool was so powerful it dropped her to her knees.

A blackened hand the size of a dinner plate burst from the pool of tar as it slowly ambled towards Cyn’s kneeling form. “NO!” The hand shot forward, slamming into the opening of her latex suit. Cyn had shut her eyes anticipating the velocity to hurt, but it didn’t. All she could feel was the tar splattering upon contact. The tickling paused for a microsecond. The feeling had yet to subside in her underarms. She went for the button.

Instantly, the splattered tar shot across her sides, grabbing at her wrists through the bodysuit. Cyn’s hands effectively became glued to her sides. She couldn’t budge them loose. “Fuck.”

“And where do you think YOU’RE going?” The mask was still far away, but she could see the arrogant smirk it wore.

“LET ME FUCKING GO!” She roared.

In the blink of an eye, she was face to face with the mask, now mere inches away from her face. “NO!” it roared, causing her to flinch away as air bellowed out of its mouth. “We’re not—” the pool maneuvered so Cyn was always face to face with the mask “—finished yet.”

“What do you fucking want with me?” Her words caused spit to fly out of her mouth.

“I want you to beg for it.” The mask flatly stated as a tendril of tar wiped saliva off of its metallic face. “I want you to break.”

She tried to move her arms. Her muscles flinched and strained hard, but there was no give. She snarled just before a bolt of electricity shot into her armpits again, making her yelp and jump rigidly onto her feet. Modesty had gone out the window. She could feel the tar groping her body underneath her suit, sliding down her hips. “Good luck…” she whimpered, her voice on the verge of cracking.

The only response she received was a smirk. The effects of her statement were felt soon after, as she felt a light, feathery feeling shoot up the expanse of her arm, teasing her nerve endings on its lazy jaunt. As it passed through her hollows, she grimaced and gritted her teeth, closing her eyes as the touch began sweeping across the valleys of her toned midsection. Her breathing became tense, which caused her ribcage to become all the more pronounced.

Millions of crunches and aerobic exercises afforded her a flat and taut stomach. It was one of those areas she felt a woman had to maintain. Like her approach to life, her midsection was sculpted. But it wasn’t hard; she hadn’t burned herself out to the point where the thing was just a bunch of tightly strung muscles. She kept herself at least looking somewhat feminine.

But each touch amplified her position, amplified the thirst brought on from years without a foreign touch. Almost instantly, her breathing became panicked, and her idiot’s grin became burned to her face. She shook her head in disbelief as the lightest of touches was surging such a disastrous intensity of ticklish sensations. “Oh God what is wrong with me?”

“Sensitive tummy I see.”

“Leave me—” she couldn’t even finish before her squealing cut her off. The lazy touch trailed back and forth over her trembling and captured rib cage. For Cyn, it was all too maddening. Sharp drawing and exhaling of breath through her nostrils showed both her terror and the bones protecting her lungs.

As the feeling intensified, Cyn began slouching over, began fighting with her fingers to rub away sensations she was feeling swell inside her through the driving tickling of her ribs. With glued hands, she did not manage much of a resistance. Each sway rippled over her ribs in frantic intensity, growing in both size and range. She fell to her knees, her head bent forward as she began to cackle.

“Please…”

But her begging was far too meek for the mask. The feelings she was getting over her spasming midsection were beginning to burn her ticklish and sensitive flesh. It felt as if both sides of her rib cage were covered in their entirety by a pair of large hands which were only focused on running trailing fingers up and down her sides. She rested her forehead against the floor, singing out in helplessly prolonged laughing melody.

She collapsed the moment it dug into the tops of her ribs. Up and down, hitting different locations on her rib cage like it was a xylophone.

The only music being octave shifts from startled screams.

The mask ended its fun, ended the game it was playing as well as the teasing. Cyn begged the moment she felt grueling, unflinching fingers torture her ribcage. The flesh over the tops was massaged aggressively, while the valleys of her bony protrusions felt as though they were being scrubbed by brushes.

She rolled onto her back when she felt the tar gather towards her back, aggressively arching as the tar went up the expanse of her spine, gently tickling along the way. She flinched and flexed as much as she could as often neglected areas between her bones were carefully teased.

Tears flooded her eyes. “STOP!” She was in agony; her nerve endings were all too receptive to this full out tickling assault. Mascara began bleeding on her cheeks as she continued to belt out forced laughter. Her throat felt scratched by cat claws. She wanted to rip herself free, but no matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t shake her arms loose.

The tar began expanding across her stomach, shooting down past her ribs. The surface area of her lower tummy wasn’t safe; the tar continued it’s full on tactile assault at high intensity even as it traveled downward, swirling around her quivering navel and teasing along the outer edges in a premeditated slow dance. Her ribs were still being played, the tender flesh expanding and contracting with every single harsh breath. Her hot black tears stained her latex suit.

And now, it was beginning to open her up; she was about to lose her modesty. The tattered split of latex dangled loosely, showing off the space between her heaving breasts. She was a bit preoccupied. Her eyes were glued downward, her mouth constantly agape.

The tar dipped.

Cyn threw her head back.

The texture was like that of bristles, deliberately harsh in their spins. With each cycle through the inside of her navel, a trail of tar was left to sit, and tickle in ways conventional methods would be unable. Shaking her head wild, her mascara flying and splattering onto the walls of the white room, she yelped in frantic laughter. “HELP! HELP!” But then she went back to gurgling and laughing as her ribs, tummy, and now navel were being deftly tortured.

The swirling inside her navel stopped, pinning for a moment and falling center. Sensation shot through her as the tar melted against her, burning her bellybutton with intense scrubbing tickles. The sensation ripped through her, the entire middle portions of her body falling to pieces. The attack left her with very little fight, and suddenly, she stopped moving. Stopped fighting. All she could do was laugh as her body was toyed with. She was certain she would die. Time had no meaning in this place. She already felt herself going mad.

When the tickling stopped, Cyn’s nerves were still being rocked by phantom stimulation. Her throaty laugh softened, replaced by an idiotic giggle. Her eyes were shrink-wrapped with tears, her face and hair a mess. “You’ve got scrubbing bubbles,” she laughed. The mask stared at her at eye level, a smirk curling across the corners of its lips. Her skin felt heavy.

