Drunkllama
Registered User
- Joined
- Aug 23, 2015
- Messages
- 28
- Points
- 3
The Mexican sun hammered ferociously against the roof of the black SUV as it roared through the chihuahuan desert fifty miles south of the Texas border. Might as well be the surface of Mars, Billie Stevens thought to herself as the empty miles ticked past the truck’s rear window, the blighted landscape reflected in the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses. For at least the twentieth time since stepping off the plane that morning and into the crippling heat of an El Paso summer, Billie wondered if she was in her right mind.
Just three weeks prior she had been sitting in her dorm room browsing help wanted listings on an online bulletin board when she stumbled across the ad: “Wanted: undergraduate audio/video student for paid summer internship. Gelos Studios is a premium adult entertainment provider specializing in non-nude bondange and foot fetish material. We are currently seeking a highly motivated and skilled A/V student to assist in production and editing duties. High pay, short term contract, travel and all expenses paid, college credit. Please send resume and photograph to contact information provided.”
Initially Billie had dismissed the ad out of hand but, at the urging of her roommate Danielle, finally decided to at least research the studio. While strangely unable to find any of their videos online, she was able to dig up a fair amount of background information. Surprisingly, Gelos Studios was actually owned by MMI, Merriweather Multimedia International, one of the largest media companies in the world and itself a branch of the gigantic Merriweather Global corporation. And while spending a summer working at a porn studio wasn't exactly something that she would want to disclose to future employers, interning at a subsidiary of MMI certainly was. Impulsively, Billie sent her resume to the provided email, not really expecting a response.
If Billie was moderately surprised to receive an answering email the very next day, she was absolutely shocked by the speed at which things progressed from that point forward. Five days, three phone calls, and one Skype interview later a smiling FedEx man was knocking at her door, bearing an envelope containing her contract.
For a financially strapped college sophomore the terms of the contract - six thousand dollars and college credit for three months work - had been almost too good to be true. While there were some fairly draconian privacy and secrecy provisions, the penalties for violating the contract were surprisingly lenient: just one day of unpaid labor for the company, presumably to finish up any outstanding work or projects. And while the thought of traveling to Mexico for the job had initially given her pause, assurances from Miss Devereaux, the studio manager, about the quality of their security measures and their friendly relationship with the local government had allayed her fears.
The SUV jolted over a bump in the road, shaking Billie out of her reverie. And so here I am, she thought wryly to herself, at the ass end of nowhere, in a truck that could be straight out of a bad government conspiracy movie, riding with two security guards who don’t have a single sense of humor between ‘em. All so I can spend the next three months watching pervs get tied up and whacked with fly swatters, or whatever. She sighed. God I hope they have wifi.
The truck had turned onto a gravel road some miles back, and rocks growled and popped under the vehicle’s big tires as Billie’s temporary new home finally came into view. Standing alone and isolated in the desert, Gelos Studios was more impressive than she had anticipated. A large one story building built in a spanish hacienda style stood at the center of several smaller outbuildings, the structures surrounded by trees and greenery with only a tall barbed wire topped chain link fence around the perimeter breaking the illusion of a beautiful oasis.
The SUV entered the compound’s automatic gate and stopped in front of the main building, parking next to a dusty but new shuttle bus. One of her human pitbull co-passengers indicated that she should enter the glass doors fronting the building while her luggage was transferred to her assigned living quarters. Exiting the truck’s air conditioned interior was like stepping directly into a blast furnace, and she covered the few steps to the entrance as quickly as possible.
Entering the building, Billie first noticed that there was no receptionist, just an empty foyer. Tasteful erotic artwork adorned the walls, along with several floor length mirrors. Stopping before the reflective glass on her right Billie considered her appearance, suddenly regretting that she hadn’t worn something more professional for her first day. Standing a bit under five feet tall, with delicate, pixieish facial features, Billie knew that she didn’t cut an impressive figure at the best of times. Combined with Doc Martens, a vintage Misfits T-shirt, and a bob hairdo dyed a shocking blue, her face and build gave her the appearance of a punk rock tinkerbell, not a serious young woman starting her first professional job. But Miss Devereux, the studio’s manager, had assured her during their Skype conversation that Gelos had no dress code.
Hearing a door on the wall opposite the entrance open, Billie turned around in time to see her new boss enter the foyer, and suddenly realized that “no dress code” was a bit of an understatement.
Constance Devereaux did not walk so much as stalk. A tall redhead with fierce green eyes, she moved toward Billie with the sinuous grace of a jungle cat circling prey. Perhaps slightly over thirty years of age, lean and pale complected, Constance wore a long sleeved black lycra shirt cropped to expose a chiseled midriff that rippled with muscle as she moved, the milky white skin of her belly adorned with a tasteful navel piercing. Black tights cinched with a chain belt rode low on her hips, clinging to her long, toned legs and tucking into the tops of buckled platform boots.
“There you are, lamb!” Constance’s husky voice purred, just the slightest hint of an unfamiliar accent polishing her words. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in the flesh.” Grasping Billie’s shoulders, she held her at arm’s length and eyed her up and down. “I have to say, you're even more adorable in person. Pictures and video just don’t do you justice at all. And this hair!” she exclaimed delightedly, stroking one of Billie’s bright blue locks.
“Um, thank you ma’am. I’m, uh, glad you like it.” she replied, a bit taken aback by Constance’s enthusiasm. Truth be told, something about the older woman had always struck Billie as a bit off during their previous conversations, and meeting her in person just reinforced that impression. But then again, Billie thought, anyone who makes a living filming other people getting spanked isn't likely to have the same personality as your average coffee shop manager.
Billie’s new employer shook her head. “Oh no, none of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense, dear! I simply must insist you call me Constance. We’re going to be working together quite closely for the next few months, after all, and I do so want us to be friends.” A strange gleam flashed in her eyes, bringing a flutter to the younger woman's stomach. “Yes, very good friends indeed.”
“Now then, my dear,” Constance continued, “I know you’re eager to get started learning the ins and outs of our little Casa de Perversión out here in the desert, but there’s something we have to attend to before I can give you the grand tour. We require all new employees to undergo a brief medical exam, strictly as a precautionary measure. After all, we’re hours away from the nearest hospital, must make sure you're healthy!” The statuesque redhead opened a door, revealing a long, well lit hallway. “If you’ll follow me?”
**************************************************
The examination room Constance left her in was similar to any clinic’s and the exam was as brief as promised. Doctor Barnes, a gruff, bespectacled middle-aged man, did little more than check her blood pressure and reflexes. “Okay, Miss Stevens,” he said finally, as he scribbled on a clipboard, “we’ve got one more test to run. Would you please remove your shoes and socks?”
Billie flinched. Having her bare feet touched by someone else had never been something she was comfortable with. “Sure, Doc, whatever you say” she replied uncertainly, removing her footwear as ordered and setting them aside.
“Alright,” the doctor said, “lay back please.” After Billie did as she was told, he held up a small toothbrush and continued, “Now what I’m going to need you to do is try to hold perfectly still for at least ten seconds while I tickle each of your feet with this. Then…”
“NO!” Billie yelled, sitting up abruptly and pulling her feet under herself indian style. “No! Please, Doc, I can't stand being tickled! Can’t you save us both the trouble and just write down ‘Insanely, super, stupid, crazy freaking ticklish?’” Billie’s eyes were wide as saucers, her heart pounding. “Seriously, you’re wasting your time! I couldn't hold my feet still for one second, let alone ten!”
“I’m afraid you don't really have a choice, young lady, at least not if you wish to remain employed here” Doctor Barnes replied testily. “Company policy is quite clear on the matter: new hires must submit to all medical tests, without exception. In fact, if you were one of our models you’d have already undergone a more thorough version of this particular test before you were even offered a job. We do this or you go home, just like it says in the contract you signed. Now, if you will please lay back down.”
“Alright,” she muttered sullenly, “you don’t have to get all grumpy.” Taking a deep breath, she lay back and stretched her legs out, steeling herself for what was coming. But dammit, why does it have to be tickling? she asked herself. Ever since she was a little girl, just the thought of someone touching the soles of her feet had been enough to send her into a panic. Even pedicures were an ordeal, something she only trusted to a handful of technicians. Once, when she was much younger, her older brother had capitalized on this weakness, sitting on her ankles and tickling her feet until she wet herself. While the punishment her parents had consequently meted out insured he had never tried that again, the incident had popped up in her nightmares for years.
Well, she thought, maybe I’ve outgrown it? I mean, no one’s actually touched my feet outside of a salon in years. I'm probably not even all that ticklish anymOHMYGOD! Letting out a piercing shriek, Billie jerked her feet back from the toothbrush violently and then unleashed a defensive kick, catching the doctor in the face with the ball of her foot and sending his glasses flying. Suddenly mortified, she exclaimed, “Oh my god I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!”
Unperturbed, the doctor calmly bent to retrieve his glasses, replying, “Quite all right, young lady, clearly just a defensive reflex on your part. Frankly, given your previous reluctance, I probably should have been prepared for just such a response. Although I must admit your reaction was a bit more...energetic than I’m used to seeing.”
“Does this mean I failed?” she asked nervously.
“Oh no, this was never a pass/fail test, just a measurement” he replied. “That said, I think I have enough data. We can forgo any further testing.”
“Oh thank god!” Billie said fervently, reaching for her boots. “Well, if you say the models have to go through a more intense version of that test then I guess it’s a damn good thing I didn't sign up for a modeling gig, huh Doc?”
The doctor gave Billie a strange look. “Yes, that is a good thing young lady” he said in a gravely serious voice. “I would say that is a very good thing indeed.” He opened the exam room door and stepped into the hall. “Now, if you’ll wait here a moment I’ll notify Miss Devereux that we’re finished.”
Huh, Billie thought to herself as the door closed, wonder what that was all about.
A few moments after the doctor left there was a brief knock on the door before Constance opened it and breezed in. “Hope you're decent! Well, my little lamb, the good doctor assures me you’re in the finest of health. ‘Kicks like a mule’ I believe was the phrase he used.”
“Yeah, afraid I went a little kung-fuey on him. Too many Jet-Li movies, I guess” Billie responded sheepishly.
Constance laughed. “Oh my dear, you are delightful! Don’t you worry about him. I’m sure the old goat’s suffered worse, what with all the poking and prodding he’s had to do over the years. Now come, lamb,” she said as she held the door open for Billie, “it’s time you learned just what we do to pay the bills around here.”
As they walked down the hall the older woman said, “So, you’re aware from our earlier conversations that we are producers of fetish material. But I don’t believe we ever discussed the exact nature of that material, am I correct?”
“Yeah,” Billie replied, “I actually looked for your stuff online, just to see what it was like. Freaked me out a little when I couldn't find any of your videos, to be honest. I mean, I’m sure everything here is legit and all, but…”
Constance nodded. “I can understand your concern. One hears so many dreadful stories about what can be found on the deep web these days. I can assure you, however, that our products are all completely legal. Our internet presence is minimal because the videos we produce are only available for sale to those referred to us by existing clients. Which is for the best, really. If the actual nature of our products were easily discovered we’d have the Devil’s own time finding models willing to subject themselves to one of our, frankly, rather grueling video shoots. Our business model relies rather heavily on them not knowing quite how far off of the deep end they’re stepping until they’ve already stepped.”
They stopped in front of a six foot wide opaque glass panel mounted in the hallway’s wall, underneath which was a sign reading “Prep Room One” and a small control pad. “Um,” Billie said hesitantly, “what, uh, what exactly is your, I mean our, product? Ma’am? I mean, Constance?”
The tall redhead looked down at Billie with a smile. “Have you wondered at all about the name of the studio, darling? Gelos is the ancient greek god of laughter.” Her smile turned a bit predatory. “Laughter is, in essence, our product my dear. Laughter and suffering. Now, let’s observe one of our models preparing for her session, shall we?” Still smiling, she pressed a button on the control pad. Instantly the glass cleared, showing the inside of a ten by ten room.
The room was spartan, with institutional grey walls and carpeting. Its only furniture was what appeared to be an oddly modified hospital gurney with various straps dangling off of it and a small control panel on its side. At one end of the gurney a pair of stocks in the shape of a half circle rose perpendicular to the bed’s surface, the holes set about two feet apart and roughly at an even height with the mattress top. Attached to the left side of the gurney by sturdy hinges, a curved fiberglass cover currently hung open like a tanning booth lid, its rim encircled by a thick, black rubber seal and numerous latches; it was apparent from the lid’s shape that, when closed, it would fit snuggly against the edges of the gurney and stocks. What appeared to be light panels and digital cameras were visible on the lid’s heavily padded interior
The room was currently occupied by three people. The first was a beautiful young woman in her early twenties, barefoot and wearing green medical scrubs, with bleach blonde hair and a skin tone that clearly indicated a rather unhealthy addiction to sunbathing. Say hello to Mr Melanoma for me in about twenty years there, Barbie Billie thought to herself sarcastically.
In the room with her were two men in orderly garb, one hispanic and one caucasian, who were placing the compliant but obviously nervous girl into a straightjacket. Having finished tightening the buckles, one orderly walked her to the gurney while the other undid a latch on the side of the stocks and flipped the top half open. As the men began to help the girl onto the wheeled bed she suddenly balked, backing away and shaking her head.
The caucasian orderly approached the girl slowly, hands raised in a nonthreatening manner. Watching the scene intently, Constance said, “While the majority of our permanent employees are locals from one of several nearby villages, this is why it’s important that at least one of the orderlies in the prep room be fluent in the model’s native language. You see, none of our subjects are professional bondage models. Despite the quite lucrative contracts we offer, word to avoid this place spread through that particular community early on. The problem is that amateurs can get a bit skittish when the reality of their situation begins to set in. As per the terms of her contract, this young lady must freely consent to being locked into those stocks before she’s ours to do with as we please. If she refuses now we put her on a plane and send her home, unpenalized but also unpaid. Fortunately for us Randy, the orderly currently talking to her, is usually quite good at convincing…” Constance paused a moment. “Ah, here we go.”
The orderly, no doubt having reminded the girl just how much money she would forfeit if she backed out at this point, was now helping Barbie onto the gurney. As the stocks locked around her ankles the blonde girl gasped visibly, her entire body shivering nervously. Working swiftly, the orderlies began to fasten various straps over every part of her slim frame, including one padded strap directly across her forehead. Due to the angle of the bed Billie could see the girl’s face as she slowly began to realize just how thoroughly she was being restrained. Evidently having second thoughts, the pretty blonde began to beg the men to release her, the expression on her face growing more panicked by the second. The orderlies ignored her with a detached professionalism, concentrating on the task at hand.
Having rendered the struggling girl immobile from the ankles up, one of the men swung the heavy fiberglass cover closed, latching it down securely to the edges of the gurney and stocks. The lid covered the gurney completely, leaving only the model’s wildly squirming feet visible. “We call the device she’s in a pod” Constance said. “Custom made for us at no small expense, and worth every penny. They're soundproof, with microphones, cameras, and ventilation all built in. The stocks’ holes have gel filled collars that form fit around the ankles to help keep the feet from moving back and forth, as well as protecting the subject from injury. But we’re going to need her to be just a bit more immobilized than that, I’m afraid.”
Dangling from tiny holes in the stocks behind either foot were ten cords ending in small leather cuffs. One orderly grasped the girl’s twitching feet and held them still as the other began placing the cuffs on the pad of every toe. Once all of the cuffs were in place the hispanic orderly moved to the control panel on the side of the pod and pressed a button. When he did so the cables began to slowly withdraw into the stocks, bending the girl’s toes back and stretching the skin of her soles taut. Their subject now literally immobilized head to toe, the two men undid the wheel locks on the pod and rolled it out through a door in the back of the room.