Spreading the latex opening, the gravity of the room did the rest. Her breasts were fully exposed; her pink nipples were puckered upwards like darts. She had been so preoccupied in her own headspace that she couldn’t turn the arousal off. She had never been so easily and thoroughly dominated before. Tendrils of tar began a light massage around the undersides of her breasts. Her breathing hastened. She bit her bottom lip. “You think you’re gonna break me by doing this?”

“Yes,” it started as it ripped the upper portion of the latex right from Cyn’s body, the tar around her arms sharply cutting through the material and separating it as well, “I do.” All that remained was the bottom portion of the latex suit. She looked silly in just tattered latex pants and boots. The tar helped her along; it began spreading down her legs, cutting the material in its wake.

She suddenly felt frozen and embarrassed. “You don’t have to do this.” Her skin was bright pink. She didn’t want to be seen like this.

“You aren’t ready yet.”

“But I am.” Cyn saw her thighs through the perforated latex leggings. Then she saw her knees. She became frantic. “You’ve got to stop this!”

“Or what?”

“You—” she was thinking on her feet now, but couldn’t help her stuttering “—you think they don’t see this? You think they have no idea who you are or what you’re doing? You think you can get—”

“Cynthia, do you honestly think I would be able to invade protected space in a facility that has a hyper awareness of potential abusers in their midst? Stop with the stereotypical volley about the repercussions as a result of my actions. You KNOW better.”

The cut was now to her shins. And once the tar had arrived to her feet, it began moving up the top side of her sole, cutting the portion which kept her boots on. Then, the tar stopped. Cyn was jerked upward, and the pants fell to the floor. She was without modesty. She couldn’t look the mask in the face. Her muscles shuddered. She felt cold and all too aware.

The tar began to expand, moving to the undersides of her soles, then across towards her toes. She didn’t bother to flinch. She knew just how futile it was. Her arms were pulled back, her wrists pulled over the top of her head. The tendrils began manipulating around her breasts while a pair of fresh ones came from the pool and flicked her hardened nipples. She gasped. She felt the tendrils swirl and ensnare each bud and gently roll them. She wasn’t sure if it was the tickling, the firm bondage, or the complete loss of control, but she was becoming more and more aware of just how turned on she was becoming. She had yet to be touched down below and she was already throbbing against her will.

“You’re not exactly good with poker when your cards all in front of you, are you Cynthia?”

Stifling a moan from the sensation, she gritted her teeth. “Fuck you…”

The response caused her to arch backward; an intense raking of her soles bolted her body to contort violently. “Have some manners, Cynthia.”

She panted in abject horror. New tendrils came from the pool. In her contorted state, Cyn wasn’t able to see them. Her body stiffened upon to the twin touch on her engorged clit, which had formerly been fully protected. The outer edges were stimulated by what felt like stiffened tongues. Her breath caught. She closed her eyes. Everything felt soft to her. Her nipples continued to shoot pleasure sensations to her loins. She was losing control. Had lost control. The insides of her eyelids felt like sandpaper, causing more tears to trail down her cheeks. Her head felt heavy but her neck felt light. Her head motioned from side to side as her gasps transitioned to moans. Real moans. She was purring.

The sensation covering her nipples and glistening core were taking her mind closer and closer to the brink, but neither were firm enough. It was just teasing. And Cyn hated teasing. Just do it already! What little was left of her mind was trying to figure a way out of this. She knew if she could be taken this far that it would only be a matter of time before her will was snuffed out thanks to her insatiable lust. She fought with her fingers to touch the manual escape, but she was inches away from being able to press it.

Suddenly, she felt her body become a conductive sheet for tickles. Like electricity, a low burst shot through the portions in which she was covered; she felt the tickling through her armpits, to her sides, up her back, down her ribcage, across her trembling tummy, sweeping inside her navel, and across the bottoms of her soles. The tips of her nipples joined the rest of her overstimulated body, all while her buds felt like they were being rolled over with tongues. Her toes felt as though they were being sucked by individual mouths and while the sensation tickled her mightily, the feeling also shot shocks of pleasure into her loins. The feeling of tongues licking her now sopping lips was driving her crazy. She felt trapped, pinned down, and toyed with in a manner she couldn’t have possibly imagined. And it turned her on. She couldn’t deny herself the effect of the tar pit’s stimulation.

Each flick across her lips brought realization; the bounds holding her arms in place were beginning to slowly give. With so much having to be focused across her body, the pool was losing its attention. She felt the inside of her lips become softly parted, and the licks began to tease inside of her. Sweeping licks were given aftershocks of light tickles across the inner lining of her labia. The tickling was manifesting itself to such a degree that Cyn couldn’t differentiate the sensation from pleasure. It all rolled into one. She felt her nipples pinched between massages. Her moaning was constantly filtered between her mindless giggling. Her eyes remained closed as she tossed her head. Unable to move much else, she felt as though this movement was helping her somehow express her need to move against her domination.

She was still too far away from the manual escape with her fingers. Escape was secondary. Her heart began fluttering as the endorphin rush shot through her bloodstream. She was panting. Grunting. She tried to move to the touch which was searing the inside of her sex. She felt so close. “I want you to destroy me.” She couldn’t believe the words as they escaped her lips in pants.

“Say it louder.”

“I want you to destroy me,” she all too willingly repeated.

“Louder. And with some feeling, Cynthia. We're removing walls here.”

She forced her face towards the mask, the playful teasing needing to be stopped. It wasn’t buying her practiced line. “I want you to destroy me!” She roared, knots tightening up in her stomach because she was actually sure she meant it.

A scintillating shock was sent through the tight grips of her bondage. Electricity poured through her rib cage, her navel, her armpits, her toes. STOP THIS! Respite was off in the untraversable distance. The feeling of running nails over her taut soles and through the hollows of her armpits didn't stop through the surges. She ground her teeth. Her body tried to shudder, but any slack was quickly removed. The manipulation of her clit was fierce and savagely effective. Her very core was being French kissed. “OH GOD!” The desire to laugh was overpowering. Her desire to scream was overwhelming. She felt her heart burst. “DESTROY ME! FUCKING DESTROY ME! I'M YOURS! I'M YOURS!”

“We're not there yet, but it's a start.”

Her muscles began to spasm and contracted; a violent explosion transitioning to soothing twitches as her climax continued. Her eyes went wide with fear, the scent of her defeat hanging in the air. Within her desperation, she let loose to sexual emancipation. Her brain tittering on the brink of madness, she let out an anguished scream.