After returning the glass to its opaque state, Constance led Billie further down the hallway past several identical windows, commenting offhandedly as they walked, “You know, if the poor dears had the faintest idea what was really in store for them they wouldn’t climb into one of those pods for love or money.” Rounding a corner, they stopped a moment later before another of the glass panels, this one over ten feet wide and labeled “Main Studio Floor“. Hovering a finger over the window’s control pad, Constance said, “And here is the center of our operation, lamb. Welcome to what I like to call The Laugh Factory!” With a flourish she hit the button, turning the window clear and giving Billie a front row seat to hell.
The room on the other side of the now transparent glass was large and rectangular, with a pair of swinging doors and a long table occupying the far wall. In it were five of the bondage pods, each with a pair of naked female feet protruding from its stocks, their toes tied back tightly. Every pod but one had a pair of local girls seated on stools in front of it, the final pod having only a single girl attending it. And, to Billie’s horror, every girl was currently engaged in tickling the helpless bare foot in front of her.
Each of the girls had a tray of brushes and various other implements sitting within easy reach, and brush bristles, comb teeth, and long fingernails all stroked again and again across the defenseless soles of their victims as digital cameras, mounted on stands behind and beside each pod, recorded every moment from multiple angles. Billie noticed one girl texting on her phone with her right hand as she absently scribbled the nails of her left over the bottom of the foot before her. Without taking her eyes from the tiny screen, her left hand paused just long enough to dip down to the tool tray and pick up a hairbrush, which she then began to vigorously scrub across the sole of the now violently twitching foot. Another girl swayed back and forth, her eyes closed and lips moving as she listened to music through earbuds. Cupping a heel in her hands, she stroked her thumbnails in alternating turns down a crease in the center of the arch, apparently in rhythm to the music.
The nonchalance displayed by the ticklers was somehow more disturbing to Billie than the tickling itself. There was no sadism or cruelty evident in their actions, no enjoyment in the suffering they were inflicting. Many of the girls talked and laughed with each other, or simply stared off into space daydreaming, as their nails and tools raked the arches of their victims seemingly on autopilot. They didn’t seem to care or even realize that the owners of the feet they were so casually torturing were likely going insane inside their soundproof prisons. Billie realized that, to these girls, this was probably just an especially well paying job. The sensitive skin they were tickling might as well have been a secretary’s keyboard, their laughing victim a car on an assembly line.
Billie shuddered. For a brief, terrible moment she imagined herself in one of those pods, shrieking with desperate laughter as unseen fingers danced mercilessly across the bottoms of her bare feet…
“So, lamb,” Constance said, jarring her back to reality, “this is the heart of our little enterprise. What do you think?” The tall redhead had been watching Billie the entire time, and was clearly amused at the younger woman’s shocked reaction.
“Um, I think it’s horrifying?” she replied bluntly. “Okay, so the girls in the pods aren’t really all that ticklish, right? Sure, the Doc said you test for that before you bring them down here, so of course you leave the really ticklish ones behind, yeah? ‘Cause if they were actually ticklish then doing this to them would be inhumane and stuff, like actual torture, you know?” Billie knew she was in denial, babbling in an attempt to convince herself, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “So you just get the ones who can act ticklish, ‘cause if you did that to someone who really was ticklish she’d go insane or die or something.” Pausing finally for a breath, she fervently hoped the older woman didn’t realize that Billie definitely included herself in the latter group.
Constance smiled down at her. “Oh no, my dear, the test the good doctor mentioned isn’t to insure the girls we bring her aren’t ticklish. To the contrary, it’s to insure that they are as ticklish as possible, although we certainly don’t tell them that. I can assure you, the young ladies in those pods are currently in every bit as much agony as you are no doubt imagining. But don't worry, no one has ever died laughing on my watch.” Her smile turned into a wicked grin. “Although certainly not from a lack of trying. Now come my dear,” she said as she opened a door next to the wall-length window, “let’s take a closer look, shall we?”
Stepping into the studio, what struck Billie was the sound. When Gelos’ mistress entered all conversation amongst the local girls abruptly ceased, rendering the room eerily quiet. Since the pods themselves blocked any noise made by their hapless occupants, the only thing breaking the silence were the horrible scratching sounds of various implements and dozens of sharp fingernails scraping repeatedly across bare skin stretched tight as a drumhead. Thankfully, at a gesture from Constance, the various conversations resumed, masking the sounds of the torture occurring all around them.
Walking to the table on the room’s back wall, Constance picked up two pairs of expensive headphones and moved next to one of the pods, gesturing for Billie to join her. The girl responsible for the subject’s right foot was currently sawing a toothbrush between each of the victim’s toes, one after the other, as her coworker fluttered the fingernails of both hands continuously over the arch and heel of its opposite. Both women now seemed focused completely on their task, no doubt thanks to the close proximity of their employer.
Resting a hand on the fiberglass lid, Constance said, ”Now the soundproofing of the pods has two main purposes, the most obvious being a degree of sensory deprivation. Tickling is nearly as much a psychological act as a physical one, after all, and a lack of any outside visual or auditory stimuli can be quite powerful in contributing to the intensity of the model’s anguish. But the primary purpose is to prevent our ticklers from empathizing with their subjects.”
Bending down, Constance plugged both headphones into audio jacks in the pod’s control panel. Handing one set to Billie, she continued, “If our artists could hear the effect their tickling was having on their victims, there’s a good chance they might take pity on them and lessen the severity of the torment, leaving us with a lackluster product. That, of course, is something we just cannot have.”
“You, on the other hand, are in a different situation entirely” Constance said, preparing to place her headphones over her ears. “Your position will, among other things, require you to monitor the models as they endure whatever tortures our girls see fit to inflict upon them. So I think it’s fairly important that you get an idea of just what’s happening inside of these pods, don’t you agree?”
“Now, I believe this is the lovely young lady we observed being prepped earlier. Why don’t we give a listen and see how she’s enjoying our hospitality so far” Constance said, donning her headphones. Hesitantly, Billie followed suit, and instantly wished she hadn’t.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH NO, NO, NOOOOOOO! STOP, OH PLEASE STOP! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Barbie shrieked, the panic that Billie had seen in her face earlier now magnified tenfold in her frantic voice. “HAHAHAHAHA STOP! STOP! HAHAHAHAH OH GOD WHY WON’T YOU STOP! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Billie snatched the headphones from her ears as if they were on fire, to Constance’s obvious amusement. Good lord, she thought, the girl couldn't have been here for more than ten minutes, and it already sounds like she’s ready to give up her firstborn just to stop the tickling!
“That’s, um, okay, that’s kind of intense” Billie stammered as Constance unplugged the headphones from the side of the pod. “You’re going to let her out soon, yeah? I mean, ‘cause the girl sounds like she’s going crazy in there. She probably can’t take much more of this, is what I’m saying.”
Constance tilted her head and regarded Billie with feigned puzzlement. “Let her out? Oh no, my dear, I’m afraid her ordeal has just begun. The contract all our models sign is for a four hour session, with any rest breaks issued solely at our discretion. No, this pretty young thing has hours of laughing ahead of her. And screaming and begging as well, apparently. Whether she can take it or not is completely immaterial. She has no choice but to take it for,” Constance glanced at her watch, “approximately three hours and fifty two minutes longer.”
Billie’s mouth dropped open in shock. Four hours? The thought of her feet being tickled for four seconds made her stomach clench. Enduring hours of it, all while tied up and completely unable to defend herself, was almost unimaginable.
As they were talking two orderlies had rolled another pod onto the studio floor, the feet extending from its stocks dark skinned and fine boned. “Ah, yes!” Constance exclaimed delightedly, “Our lovely young indian exchange student finally makes her Laugh Factory debut! I was hoping you’d be present for her arrival, lamb. You see, there’s another technique at our disposal you’ll need to be familiar with.”
After locking the pod’s wheels in place and plugging several cables into the panel on its side, one of the orderlies stepped over to the table at the back of the room. After pulling disposable latex gloves onto his hands, he picked up what appeared for all the world to be a giant steel salt shaker and returned to the foot of the pod. Constance said, “Occasionally a unique subject comes along who’s perhaps not quite as ticklish as we might wish, but who has other qualities that we simply cannot pass up. For instance, our young Miss Kapoor here has the type of exotic accent that can lend a unique flavor to her laughter, something some of our more discerning patrons particularly adore. But, as she doesn’t quite meet our sensitivity standards, we have to add one more step to her prep phase in an effort to soften her up a bit.”
The orderly began sprinkling a fine white powder from the shaker onto the girl’s exposed feet. Having covered them thoroughly, he then gently massaged her soles, working the powder deeper into the soft skin. That done, he snapped the gloves off of his hands and, tossing them into a garbage can, left the room.
As the two women watched silently the model’s toes began to twitch in their cuffs, subtly at first, then with increasing desperation. The Indian girl soon began straining futilely at the stocks that held her ankles apart, in an apparent effort to rub her feet together.
“What you are observing,” Constance said clinically, “are the effects of a very potent itching powder. It was actually designed for the CIA by Merriweather Chemicals, one of our sister companies, as an aid in conducting ‘enhanced interrogation’ sessions without causing visible harm to the prisoner. The sensation intensifies rapidly over the first few minutes until it becomes quite unbearable, and it doesn’t fade over time.” She gestured towards the stocks, where the delicate, dusky skinned feet were now violently jerking against their restraints. “Applied to an immobilized subject like this it really is quite an effective torture in its own right, slowly driving the victim mad as they struggle in vain for any way to relieve that horrible itching. And so, we simply leave our model like this for an hour or so as the powder does its work, not rinsing it off until we’re sure her resistance is quite broken. As I said before, tickling is almost as much mental as physical. Now come along my dear, let’s leave her to marinate for a while. It’s time I introduced you to Gelos Studio’s star employee.”
Constance led her to the pod that was being serviced by a single girl. A beautiful latina with dark, almond shaped eyes, Billie noticed that she alone of all the ticklers in the room wore headphones that were plugged into her pod. The dark haired girl ignored the two women observing her, instead focusing completely on the unfortunate victim she was expertly torturing. Billie watched as she spidered her fingernails rapidly over the smooth sole of the model’s long, narrow right foot, while vigorously scrubbing the left with a hairbrush. Briefly pausing her abuse of the right arch, she bent down and licked the foot slowly from heel to toes, the flat of her tongue pressed firmly against the skin, leaving behind a film of saliva. She then blew lightly on the now glistening flesh before beginning to flick the tip of her tongue against it rapidly as her nails stroked the heel, the entire time never breaking rhythm with the brush in her other hand.
“Sylvia here is a prodigy” Constance said admiringly. “I’ve never seen anyone as gifted as her at causing suffering, myself included. I trust you noticed her headphones?” At Billie’s uncertain nod she continued, “Sylvia gauges the subject’s reaction to her techniques and varies them accordingly, either abandoning or staying with each one depending on their effectiveness. Fortunately, our young genius here doesn’t have a trace of pity in her, so their pleas for mercy don't give her the slightest pause. In fact, I rather think she enjoys them more than our clients do!”
Bending down to read a note on the side of the pod, Constance said, “Well, it seems this young lady’s session is almost over, lucky thing! Although, knowing Sylvia, the poor girl was probably broken shortly after her ordeal started. Billie my dear, would you like to hear what nearly four hours of tickling at the hands of a true artiste can do to a person?”
“I’d really rather not, if it’s all the same” Billie said nervously.
“Oh my lamb, I’m afraid I really must insist” Constance all but purred, plugging both sets of headphones into the pod. “Just consider it part of your training.”
If Billie hadn’t known better she would have sworn the woman inside the pod had been tickled for four days rather than four hours. It was quite obvious the model had reached the limits of her endurance some time before, but Sylvia had not lessened the severity of her torture at all. The only sounds coming from the victim now were a mixture of exhausted laughter and racking sobs, occasionally interspersed with a tearful “PLEEEEEEASE!”, wailed in a tone that suggested the subject had long since given up on any hope of mercy and was now begging purely by reflex.
“Well, how lovely” Constance said as they removed their headphones. “Our little Mozart has delivered to us yet another masterpiece. Come, my dear, let’s leave her to her work. We’ll finish our tour in my office, and then you can get properly settled in.” Taking Billie by the elbow, Constance led the stunned girl through the swinging doors and out of room.
The older woman escorted Billie to a door marked “Mistress Deveraux” and ushered her inside. Still in shock from all she had just seen and heard on the studio floor, Billie looked around numbly, trying to take in her surroundings. In contrast to the drab appearance of the prep room and studio, the decor of the office was quite luxurious and modern. Artistic photographs of the New York City skyline adorned the rich wood paneling of the walls, hanging alongside framed promotional posters advertising past bondage parties and fetish galas in Manhattan. Billie noticed that Constance’s name or picture appeared on almost all of the latter. A large black lacquered desk sat at the far end of the room with a huge monitor hanging on the wall behind it, its screen split into multiple smaller pictures showing live feeds from the studio. Most were of the models as they lay in their pods, their faces contorted by mirthless laughter. Trying her best to avoid looking at the screen, Billie was just grateful there was no audio feed.
A large dark red leather sofa took up one wall. Indicating with a gesture that Billie should seat herself, Constance did the same in a matching chair that sat opposite it. “Alright, lamb,” she said, “I’m sure you’re just bursting with questions. So please, fire away.”
“Where the hell do you find them?” Billie almost shouted, the tension that had been building inside her finally finding a release. “Where do you get girls who’ll let you do this kind of sick shit to them, especially if they know they’re ticklish? No money’s worth that!” A small voice in the back of her mind reminded Billie that she was alone in a foreign country, the guest of a woman with an obvious sadistic streak and a small army of loyal employees. Trying to bring herself under control and not anger her host, she continued in a calmer tone, “I mean, this can’t be legal, can it?”
If anything, Constance seemed amused rather than offended. “Oh, it’s all quite legal, or so our rather expensive lawyers assure me. Every model comes here having signed an ironclad contract and multiple waivers, all containing very precise wording which, unfortunately for them, they never seem to read. Of course, having local law enforcement and a judge or two on the payroll helps as well. We’re not based in Mexico solely for the cheap labor, after all.”
“As for how we find our subjects, well, it’s really not terribly complicated. Our recruiters target local colleges and gentlemen's clubs in various cities, advertising lucrative modeling sessions to any young woman who can pass an audition. Of course we never explicitly state that we’re shooting tickling videos, instead just saying that we’re filming non-nude foot fetish and bondage. Which, after all, isn’t technically a lie now is it? The recruiter interviews them, tests them for ticklishness, and then we get our pick of the litter. By the time they figure out what they've actually signed up for it's too late.”
“Should the girls know better? Of course. But it’s amazing how quickly a few thousand dollars can override a nineteen year old girl’s common sense. And in the end they fly home at our expense, physically unharmed and with the promised check in their pocket. If they end up having to spend that money on therapy sessions, well, that's not really our concern.” Constance finished with a grin.
“But how is this place even possible?” Billie asked. “I mean, this building, paying the models and the staff, flying people in and out. I’m sure your videos are expensive and all, but I can’t believe you sell enough of them to pay for all of this” she said, gesturing expansively about her.