All she could do was pant. Her eyes were glazed over. Satisfaction came with a heavy price; without the overriding feeling of arousal, the reality of her captured situation became all the more dire. She had never felt anything so hard and so intense slam through her loins in her entire life. Her hands were now in a perfect place. As she felt herself begin to black out from sensory overload from continued stimulation, she wheezed.

“Sucker.”

The eye openings of the mask grew. She fought through the tensing grip, pressing the manual escape in fully just as her mind went blank.

***​

Cynthia opened her eyes only to see the blinking of DOS code on her monitor. The night was still in full bloom.

Suddenly, she felt an intense chill course through her body. Her skin broke out into gooseflesh. She shivered. She felt her sopping panties pressed against her sex. The seat of her leather chair was soaked.

The spike lay limply on the ground. She began lazily rubbing her arms, trying to warm herself up. Her teeth began to chatter. She brought her legs up to her chest, trying to huddle up. She rocked back and forth. She felt numb. Frozen to the bone. Looking down, she saw her skin turning blue. Her lips had become purple.

“What the…what the…”

The candles were blown out.

She closed her eyes.

***​

When she opened her eyes, she was back inside. All she could hear was loud static. She closed her eyes again and gulped.

Her frozen body fidgeted in the confines of the pool’s wrap. She was immersed from neck to toe in the black, her nude body given a second skin which was ice cold. She shivered, chattered her teeth, and tried shaking her head because the rest of her body couldn’t move. Every nook and exposed cranny was covered. Her nerves throbbed as gusts of cold air pressed into her skin. Her breath came out in a haze.

“Oh you thought that you could get away that easily? You thought just like before that you were able to break free?” She couldn’t answer the questions posed by the mask. All Cyn could do was stare at it as a headache rocked her brain. “You did those things because I let you. You broke free because I wanted to see you scurry. You were able to press the manual escape because I figured you would not have fought so damn hard if you knew that escape was futile.”

“Fuck you,” she meekly chattered.

“When you break, you will mean those words.”

“You ain’t gonna break me,” she laughed, her ribs scotched in pain thanks to her earlier forced laughter.

“You’re already losing your composure, Cynthia. Soon, you’ll accept the collar.”

Fear tried to bubble up her chest but it was frozen on the approach. A big, heavy cinder block of crashing awareness would have forced her to shiver if not for her already compromised position. With no way to fight the feeling, her breathing grew spastically heavy. She tightened up the muscles in her face. Tears froze to her cheeks.

Wrapped inside a cocoon of freezing tendrils, she could feel all resistance begin to slip away. It was as if what she was feeling surging through her body came directly from a toying mind. The tar invaded small openings of her skin. The calculating cold was without remorse. She felt like she was going to shatter. “Just stop this,” she begged. She felt her body going into shock. With frozen skin, the feeling of moving tendrils felt like razors cutting across in patterns over her naked flesh. She winced, trying to maintain her composure. Her arousal was frosted over. Then, she felt her soles against warm air. The cocoon was moving, allowing her feet the chance to breathe. But movement and sensation was fleeting; soon, her toes became ensnared by ice cold ribbons.

All ten of her toes were pulled back tightly, stopping at the point before the joints would feel strained under pressure while simultaneously immobilizing them. She felt the sensation of warm hands rubbing the feeling back into her trembling soles. All she could do was sigh as the mask massaged her trapped feet.

The feeling was intense, laced with pleasure. Her soles had been erogenous zones that hadn’t been effectively discovered by the guided hands of a lover. Even frozen, she could feel her heart race and her tenderized sex throb.

As the massage relaxed her, she felt the chilling confines of her bondage steadily rise in temperature. She was in for the ride now, and as things became more comfortable for her, she was more accepting of her predicament.

“Don’t relax, my captured tart,” the mask had a good way of putting a stop to her good vibrations. The movement she started to unwind, the arrogance of her captor only caused her body to tense. “Relaxing is only going to get you in trouble.”

But she couldn’t help herself. Her soft arches were gently cared for, a hard press rubbing against her heels that felt so good that it caused a ripple up her spine. She was back to room temperature, but the sweat from restriction glistened on her forehead.

The tickling didn’t get introduced to her gently. Those guiding hands suddenly launched a full scale assault. Her lungs heaved against the irritated muscles of her ribs. Laughter poured in a sweat drip, the heat inside her bondage rising with the newfound intensity of her sole tickling. The focus was on the heel, piercing through the skin and dragging ticklish feelings down horizontal lines. Every thirty seconds, the sensation would travel vertically over the end of her foot. The guttural cries coming from her lips were only a precursor. When she felt her arches get shocked by its dangerous tickling touch, she began to panic. “STOP STOP STOP!”

There was no stopping. All she could feel was her arches slowly scraped by fingernails. This time, however, she was robbed of a pattern. It felt as though fingers were dancing wildly over her arch, and she tried to flinch her toes instinctively as a defense mechanism. The tendrils held them fast and tight; her eyes shot wide, and all she could do was stare down across the rippling black cocoon and see her feet ticklishly dissected.

The fever pitch of mimicked stroking fingers grew in size as she felt more being added to the mix. It wasn’t as if five replicated fingers was enough to satiate the mask. Instead, it kept adding anatomical impossibilities, bringing what felt like thirty fingers to tease her arches. The teasing was gone from there though, beginning a focused attack to the balls of her feet. Her ankles struggled through the tight grip of the cocoon, the stuffy confines now causing her to sweat profusely not only inside, but outside as well.

Frantic spasms from muscles she never knew could move in such manners crystallized her helplessness. Her howls of unadulterated laughter had transcended beyond reason, and it was only stopped momentarily by guffaws, coughing, and screams. But her eyes were hypnotized at the view of her destruction from above. She felt light headed from the lack of oxygen, but at the same time felt a strange out of body vibe in seeing her own trapped soles being manipulated by what looked like nothing more than pool of mindless tar. She couldn’t control herself. She couldn’t help the increasing arousal as each simulated finger shot shockwaves up her leg and into her sex. She wasn’t aware, but her nipples were gently being played with inside the cocoon. She was outside of any functioning reality.

“I’m just testing you now.” The stark voice floated in through her ears but quickly left without resonation. Hope drained from mind. She tried to remain steadfast, to remain as an anchor for her body and mind’s sake. But the second that tar went up from the balls of her feet to the space between her toes, her life line had been severed.