“Not even a quarter.” Constance conceded with a rueful shake of her head. “Yes, even with the exorbitant fees we charge for our product, our little operation leaks money like a sieve. Fortunately, our owners are a small group of obscenely rich men and women who all share an intense love for this particular fetish. Their continued patronage has rendered sales of our videos almost an afterthought.”
“But why?” Billie asked. “I mean, my loser ex boyfriend could find any kind of porn he wanted on the internet for free, I gotta think there’s a cheaper way for these, um, rich folks to get their rocks off!”
Constance laughed. “Oh, to be sure. In fact, there’s countless studios out there that focus on nothing but tickling videos, some of them quite good. However, our owners grew bored with the offerings of more mundane purveyors and decided to use their wealth to take the fetish to its ultimate extreme, stripping away any pretense of playfulness or teasing and leaving behind only pure, distilled torment. Gelos gives them what no ordinary studio can.
She leaned forward, her faint accent growing slightly more pronounced as she continued, “We give them the first stroke of fingernails across the bottom of a bound bare foot, when an unsuspecting subject finally understands just what is going to happen to her and how utterly helpless she is to stop it. We give them the panic in her voice when she realizes that, no matter how loudly she begs for mercy, or screams that she can’t take it for even one second longer, the tickling will just go on and on and on. We give them the glimmer of hope in her eyes when she’s finally granted a respite from the almost unendurable torture, a glimmer that, moments later, changes to a look of horrified disbelief as her tormentors launch an even more vicious assault on her naked soles. And, most of all, we give them the laughter.” Her voice dropped to a husky near whisper. “Oh yes, that desperate, delicious laughter…”
Constance leaned back and closed her eyes, visibly gathering herself. After a deep breath, she said, “I’m sorry, my dear, I’m afraid I get a bit carried away sometimes when talking about our art. What’s the old saying, if you love what you do you’ll never work a day in your life?” She chuckled briefly and then continued, “Now I have a question for you. I realize this is probably all quite strange to you, terrifying even. Believe it or not I was a neophyte myself once, and my introduction to the lifestyle wasn't nearly as...intense. I’m sure your natural inclination is to run home as fast as you can, and if that’s your decision I can certainly understand. In fact, if you insist, we can have you on a plane tonight, asking only that you honor your non-disclosure agreement. But I’m truly hoping you’ll stay with us, Billie. I strongly believe you’ll be a valuable asset here.” She smiled, her eyes hooded. “Valuable in ways you just wouldn’t believe, my lamb.”
Billie started to tell Constance just where she could stick her studio AND her art but stopped herself; after all, acting impulsively was what brought her here in the first place. Yes, Gelos was a horrorshow, built by perverts for perverts, and yes the head pervert in charge was a crazy sadist who looked at Billie like a coyote eyeing a prairie dog. And, most importantly, yes what was being done to the poor girls they tricked into coming here was unspeakably cruel.
But the fact was that a summer working for a subsidiary of an industry giant like MMI could open important doors for her after graduation, to say nothing of the much needed money and college credit she’d gain at the end of the summer if she didn’t chicken out now. And besides, every single model was here of her own free will, and well compensated for their four hours of suffering.
Amazing what you can talk yourself into when there’s a paycheck involved. Billie stood and offered Constance her hand, trying to exude a confidence she didn't feel. “You know, it’s not my fault that sorority girls and strippers can’t read a damn contract. Let’s make someone laugh.”
**************************************************
Billie was slouched down in the control room's chair, paying only peripheral attention to the large bank of monitors before her, when the incoming message tone on her phone chimed. “So who’s onstage tonight?” the text from her college roommate Danielle asked.
After her initial meeting with Constance Billie hadn’t been able to resist filling her friend in on all the sordid details of her new job although, mindful of her non-disclosure agreement, she had kept their conversations limited to texts on her private phone and sworn Dani to secrecy. When Billie informed her of Constance's pretentious nickname for the studio Dani had suggested it sounded like the name of a comedy club, which had become a running joke between the two. “Tonight only!” Billie sent back, “The Hillbilly, the Ho, and the Haughty Hispanic High Society Honey! Here at the Laugh Factory!”
“Wow, UR a poet AND a perv! :-D” Dani’s response read. Billie laughed, then set down the phone with a sigh. With an hour left in her shift, she decided she could at least make an attempt to look busy.
Billie only worked in the studio’s control room one or two days a week, but her eight hour shifts there were interminable. At least her time spent in the editing room the rest of the week, editing four hour shoots down to one hour videos, was engaging; sitting here, staring at this bank of screens that showed her both the torturers and the tortured, she felt less like an A/V tech and more like a shop foreman for the Spanish Inquisition. The video and audio feeds themselves rarely needed adjusting, so her primary task was monitoring the models’ reactions as they underwent their sessions. If a girl grew desensitized and unresponsive to her ticklers’ ministrations, it was Billie’s responsibility to notice this and call a temporary break, allowing time for the model’s sensitivity to return, and anxiety to grow, before her torment resumed.
It was a slow day in the studio, with only three models on the floor. Billie made her rounds, looking in on each one in turn.
Yvette DelaCruz was the twenty one year old daughter of a well-to-do family from Mexico City. Obviously not needing the modelling fee, she had apparently taken the job on a lark, no doubt thinking of it as some kinky erotic adventure she could tell tales of to scandalize her girlfriends back home. If that was what she thought she had come to Gelos for, she was currently paying a very high price for her misconception.
Constance, knowing that the poor village girls she employed would resent the rich girl from the city, had shrewdly made Yvette’s identity known to her stable of ticklers and promised a turn at the socialite to anyone who wanted it. In addition she temporarily suspended her own policy on headphones, allowing the artists to enjoy the effects their torments had on the victim. Two and a half hours into her session six girls had already taken a turn at Yvette, each new tickler taking over before the previous had a chance to grow fatigued and slow down.
Currently two sisters, Gloria and Maria Gomez, were giggling to each other at Yvette’s reactions as they scrubbed stiff hair brushes repeatedly across the bottoms of the poor young woman’s beautifully pedicured feet. The socialite’s soft skin glistened with a thin sheen of baby oil, enabling the bristles to glide effortlessly over and over again across her taut, naked soles.
Billie activated the pod’s audio feed. The beautiful latina’s throaty voice was growing slightly hoarse as she alternated between intense laughter and frenzied begging in spanish. "HAHAHAHA!!! TE RUEGO POR FAVOR NO ME COSQUILLAS MÁS!!!! NONONONONO HAHAHAHAHA!!! TE PAGARÉ CUALQUIER COSA PERO POR FAVOR DEJAR DE!!!” She screamed. “HAHAHAHAHA MADRE DE DIOS POR FAVOR NO MÁS! AAAHAHAHAHAHAH NOOOOOOO!!” Billie had only a general idea what she was saying but, laughter or no, she didn’t sound happy. Ah, well, her parents can probably afford the best therapists in Mexico City when she gets home. Killing the feed, Billie moved on to the next subject.
Maryjane Pulaski could have been sent directly from central casting. The leggy blonde from rural Georgia covered every item on the country girl cliche checklist, right down to the ponytalils and daisy dukes she had been sporting when she arrived at the studio the day before. According to her dossier she graded at the low end of Gelos’ desired ticklishness scale, but the nineteen year old beauty possessed two attributes Billie knew Constance just could not resist: a pronounced accent - in Maryjane’s case a thick southern drawl - and unusually large, shapely feet. Therefore, she was a perfect candidate for the studio’s itching powder “softening up” process.
When the powder first began to take effect the blonde girl had fought against her restraints aggressively, but after an hour of enduring the awful itching sensations it was quite clear all of the fight had been sucked out of her. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes as her lips moved silently on the screen. Billie turned on the internal mics. “Please, please make it STOP! Please, someone scratch mah feet, ah’m beggin’ y'all! Ah swear ah cain’t take it anymore!” The suffering girl took a shuddering breath. “OH MAH GOD, AH CAIN’T TAKE IT NO MOOOOOORE!” she wailed.
Judging her ready for the main event, Billie called an orderly to rinse the powder off, and notified the model’s assigned ticklers that they were on deck. Maryjane’s wish was about to be granted, but the itching was going to be replaced by something much, much worse. Be careful what you ask for there, ‘sugah’, Billie thought to herself nastily as she turned her attention to the monitor displaying the final subject currently on the studio floor.
Meredith “Diamond” Baxter was an exotic dancer from Dallas, toned and limber, with hair dyed a shade of red not found in nature. The heavily pierced and tattooed girl had cheerfully allowed herself to be strapped into the bondage pod, and actually seemed to enjoy the tickling at first. That had changed almost immediately, of course, as Billie had known it would. Diamond was, after all, in the hands of Gelos Studios’ most vicious and skilled tickler.
If Billie found Constance’s cheerful sadism and affected mannerisms creepy, Sylvia Villalobos was downright terrifying. Brooding and aloof, the intense young latina rarely spoke to anyone aside from Constance. Even the other locals gave the sullen beauty a wide berth, seemingly as intimidated by her as Billie was. The only time a smile ever seemed to grace her thin lips was when she was presented a helpless victim to torment.
Billie had spoken to the other ticklers enough during her stay to know that Constance’s policy of insulating the artists from the reactions of their subjects was wise, as most of the village girls tried very hard not to think about the suffering they were obliged to inflict for a paycheck. Sylvia, on the other hand, seemed to revel in it, delighting in finding new and ever more evil ways of wringing agonized laughter from the ticklish feet of her writhing victims. The sadistic raven haired beauty used the reactions of her subjects to adjust her methods on the fly, lingering lovingly on any technique that proved particularly excruciating to a hysterical girl isolated inside her soundproof hell. Sylvia was so brutally efficient in her art that her subjects often emerged from their pods hysterical or violent, forcing Doctor Barnes to always be present at their release with an injection gun loaded with fast acting sedatives readily at hand.
Diamond had passed her breaking point sometime ago but Sylvia, true to form, had not slowed the pace of her torment in the slightest. She was currently employing a wide paint brush in each hand with which she alternated leisurely up and down strokes on the stretched skin of Diamond’s arches, eliciting a frenzied response with each pass of the soft bristles against sensitive flesh. Ignoring the tattooed dancer’s struggles, Sylvia remained fixated on the twitching feet she was torturing with machine-like efficiency, licking her lips hungrily as a particularly violent wave of laughter actually shook the heavy pod.
Billie didn’t need to activate Diamond’s audio feed to assess her condition, as the look of hopeless despair in the girl’s beautiful blue eyes was clear evidence that she was far past the limits of her endurance As she did nearly every time she was called upon to monitor one of Sylvia's sessions, Billie considered halting the shoot, genuinely concerned for the model’s safety. While it was discouraged, the tech in charge of the control room had the authority to pause the tickling and call in the doctor to examine a subject if they felt it warranted. Billie had only done so twice during her tenure at Gelos but both times had been while monitoring Sylvia, and the mexican girl had harbored an obvious grudge against her ever since, acting even surlier than normal when in the american girl’s presence.
A knock at the control room door saved her from having to make a decision. Steve, another A/V tech currently in residence at Gelos, peeked his head in and said, “Yo B. Boss lady wants to see you in her office ASAP. Said I should cover the rest of your shift.”
“Um, okay, sure.” Billie replied a bit uncertainly, rising from the control room chair. “She say what about?” The older man shrugged, holding the door open for her. As she stepped past him and into the hallway she said in passing, “Hey, uh, keep an eye on the girl in three, the one Sylvia’s working on? We probably oughta think about pulling her out of there while she can still remember her name.” Steve grunted noncommittally, and Billie knew that poor Diamond was in there for the duration. Ah, well, at least she tried.
Billie hurriedly made the short trip from the control room to Constance’s office. With her term of service coming to an end in just two weeks she had actually been expecting some form of exit interview soon, and thus wasn’t overly concerned about the summons. Coulda let me finish the shift, though she thought as she knocked on the office door.
Billie was surprised to find Doctor Barnes and Randy the orderly already present in Constance’s lair, the former seated on one end of the couch as the latter loomed by the door. Gelos’ copper haired mistress was seated at her desk with a somber expression, the giant monitor on the wall behind her showing a black screen rather than its usual collage of images from the studio floor.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you in, my dear” Constance began in an uncharacteristically serious tone of voice once Billie had seated herself beside the Doctor. “I have to say I’m tremendously disappointed. I’ve been quite pleased with your work this summer and, to be honest, had considered extending you an offer of further employment once you graduated. But I’m afraid that’s quite impossible now. You see, Billie, we have a serious security issue on our hands, centering on you. It’s come to my attention that you’ve violated the non-disclosure clause of your contract, something that both I and our owners take quite seriously.”
“But, but I didn’t…” Billie began to stammer, stopping herself as Constance raised a hand for silence, the other picking up a remote from her desk and pressing a button. Instantly, the wall sized monitor behind her came to life and displayed a selection of Billie’s text messages to her roommate over the last two and a half months, all concerning her work at Gelos. “What?” she exclaimed, her nervousness washed away by a sudden flood of righteous indignation. “You’ve been reading my texts? How dare you!” she almost yelled.
Constance shook her head sadly. “Why won’t you girls ever read your contracts? It quite clearly states that any outgoing communications are subject to monitoring, just as clearly as it states that employees are forbidden to discuss any aspect of our operation with non-employees. A rule you quite obviously broke less than an hour ago” she finished, gesturing towards Billie’s last message to Dani sitting at the top of the screen.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I mean, Dani’s my best friend, she wouldn’t say anything…”
Constance cut her off. “Be that as it may, lamb,” she said sadly, “I’m afraid rules are rules. Now, in light of your previous excellent service, I’ve decided to award you the full agreed upon college credit, as well as to allow you to list MMI as a positive reference on your resume. No need to ruin a promising career on account of one youthful indiscretion, after all. This is, of course, dependant upon you completing one final day of work for the company, as stipulated in your contract.”
Well there was a huge silver lining, even if her final day was spent scrubbing toilets as punishment. Billie nodded gratefully. “Well, okay, I appreciate that, I really do. So what, you want me to help out in the editing room tomorrow or something?” she asked hopefully.
“Oh no, my dear, for your final day here I thought we’d have you do something special” Constance said with a mischievous grin.
Toilets, Billie thought, It’s going to be toilets. With a sinking feeling in her stomach she asked hesitantly “Um, and what’s that?”
Constance’s grin changed from mischievous to predatory as she leaned forward, her emerald eyes gleaming, and said, “Why, I thought maybe we would give you a try as a model for a day. I know Sylvia has expressed to me several times that she is just dying to work with you.”
Billie stood up as if shot from a cannon. “No!” she yelled shrilly, “No fucking way! You can keep your goddamn credits and your goddamn references! There’s no way in hell I’m getting in one of those fucking pods!” Her heart pounding, Billie’s eyes darted towards the door, wondering if Randy would prevent her from leaving. Distracted, she didn’t notice that the doctor had also stood until she felt a sudden sting in her upper arm.
“Ow! What the hell?” she exclaimed. Turning to look at Doctor Barnes, she saw him holding his injection gun, an apologetic expression on his face. “Doc, what did you…” she began, then stopped as the room started to spin.
As she swayed dizzily she heard Constance’s voice, seemingly a hundred miles away, say, “Nothing to be worried about, lamb, just another CIA approved pharmaceutical from our friends at Merriweather Chemicals to help insure you fulfil the terms of your contract.” Billie felt Randy’s strong hands grab her and ease her onto the couch. The world grew fuzzier around her as she heard Constance’s husky voice say something about prep room one, then everything faded to black.