“STOP!” Cynthia screamed. “I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!”

For a moment, there was pause. Her head dropped limply, her chin pressing against the tar on her chest. She gasped for air, but she couldn’t stop her incoherent babbling. “how much longer…how much longer…how much longer…”

“Until I stop?” it asked as a tendril cupped her chin, lifting her head so she could look into the mask’s eye holes.

“No,” she wheezed. “Until I stop being me and start being yours.”

The mask’s brow arched. She didn’t know what it was thinking, but the smug destructive quality which took glee in the malice it was inflicting seemed to soften. “I suppose that is all up to you.”

Cynthia closed her eyes, relaxing on the notion that the onslaught was in the process of robbing her not only of her dignity and fight, but her freedom. She was beyond fear, beyond an emotional response. She felt empty. She mustered what was left of her tattered courage. “You can’t break me.”

Her jaw clinched immediately afterwards.

Anger spurted from her captor. “NO MORE GAMES!”

She went pale, nervous twitches blanketing her sweating body which was still being tenderly manipulated inside the cocoon. The intensity of its voice seemed to echo infinitely. A parting middle finger separated her moist lips. She threw he head back and sighed.

The cocoon absorbed her soles, leaving them completely submerged and still. There was no muscle response strong enough to move even a millimeter.

The arches of her feet felt the bristles of a hairbrush with ballpoint ends raked aggressively to and fro. Shaking her head was the only escape for all the pent up energy blowing through her. The heels of her feet were being prodded with pin wheels which seemed to have a knack for finding sensitive spaces usually left unexplored. She could only partially open her eyes. The assault on her feet had siphoned her energy. All she could do was make noises which teetered between laughter and inhuman gurgling.

If that wasn’t enough to turn her completely mad, she started to feel the sensation of toothbrushes being scrubbed across her immobilized arches. She couldn’t count the numbers. The crevices between her toes, as well her toe stems were given the same aggressive, all-enveloping treatment.

Laughter was too tame for what she felt; she couldn’t express the intense tickling anymore. Her mouth was open, but nothing came out. It remained buried inside. With all her focus and might she bucked with her muscles, and while the cocoon held her fast, momentum started to swing in her favor. She was able to sway inside the cocoon.

But her feet were trapped with brushes of all sorts eroding away any remnants of her sanity. Her soles were just one big spot to be manipulated and dominated. No space was safe. Every single sensitive area was exposed and deliberately being abused.

The heat of her confines had turned her into a slick mess, which went double for her throbbing womanhood thanks to all too careful stimulating of her nipples, areolae, and lips. The tickling just continued to grow in intensity. She couldn’t manage to breathe anyone. She felt the life sucked out of her lungs.

Cynthia’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as she passed out.

***​

She woke up with a startle, her sweat drenched forehead pressed against black stained tablecloth. Rapidly blinking her eyes, Cynthia gasped for air as she lifted her head. Everything felt light. Oxygen deprived.

The floor was a checkerboard polished to a high shine. The center of the room was where the people were congregated; mustachioed men in dapper suits and woman in ball gowns with their faces partially obscured by pearl masquerade masks dancing in pairs, ornate chandeliers hanging precariously over their oblivious heads. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture was just beginning to warm up.

She was stuffed inside a gown full of velvet frills and reflective jewels. What remained of her mascara was smeared underneath her eyes, spread unevenly underneath her cheeks.

She stood up on bare, shaky footing. What kinda shoes they wear? Disconnected thought strings rummaged through what was left of her brain, the bone tired and broken synapses causing fractures in the sync up process. Her muscles were uncoordinated; her grace had long since been fried. She stumbled towards the people, the sound of her pattering feet sounding so loud to her that she believed her eardrums would burst. She began to fall. Her hand was plucked, her body brought close with a graceful, yet still forceful tug.

“Clumsy me,” she slurred, her feet not even touching the ground as a man began swirling her around in dance.

“Your feet don’t even have to touch the ground if your partner is strong enough.”

“They will know something is wrong. They’ll see me floating.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about someone looking up your dress here Cynthia.”

She saw human eyes underneath that metallic mask. “Do we have to keep doing this?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Her head fell from strain but a hand brought her back to eye level with a gentle caress of the chin. “This isn’t fair, you know.”

“I never said it would be.”

She heard chimes ringing and the sound of volleying cannon fire. “Can you at least give me your name?”

“Cynthia—” the mask was smiling towards her “—whatever made you think I could be categorized with a name?”

She had no answer.

“You need to close your eyes.”

She knew she had to. She was breaking down, her body feeling too heavy to maintain. The hypnotic rhythm was all too comforting.

***​

Cynthia didn’t care anymore.

She opened her eyes. Everything before her was blurry

Before her was a figure made of black, muscles bursting and calculated as if carefully forged from iron. Its neck looked like it was the size of a tree trunk. The flesh face of her captor quickly disappeared behind the steel of a Venetian mask, a hiss bellowing after the clampdown.

There were human eyes behind that mask now.

They didn’t ease her mind.

She had been broken down to her most basic of parts. Now, the mask was intent to grind what was left of her into a fine docile powder. Green symbols slithered across his body at random intervals. “So kind of you to join us, Miss Oratorio,” the tone of the mask’s voice carried an excited gusto. Gone were the hypnotic and robotic tones which carried a metallic echo. “I figured a more human form would help us end this little charade. To put the goodnight kiss on your freedom, as it were. I hope you don’t mind if no prayers are said during this wake.”

Her energy sapped, all that was left was a modicum of self preservation. It had replaced her will; she understood she wasn’t making it out of Random Rendezvous the same. She just wanted to leave in one mental piece.

“As you can tell by now, a single piece of me can have a dangerous effect,” the mask said as it turned its body to face her. “Now, I think we still have to rummage about in what’s left of your brain. Think of it as a very thorough and evasive lobotomy.”

A single ribbon of tar extended from the heel of her captor, swaying with each step forward like it was nothing more than an extension cord. That one tendril led to her current placing, a slim table of tar which appeared to be bolted to the ground. It provided comfortable padding across her neck, back, and tailbone. Her wrists were held slightly above her reclined head and her ankles were perpendicular to one another, all trapped in unbreakable obsidian cuffs. Her arms and legs hung limply in the air. A ribbon from the table secured her head to the mimicked padding. Stark naked and slick with sweat, she couldn’t prevent the sweeping glances it gave to her more intimate areas. She was beyond exposed. Every breath brought on the same intense ache which only helped to further debilitate her. Through it all, she couldn’t hide her engorged nipples or labia, both of which trembling in throbs. She puckered her lips, trying to regain some of the lost fire her doppelganger had. But the muscles in her face felt far too heavy to move into a scowl.

“You don’t necessarily have to speak until you are ready to break. If you were to ask me, I would have told you that you were wasting too much of your effort by talking at all.” The mocking tone jabbed needles into her spine, bringing rage from a voice which had left her when the chips had been down. I can’t believe it! You can’t give into this sanctimonious—What do you know? I’m the one fighting your losing battle.

“Fighting with yourself?” it asked, having become aware sometime between the foot tickling and the second black out that Cynthia had been forced to the forefront. “If you have enough time to have arguments with yourself, I think I would be doing us both a disservice by prolonging the inevitable.”

The behemoth approached her, drawing a hand across the contour of her trembling side. When she felt the grip, she tried moving herself away, but she couldn’t force her muscles to agree. Throughout the grip of the hand was a dangerous surge which sank deep into the nerve endings of her sides and began to send ticklish impulses of such vigor that she instantly screamed.

Its plan was twofold; from the table underneath her, a pair of tendrils appeared and rolled across her inner thighs. The jolt of ticklish sensation from the mask’s hand was enough to send her into hysterics, but the tendrils were making their way to the flower of her sex with great haste. Once they arrived, she couldn’t undo the sensation of pleasure which gripped her parting labia. Laughter intermixed with moans as the outer contours of her moistened lips were delicately massaged. Thousands of nerve endings flashed pleasure signals which grew in intensity, causing her to double take as that one damnable hand remained planted against her side. The feeling burst through her rib cage, firing inside the toned skin which rested against the bone.

Her eyes were bolted shut, tears forcing themselves through the slits of her eyelids. She didn’t see the pair of fresh tendrils as they appeared near the left and right sides near her chest. Unprepared, her eyes flew open the moment she felt the rolling of both her hardened nipples. Out of the rolling ribbons peered a small tar extension which acted as feathers across the very tips. jesus christ She whimpered. The crushing cacophony of guttural moaning to go with her bellowing laughter showed that Cynthia was breaking apart at the very seams.

Not finished yet, the mask brought the other hand into play, electrocuting her ribcage with concentrated ticklish energy. Her mouth was dry.

The passionate massage of her already enflamed loins had done enough to tease her from damp to completely saturated. Every single whirl and twirl felt like the most adoring kiss she had ever experienced. Her lust only amplified the sensations, making each swipe all the more driving.

She jostled from side to side, trying to move away from the ticklish touch. She was so close, panting her want like an animal between fractured milliseconds when the tickling seemed to stop just long enough for her to express her longing.

Her first orgasm came as a result of a passion play, an attempt to lull the black construct before her into a sense of false security so she could press the manual escape conduit. It was the necessary price for the time.

This one rushed through her stomach, caused her heart to nearly burst. She nearly broke her back from the initial undulating arch. This was the exclamation point to her downfall.

One swift thrust of pressure. It felt like a finger. It felt like a tongue. It felt like the greatest bit of solid contact she had ever felt in her entire life. Shockwaves of intensity bellowed through ribcage, causing her mind to shake both internally and externally as her sex transcended into mindless contractions which rocked her lithe frame.

Her core was massaged ever so delicately as she continued to hoarsely cry out in mixed pleasure and tortured laughter. Her body shook as the tendrils manipulated the outer walls of her labia, acting as the gentle backdrop her most intimate of areas desired. The mask let go of her ribs, showing the palms of its hands to her before turning them around.

“You’re shaking. Do you know you’re still shaking?”

She wasn’t fully aware of anything at that moment. Visual cues were jumbled. There was no focus to her mind. She very well could still be shaking in her bondage. The hands had proven their point; he didn’t even need to move them to torture her.

“I want you to know something,” the mask chastised as it cracked its knuckles. “You probably believe you were a tough nut to crack. That you made a good showing for yourself.” Its hands ambled ever so close to her rib cage once again, shiny black fingers mockingly wiggling near her battered ribcage, causing her to break into helpless giggles from the phantom attack. “Cynthia, I’m here to tell you that you didn’t even remotely meet my expectations for you. And that saddens me. I thought someone of your stature would, at the very least, not break down like a child.”

The mask was both bondage and domination. It could have broken her the moment it set upon her. One minute ribbon could have broken her mind, caused her to emptily promise the world just to make it all stop.

It wanted to avail itself in small increments.

Its words only pounded home what she always had feared; all the pomp and circumstance she had surrounded herself with couldn’t make up for her lack of strength.

It wasn’t about preservation anymore. Her would rather die in this intense trap if it meant impressing her captor.

The surges of pleasure cutting through her nipples never dissipated, nor did the welcoming massage of her flower. Already brought to climax twice and now more sensitive to the touch, she felt she had nothing left to lose. “You don’t get it,” Cynthia’s hoarse whisper barely registered above her breathing. “All your talk and demands, all your snarky remarks, all of it, all of it means nothing,” she made sure she looked into those hazy eyes behind the mask. “I’m still here, unbroken. Now either shut YOUR mouth and do what it is you set out to do or let me find someone who will.”

The mask didn’t need to tickle Cynthia to make her laugh. For the first time, both captured and captor were on an even playing field, their wills now of equal intensity. There was no witty retort, no comeback.

They were above that pettiness now.

Its fingers raked across her ribcage, vibration coming through its tips as it touched each protruding ivory. She laughed, the intensity from before returning in full force. Swirling index fingers slid across the slick shaking skin of her navel, a pinky finger diving inside her belly button and scratching the nerves all across the inside. She sucked her stomach in to avoid the touch, but it was in vain. The other four fingers of the hand extended, teasing around her bellybutton with frantic circles. Peels of hoarse laughter were the only sound in the space, the smell of Cynthia’s lust smoldering in the air.

Her clit was so wet an electric current could run through its entirety, and that was exactly what the mask did, jolting an all encompassing wave which touched nerve endings and bolted surges of pleasure through the walls of her labia.