**************************************************
Billie woke slowly from a deep sleep, snapping to full awareness only when she tried to roll over and realized that she was completely unable to move. Opening her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of a bondage pod lid’s padded interior a mere eight inches from her nose. Testing her bonds, she quickly realized that she had been secured every bit as thoroughly as any of the models she had monitored over the last few months, from the padded strap across her forehead to the cords bending her toes back to the point of complete immobility.
She felt the gentlest breath of air waft across her bare feet as the building’s ventilation system cycled on. The thought of her feet outside of the pod, exposed and vulnerable to tickling or worse from anyone passing by, terrified her. She began to thrash as forcefully as the strict bondage allowed, looking directly into one of the tiny digital cameras mounted to the lid and yelling for anyone watching to release her. After a few moments of frenzied struggling she finally gave up and lay still, panting and sweating inside her straightjacket.
Billie suddenly started with a shriek at the feel of rubber gloved hands gently massaging the bottoms of her feet. To her horror, intense pinpricks of itching appeared almost instantly at several points on her soles, rapidly spreading to fully engulf the sensitive skin from the bottoms of her toes to her heels. The sensations grew more and more unbearable until the frantic girl was cursing vehemently and struggling against her restraints, straining her ankles against the unyielding stocks in a futile effort to rub her feet together, to do something, anything, to relieve the horrific, maddening itching. But nothing she did made the slightest difference as she squirmed and moaned helplessly.
After what felt like an eternity, each moment seeming to Billie to be the one where her sanity would finally slip irrevocably away, a new sensation intruded on her torment as a cool spray of liquid washed over her feet, followed by a rough cloth wiping them dry. Almost instantly the itching ceased, and a panicked giggle escaped her throat as the towel lightly tickled her now hyper-sensitive soles. Thankfully the towel was removed almost immediately, leaving Billie exhausted and waiting in terror for what she feared was coming next.
To her relief, Billie heard the sound of the pod’s latches being undone. After a moment the lid swung open, causing her to blink furiously in the much brighter glare of the room’s fluorescent lighting. Constance stood beside the pod looking down at her with an amused expression, and for a moment Billie dared to hope that she was being released from her restraints. That hope quickly changed to dread, however, as she registered the slight figure standing beside the tall redhead. Sylvia Villalobos grinned at the helpless young woman, a nasty gleam in her eye.
“Why hello there lamb, did you have a nice nap?” Constance asked with a friendly smile. “I took the liberty of providing you with a little pick-me-up to insure you were quite awake and ready for this evening’s entertainment.” She winked at the bound girl. “I’d say I hoped you enjoyed it but, judging from the sounds coming out of your pod during the last hour, I already know better. I must say, you do have a bit of a potty mouth when you’re distressed, my dear!”
“Constance, please let me out of here!” Billie began to beg. “I won’t say anything else to anyone, I swear! You can keep my pay…”
“Oh no, my dear.” Constance cut her off. “It has nothing to do with the money, it's just the principle of the thing.You violated the terms of your contract, and now you have to pay the penalty, as simple as that. To allow you to leave without any repercussions would be setting a bad example for our other employees. And besides, Sylvia here assures me she has some exquisite games in mind for you.” She turned to the latina and asked, “Ustedes dos se divertirán, ¿no es así, Sylvia?”
“Oh sí señora” Sylvia replied, wiggling her fingertips towards the terrified girl. “La gringa no puede hacerme dejar de cosquillas esta vez!”
“You see? Sylvia is so eager to play with you! How could I possibly disappoint such an enthusiastic employee?” Constance asked cheerfully. Running one lacquered fingernail down the side of the pod, she continued in a more conversational tone. “But I can imagine how frightened you must be, darling. After all, you’ve watched my protege at work for months now, so you know as well as I do just how gifted, and how cruel, she is. You’ve seen her reduce a model to a screaming, sobbing mess in minutes with nothing more than her nails and a bit of baby oil, watched her torture a victim mercilessly for hours after they’ve already been broken.”
Walking to the end of the pod, Constance began drumming her fingernails on the top of the polished fiberglass stocks. “And there you’ll be, my poor little lamb, tied up and helpless under that lid while your bare feet are out here with her.” She began stroking her hand gently across the bottom of Billie’s left foot, careful to keep her fingernails from scratching but still drawing frightened gasps from the bound girl with each caress. “Just think about how vulnerable they are like this, with these pretty little toes of yours tied back so very tightly, the smooth skin of your soles stretched taut. A perfect canvas for her every sadistic whim.” Constance shook her head sympathetically. “Honestly, if I were in your position I’d be going mad with fear right now.”
Moving alongside Billie once again, Constance bent to whisper into the trembling girl’s ear. “I was watching that day in the exam room, you know. I saw what happened when the doctor stroked that brush against your foot. I realized just how insanely ticklish you are and I resolved then and there to find a way to get you into a pod. But unlike all the other girls that find themselves in one, you know exactly what’s about to happen to you, don’t you my dear?”
Billie began to cry. “Please, Constance, I’m begging you don’t do this to me!” she sobbed. “You can’t let her tickle my feet, not tied up like this! I’ll die! I swear I’ll…” She stopped as Constance gently rested a finger on her quivering lips.
“Hush, lamb, be quiet now” Constance said, almost lovingly. “Trust me, you’re going to need every ounce of breath in just a moment. She is going to tickle you, Billie. She's going to rake her nails up and down your bare soles for hour after hour while you shriek and writhe in unendurable agony. No matter how frantically you laugh, she won’t stop. No matter how loudly you scream, she won’t stop. No matter how much you beg, she will. Not. Stop. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.” Constance’s voice became teasing, her hot breath sending chills down Billie’s spine as it blew into her ear. “Can you even imagine it, Billie? Brushes, combs, fingernails, all scratching unbearably across the bottoms of your soft little feet, over and over and over? And the whole time you have to just lie there and take it! Well, you’re not going to have to imagine it for much longer.”
Billie was making incoherent mewling sounds, tears streaming from her eyes. The tall redhead straightened, gripping the edge of the pod's lid. “You’ve seen what that can do to a girl, haven’t you? Well, now you’re going to get to experience it firsthand! And by the way, this is all being recorded for our clients. So do try to put on a good show, won’t you my dear? See you in a few hours, lamb. Kitchie Kitchie Koo!” Constance said teasingly, before slamming the lid closed.
Billie lay in the dim light of the pod, listening first to the sound of latches being refastened and then to her own ragged breathing. A small part of her mind somehow clung to the hope that what Constance had just described in such gleeful detail wasn’t actually about to happen to her, that, having been taught her lesson, she would be released and sent home, traumatized but unharmed. Sinking deeper into denial, Billie had actually managed to calm herself and slow her breathing when Sylvia’s attack began.
Sharp fingernails skittered rapidly across Billie’s tightly stretched soles, causing the panicked girl to nearly jump out of her skin. She thrashed wildly against her bonds, her high pitched laughter shattering the silence of the pod as she shrieked “EEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE NOOOOO! OH GOD HAHAHAHAHAHAH, NOT MY FEET DON’T TICKLE MY FEEHEEHEEHEEHEET! I CAN’T TAKE IT, I CAN’T, I CAN’T, I CAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Billie fought violently against the stocks encasing her ankles, her toes straining futilely against their restraining cuffs, in a desperate attempt to escape the rhythmic strokes of Sylvia’s nails along her sensitive arches. The months spent watching models being tickled from the safety of the control room, the nightmares and daydreams where she found herself in their place, hadn’t prepared her in the slightest for the torment she was now suffering. The tickling sensations were a thousand times worse than she had imagined, exacerbated by the knowledge that she was completely unable to do anything to stop, or even slow, the torture.
Although the tiny part of her brain still capable of rational thought realized that pleading would only drive her tormenter to even further depths of cruelty, Billie couldn’t help herself. “AHAHAHAHAHAH MERCY, SYLVIA, PLEASE! HEEHEEHEEHEE I’M BEGGING YOU! OH PLEASE NO MORE! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO STOP! I CAN’T STAND IT! THIS IS KILLING MEEHEEHEEHEEHEE!”