The tips of her nipples received the same disastrous treatment, leaving Cynthia without a chance to breathe. Her areolae felt the softest sensation of feathery down wrapping around and twisting along their bumpy ridges.

The mask’s arm shot upward, the fingers of its hand stroking along the contours of side. While her ribs and navel had become concentrated targets, it was now her side which was receiving the powerful tickling which lit every single ticklish nerve inside her skin ablaze. Her forced mirth caused her throat to feel coarse, the sensation causing her to continue without pause.

When it hit her underarms, there was very little she could do to fight the tickling. Extreme waves of power exploded from top to bottom. The middle fingers of the mask whirled dead center in the hollows, the thumb and pinkie fingers teasing around the outer edges. The ring and index fingers were the ones with the sharpest strokes, causing her to snort and cough as she spit out her laughter.

Her arms tensed, but the pits stayed static. No movement could help her escape what she was feeling. The hands were stuck to her like glue, sending earthquakes rippling across the entire expanse of both of her underarms. Her eyes darted from side to side, trying to catch a peak of what was happening to her. She wanted to see the actual imprint those dastardly fingers were making physical, to see if they were as devastating to her flesh as they were to her mind. Every single nerve ending inside her hollows received ample treatment, causing her to shiver as she pressed her nails into the heels of her hands. Such devilish power needed to stopped, and the pain in her fingers could act as a centering mechanism for her brain. But even as she had figured a way to slither out of with a shift of focus, the tickling sensation merely became more intense. The skin of her hollows was being charred by a frantic tickling frenzy that caused her to become dizzy.

She couldn’t follow with her eyes any longer. Her heart beat was so spastic that she felt she was suffering from cardiac arrest. The heat of her blood forced her intimate parts to become swollen to their physical maximum, which was all the more vile considered that the more flesh available to the mask’s tickling and manipulation of her sexual spots meant more space which could be teased. Cynthia’s body was responding to what it felt was need.

As the space around the tip of her clit was ensnared by tendrils which had broken off from the main vines teasing her trapped labia, she stopped breathing. Stopped moving. Her sex smoldered in glistened want, surges of pleasure feeling the tonguing sensation of tickling which brought her mind to a critical mass. No more wasted breath. Cynthia was blowing through her reserves of oxygen as her underarms were controlled by a genius, her mouth hanging open in stark silence the second the last ounce of her air was pushed out of her lungs.

The rugged trail around her nipples felt the same spark; gentle feather strokes to go along with the nestled strong rub of her nether regions. Severe tickling along with soft caresses was enough to cause her skin to bubble in goose flesh sheets. The dabbing stroke brought intense rocking pleasure which stayed locked inside her tightening throat.

No woman had ever felt this way. Pinned between Heaven and Hell was a broken, meaningless cliché which had no real resonance. The tickling had interloped into the territory of total, all encompassing pleasure. The mask’s skillful breaking down of Cynthia was availing new layers of meaning which filled her with a caustic fright. It had corroded and perverted even the sense of what felt good. Her tongue lay loosely on her lower lip as her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

Raw energy gushed from her in rapid-fire paroxysms. Nature couldn’t be denied breath because she needed it to make audible the bone crunching climax she was experiencing. If her second had been powerful, this one had gone far beyond any plateau she ever imagined experiencing. Orgasm number three had a crude quality which caused her entire body to rumble in a vibration. If the mask hadn’t stopped tickling her underarms, she would have escaped into the black. The first, second, and third waves were like fired cannon balls. It was the fourth and fifth contractions which were just as intense which robbed her of her sanity. Her hips moved to phantom stimulation, her back bowing in painful arches. She had no idea how long it could or would last. Time was moving, but she felt it pinned against her chest. She wasn’t sure she could end it, as if she could spend the rest of her life in broken, heaving climax.

Her face was plum purple, air not traveling in fast enough to satisfy her rocked frame. Sparks were still burst through her closed eyelids. There was a rare moment of complete stop in the onslaught, and she was sure that the reason was not to give her respite.

With her eyes closed, she didn’t know what was being attached to her face. Her blurred eyes looked downward and saw the bright reflection of plastic. She could taste the oxygen being pumped into her nostrils and parted lips.

She wasn’t going to pass out and enjoy another interlude.

With fresh air coursing through her lungs, the lightheaded tremors were beginning to anchor. Though she still felt chipped to her bare bones, she could at least breathe.

The mask had left her underarms, having placed the oxygen mask on her face. No strap had been necessary; the mouth of the mask glued evenly underneath her lips and snuggly over the bridge of her nose. The actual mask seemed to be plastic, but the cord leading through was the same texture and color as the mask’s flesh.

Her feet flinched away as best as they could in those lean moments. She knew what was next, knew that that spot was amongst her worst. She wasn’t sure which spot had been the absolute killer, but recognized that the constricting bondage she had around her pampered soles did her no favors. The very touch of its finger was electric, laughter fogging the plastic of Cynthia’s oxygen mask. Each touch brought accompanying depressions of pillow soft skin. Each touch brought with it a ripple effect which singed her frantic nerves. Curling toes and waving soles were only going to get her so far.

But each touch against waving arch and ball pounded into her hyperactive clit. The smoldering remnants of her nervous system were malfunctioning, and even the lightest tickling touch was as dastardly as the still swooping sensations of tendrils slithering across her sopping sex. Though not as intense, those feather stroking fingers bore the ability to charge the feeling she had and make it more intense.

Sensing Cynthia’s fight, the bonds holding her ankles at bay extended slightly, a single protruding rod which wrapped around her big toes and began pulling them taut. All the tar needed to do was attach to her skin to accomplish this goal, but she flailed anyways. The balls of her feet were pushed forward slightly as were her heels. The arch of her foot was what was most impressive, since that was the area most hampered by wrinkles thanks to toe curls. Now the skin would remain tight and smooth to the touch. Her toes were also affected; even though they could curl, they could not do so quickly or tightly.

Robbed of movement, Cynthia sat back for the ride as she continued feeling the gentle massaging sensations across her sex and nipples.

Sitting back for the ride was a foolish mistake. Mentally prepared for what she was set to face, she broke down almost immediately into a shriek as she felt the center of her spread arches scorched to the point of melting by the evil fingers of her captor. Each index finger stroke cascaded across the drum tight flesh of her arches, scintillating tickles resonating throughout. But this was just one small pull.

She was thrown into convulsions the moment the fingers went about their wild way, ring and middle fingers darting and scratching the areas around where his index fingers had just kissed. Her wrists motioned back and forth, stressing against the bondage. Even though trapped, her soles still fought against what was forced upon them. Muscle twitches and ankle thrusts were of little use against expertise and hard restraints. The fingers of the mask scrambled at breakneck speed, causing her nerves to feel phantom tickles within the space of milliseconds. It was as if her nerve endings had to force through sensations to her brain at rapid input levels. And each stroke was not a wasted one.

Each finger lick was like another dab of a feather against her swollen clit. She felt an inhuman heat continue to be stoked by those snake-like tendrils. Nothing was more devastating than having the outside of her labia pinned and constantly teased as if it were being kissed passionately. But this was all the more brutal. She felt a raw and raged panic in her extremely sore lower stomach. She needed some time to cool down. She couldn’t break through the door and have her brain broken by another one of those damn climaxes. Pleasure wasn’t necessarily pleasure anymore. It had become a cruel, yet effective tool. One in which she feared yet craved for at the same time.

Each stroke piledrove the tickling even further into her mind. Even with air being forced through, she was practically spitting it out the very next instant she breathed it in between her cackling and coughing. Her heels were given the same treatment as her taut arches, but the effect was all the more numbing. She went stiff the moment the mask’s fingers scaled down to her heels. The problem with electrocuting nerves which hadn’t felt a ticklish kiss in years was that they were all the more receptive when they were found, as if lost time had to be made up for. Buried deep inside were places which caused her to shriek. Nothing more could be done. Those fingers were as effective as flashlights in a dark room, seeking out areas and allowing there to be focus in the darkness. The tips of its fingers were bolting surges so strong, Cynthia felt like she could break her big toes trying to worm her feet out of the way.

Forceful grazes from the mask’s fingers were occupied in a downward wave, teasing down to the rounded tip. There was just the utter domination of intense sensation. Slight whispers of movement could be heard from her flexing big toes. A mere push was a victory. But there was not enough strength in Cynthia’s rocked and worn body. She was impeding blood flow, causing the skin of her big toes to turn pale before they went ruby.

Her engorged nipples were continuously tortured, the fresh nerve endings that had been availed teased. The momentum shifted, however, as those rolling tendrils began completely surrounding the expanse of Cynthia’s nipples. The trembling buds were held fast by a second skin of black.

Her moan violently slashed through the pink of her throat. The laughter was still present, broken by whimpering as she felt the suction ripple across her rigid nipples. It was hot and heavy, as if two mouths with the same concentrated thought were there suckling her erogenous zones lovingly. The sweeping of a tongue was far too intense, the feeling slamming hard into her sex. Overstimulated and completely wet, there was very little that trapped area could do to put off the inevitable. The hard tickling of her heels was enough to make her beg forgiveness for all of man’s sins, but she couldn’t even vocalize her need for this to stop.

The mask’s hands moved swiftly back to her arches, and the tears started flowing. Hard, croaking sobs which bathed her perspiring face in fresh wetness. She didn’t want to laugh anymore. Everything just felt as if it was on fire. Everything hurt. Hoarse cry after hoarse cry came from her lips as ten fingers which knew her weakest points feasted. If she had the strength, she would have chewed her arms off just to escape.

When the mask moved to the balls, that was when she started choking. Her throat once again threatened to break as the myriad of muscles forced out multiple responses to what she was feeling. Pleasure, pain, the tickling, it all was locked underneath the skin of her struggling neck. It followed the slight lines which had been placed on Cynthia’s foot at birth, crossing in a Y on both ravaged soles.

Frantic fingers blew through the zone barriers of her feet. One second the focus was concentrated on the balls of her feet, then it was back to the heels, then to the arch, then to the arch and heel and then to the arch and balls. The space right below Cynthia’s toes was another spot which was gleefully tortured by the speechless mask; the only sound now in the space was the husky laughter and pained moaning of the tortured psychologist.

As the entireties of Cynthia’s feet were absorbed by extreme tickles and her nipples were teased to the point of bursting, another problem crept up. There tendrils around her sex had grown tired of teasing around her outer labia and the tip of her clit. Gently sprawling over, her engorged and sopping sex was opened up. Showing the twitches from the various zones of her body being erotically tortured, the hot white fluid welled up inside of her was very close to just breaking free in one last gasp.

The tar cascaded along the inner walls of her labia, practically bubbling from the heat. Each glide was mind numbingly intense, and soon the inner walls of her captured sex were covered by a surface which knew only how to tease.

It felt like millions of soft bristles were sweeping the inside of her labia, all the while tickling and teasing her frenzied mind into a breaking point. Lightly stroked and maddeningly teased, her lips sharply throbbed from the dueling sensations.

The fingers found the stems of her toes, focusing on peeling through each and every trapped one of them. From under the base to the sides of her toes, there was no respite. The instinctive curls were never fast enough, never quick enough to stop the sensation riding through them.

This was the moment the hours had wrought. The subtle silence in Cynthia’s panicked movements were a prelude to a heavy explosion. As it stood, her feet were now wrapped from the smallest part of her toes down to the sharp contours of her heels in a heavy sheet of tickles. It was as if the mask’s hands were going at the speed of light, making her wildly croak hard laughter.

Nibbling began to scorch her nipples. The bristle sensation inside her sex was frantically teasing every which way. The outer walls were thoroughly massaged. Saliva burned on the arid desert of her tongue.

Her eyes crossed.

Her muscles twisted.

Her violently fidgeting fingers broke into locked contortions.

Her toes doubled over into crushing curls.

Her mouth was wide, the noise coming out an extraordinary harmony of grunts and moans.

Each contraction acted as a fresh torrent of unearthed pleasure.

The arch of her back threatened to break her spine not into two, but into thousands of tiny pieces.

Cynthia’s sweating skin shimmered as she continued expressing her satisfaction. When the moment came, the mask removed itself from its teasing. It let her ride out what was happening to her over stimulated pearl. And what happened to it seemed beyond anything sacred or holy. She didn’t break. She simply gave in. No one would have blamed her or thought less of her for doing so. Many others would have bent at the knees much sooner. She had made her captor work to earn her independence. And now that the mask had earned it, it was time to give credit where it was due. Four orgasms and hours of tickling had taken Cynthia Oratorio from a pampered pin-up princess to a hunk of clay, ready to be formed however her captor so desired.

Her breathing had returned to normal. “I have no more fight Sir. If you want to keep tickling me, please do. I don’t want to stop you Sir.”

The mask was at her feet. It looked down and saw her ankle fighting with its bondage. When it loosened its hold, Cynthia’s foot was pressed into the palm of its hand. She pulled back her toes by herself, rolling the heel in its grasp to make it all the more enticing. Her still trapped right foot was fighting to get into its grasp.

Into his grasp.

“Sir, I beg you. I need this. I want this.”

Moments crept by slowly. All that could be heard was their shared breathing. The foot burning in his hand was doing all it could to seduce him. To make Cynthia’s needs known. But that need went unanswered. Tears rushed down her face. Frustration. Sadness. Anger. It all welled up inside her stomach and threatened to consume her.

“Goddammit Sir,” she roared. “I. NEED. YOU. TO. TICKLE ME. I’m BEGGING you Sir. I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Just…PLEASE. PLEASE. PLEASE!”

She wanted it to continue. Cynthia was beyond a point where her own needs mattered. Now, it was about her captor. And with her now ready to be formed, there was no reason to continue prolonging the torture.

It would have been wrong.

“No,” the mask flatly stated, dropping the foot from his grasp. A second later, her other ankle was allowed freedom. “Neither of us wants that now. You’ve earned better.”

Positioned just right, the mask showed what hours of watching, touching, teasing, and tickling Cynthia’s body had done from him. And now that there was someone before him worthy of affection, he couldn’t hold steady any longer.

The first thrust filled her perfectly, a softened sigh all she could muster as she closed her eyes. White rushes of mutual heat were exchanged as both captured and captor locked their agreement into finality. Overstimulated already, Cynthia felt the first wave like an impending avalanche, rushing down from the peaks of Heaven only to come crashing downward. But the dread from the past had been removed. No longer was her stomach tied in knots; she wanted this.

She needed this.

All of this. To be taken so violently, so passionately, that she couldn’t wiggle her way away from the intensity. To have to accept what she had wrought with the one night stands in another reality. To be forced out of her self-imposed isolation in social settings. Before her was something that could break her to her component parts and capture her fullest, lustful attention.

Her legs came towards him, planted over the shoulders of her captor as she felt her core ardently massaged to her highest satisfaction. Her ankles crossed over the back of the mask’s neck, locking in a vice grip to avail herself fully. Sighs broke to intense whimpers. Moans were the next to come simply because she couldn’t help herself. Their hips met as the initial thrusts steadily increased in intensity.

When she couldn’t take anymore, she broke free from her bondage completely, resetting her legs so she could fit in a more natural position. She was welcomed into her captors arms, holding her so their eyes stayed locked on one another. With very little strength left, she used what she had to allow gravity do what her frantic hips could not. Trembling arms crossed and locked over the back of the mask’s neck.

Moans and grunts were all that could be heard, the tones of their voices breaking into a heavy echo. Without preparation, she greedily opened her lips and kissed the mouth of her great emancipator, her unadulterated cries of pleasure reverberating through her captor’s mouth as she spent herself. Her nails tore into the tar. She snapped, breaking into a thousand pieces.

She could only find respite from the unholy sensations in the black of fulfillment.

***​

Cynthia’s limbs were limp. As the foreignness of what she felt became forceful, she awoke with a startle.

The suddenness blew a moderate wave across the water of the tub. Bubbly foam coated the surface. She could hear the hiss of the blown out candles which had adorned the base of her bathtub. A small dab of foam rested on her chin as her eyes focused on her surroundings. She had to brush her hair from her eyes.

She was completely nude inside the tub of her own apartment. The only light came from a multitude of candles which had been spread evenly along the cabinet which held her sink. The light green walls glazed within the light, the faint smell of ginger hanging in the air. The door was open, the outside completely dark.

Her skin felt soft and tender. Any bit of tension she had felt prior to jacking in seemed to have been massaged out. But that wasn’t possible. Neither was the fact that she could have blacked out in her own bathtub.

She gently batted away some of the foam, staring down into the water to see her own reflection. She looked how she remembered, save that the faint traces of make-up she wore had been removed. When she checked underneath her chin, she saw it; a black ribbon which had been tied around her neck.

A single footstep sounded from the black, causing her to veer her head in its direction. Another was quick to follow. “I just want you to know that it isn’t easy to track you down in the dead of night.”

The steps were slow, the soft footfalls ambling across the fine wood. She could see the outline of the voice through the doorway..

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for what’s mine, Cynthia.”

She looked away, gulping hard as she traced her fingers across the ribbon on her satin collar. “You sick bastard,” she said as she stifled back a sob. “What gives you the right?”

She could faintly see that damn smirk glow through the edge of the darkness. “You don’t seem to—”

“No!” Cynthia yelled. “You don’t seem to get it.” She puckered her lips, trying her best to maintain the veneer.

But there was nothing left to hide.

“You were supposed to be here four hours ago, Tim.”

Covington stepped through the doorway, clad in a baggy white shirt and jeans. He took out a cigarette, lighting it up with his Army issue zippo. “I was here four hours ago. You were still slumped over in your chair.”

She blushed red at the very notion of being seen in such a precarious state. Smoke blew from the flared nostrils of Tim Covington as he ambled slowly to her position, taking a seat on the tile floor. “And let me tell you, it took everything I had not to just take you right then and there.”

“Oh Timmy,” she smiled as she gazed towards him. “It wouldn’t have been in such a state if there hadn’t been someone behind the mask who knew how to handle the controls.”

He chuckled as he offered her a cigarette. “I know a few tricks, don’t I?”

Taking the cigarette from his fingers, she tossed it into the tub, a cocksure smirk forming across her face. “You better have saved some. We have a long week, and I would hate to think that we’d already hit our peak.”

“Not by a long shot, my dear,” he whispered, drawing her in for a kiss. “Not by a long shot.”

 

[melanie2]

Holy crap..holy wow...i was throbbing myself as i read this..i could feel myself in her...i cringed at each maddening tickle touch...too many sensations at once..that would break anyone..that's the way to be tickled..tickled until you break..until all resistance is futile..until all you want is more..and to be dominated by such a tickler..a fantastic story, full of terrific descriptive details, unique ideas..