In response to her frenzied begging Sylvia’s nails danced even more rapidly across the bottom of Billie’s right foot as some sort of stiff brush began to stroke over and over on the soft skin of the left. The tormented girl’s pleas abruptly ceased, replaced by peal after peal of agonized laughter. “NOOOOOOHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
The tiny sliver of rationality left to her had time for one last, terrifying realization: this was just the beginning. Sylvia was a pitiless tickling machine, as tireless as she was skilled. As excruciating as the torture was now, it was only going to get worse as it went on and on, for hour after screaming, sobbing, laughter filled hour. Billie had, after all, seen it happen with her own eyes so many times before.
A wail of despair tore loose from her throat as the true horror of her plight finally settled on her. And then a wave of hysteria finally swept away her last vestige of sanity, leaving only the laughter behind.
The End.
Just three weeks prior she had been sitting in her dorm room browsing help wanted listings on an online bulletin board when she stumbled across the ad: “Wanted: undergraduate audio/video student for paid summer internship. Gelos Studios is a premium adult entertainment provider specializing in non-nude bondange and foot fetish material. We are currently seeking a highly motivated and skilled A/V student to assist in production and editing duties. High pay, short term contract, travel and all expenses paid, college credit. Please send resume and photograph to contact information provided.”
Initially Billie had dismissed the ad out of hand but, at the urging of her roommate Danielle, finally decided to at least research the studio. While strangely unable to find any of their videos online, she was able to dig up a fair amount of background information. Surprisingly, Gelos Studios was actually owned by MMI, Merriweather Multimedia International, one of the largest media companies in the world and itself a branch of the gigantic Merriweather Global corporation. And while spending a summer working at a porn studio wasn't exactly something that she would want to disclose to future employers, interning at a subsidiary of MMI certainly was. Impulsively, Billie sent her resume to the provided email, not really expecting a response.
If Billie was moderately surprised to receive an answering email the very next day, she was absolutely shocked by the speed at which things progressed from that point forward. Five days, three phone calls, and one Skype interview later a smiling FedEx man was knocking at her door, bearing an envelope containing her contract.
For a financially strapped college sophomore the terms of the contract - six thousand dollars and college credit for three months work - had been almost too good to be true. While there were some fairly draconian privacy and secrecy provisions, the penalties for violating the contract were surprisingly lenient: just one day of unpaid labor for the company, presumably to finish up any outstanding work or projects. And while the thought of traveling to Mexico for the job had initially given her pause, assurances from Miss Devereaux, the studio manager, about the quality of their security measures and their friendly relationship with the local government had allayed her fears.
The SUV jolted over a bump in the road, shaking Billie out of her reverie. And so here I am, she thought wryly to herself, at the ass end of nowhere, in a truck that could be straight out of a bad government conspiracy movie, riding with two security guards who don’t have a single sense of humor between ‘em. All so I can spend the next three months watching pervs get tied up and whacked with fly swatters, or whatever. She sighed. God I hope they have wifi.
The truck had turned onto a gravel road some miles back, and rocks growled and popped under the vehicle’s big tires as Billie’s temporary new home finally came into view. Standing alone and isolated in the desert, Gelos Studios was more impressive than she had anticipated. A large one story building built in a spanish hacienda style stood at the center of several smaller outbuildings, the structures surrounded by trees and greenery with only a tall barbed wire topped chain link fence around the perimeter breaking the illusion of a beautiful oasis.
The SUV entered the compound’s automatic gate and stopped in front of the main building, parking next to a dusty but new shuttle bus. One of her human pitbull co-passengers indicated that she should enter the glass doors fronting the building while her luggage was transferred to her assigned living quarters. Exiting the truck’s air conditioned interior was like stepping directly into a blast furnace, and she covered the few steps to the entrance as quickly as possible.
Entering the building, Billie first noticed that there was no receptionist, just an empty foyer. Tasteful erotic artwork adorned the walls, along with several floor length mirrors. Stopping before the reflective glass on her right Billie considered her appearance, suddenly regretting that she hadn’t worn something more professional for her first day. Standing a bit under five feet tall, with delicate, pixieish facial features, Billie knew that she didn’t cut an impressive figure at the best of times. Combined with Doc Martens, a vintage Misfits T-shirt, and a bob hairdo dyed a shocking blue, her face and build gave her the appearance of a punk rock tinkerbell, not a serious young woman starting her first professional job. But Miss Devereux, the studio’s manager, had assured her during their Skype conversation that Gelos had no dress code.
Hearing a door on the wall opposite the entrance open, Billie turned around in time to see her new boss enter the foyer, and suddenly realized that “no dress code” was a bit of an understatement.
Constance Devereaux did not walk so much as stalk. A tall redhead with fierce green eyes, she moved toward Billie with the sinuous grace of a jungle cat circling prey. Perhaps slightly over thirty years of age, lean and pale complected, Constance wore a long sleeved black lycra shirt cropped to expose a chiseled midriff that rippled with muscle as she moved, the milky white skin of her belly adorned with a tasteful navel piercing. Black tights cinched with a chain belt rode low on her hips, clinging to her long, toned legs and tucking into the tops of buckled platform boots.
“There you are, lamb!” Constance’s husky voice purred, just the slightest hint of an unfamiliar accent polishing her words. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in the flesh.” Grasping Billie’s shoulders, she held her at arm’s length and eyed her up and down. “I have to say, you're even more adorable in person. Pictures and video just don’t do you justice at all. And this hair!” she exclaimed delightedly, stroking one of Billie’s bright blue locks.
“Um, thank you ma’am. I’m, uh, glad you like it.” she replied, a bit taken aback by Constance’s enthusiasm. Truth be told, something about the older woman had always struck Billie as a bit off during their previous conversations, and meeting her in person just reinforced that impression. But then again, Billie thought, anyone who makes a living filming other people getting spanked isn't likely to have the same personality as your average coffee shop manager.
Billie’s new employer shook her head. “Oh no, none of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense, dear! I simply must insist you call me Constance. We’re going to be working together quite closely for the next few months, after all, and I do so want us to be friends.” A strange gleam flashed in her eyes, bringing a flutter to the younger woman's stomach. “Yes, very good friends indeed.”
“Now then, my dear,” Constance continued, “I know you’re eager to get started learning the ins and outs of our little Casa de Perversión out here in the desert, but there’s something we have to attend to before I can give you the grand tour. We require all new employees to undergo a brief medical exam, strictly as a precautionary measure. After all, we’re hours away from the nearest hospital, must make sure you're healthy!” The statuesque redhead opened a door, revealing a long, well lit hallway. “If you’ll follow me?”
**************************************************
The examination room Constance left her in was similar to any clinic’s and the exam was as brief as promised. Doctor Barnes, a gruff, bespectacled middle-aged man, did little more than check her blood pressure and reflexes. “Okay, Miss Stevens,” he said finally, as he scribbled on a clipboard, “we’ve got one more test to run. Would you please remove your shoes and socks?”
Billie flinched. Having her bare feet touched by someone else had never been something she was comfortable with. “Sure, Doc, whatever you say” she replied uncertainly, removing her footwear as ordered and setting them aside.
“Alright,” the doctor said, “lay back please.” After Billie did as she was told, he held up a small toothbrush and continued, “Now what I’m going to need you to do is try to hold perfectly still for at least ten seconds while I tickle each of your feet with this. Then…”
“NO!” Billie yelled, sitting up abruptly and pulling her feet under herself indian style. “No! Please, Doc, I can't stand being tickled! Can’t you save us both the trouble and just write down ‘Insanely, super, stupid, crazy freaking ticklish?’” Billie’s eyes were wide as saucers, her heart pounding. “Seriously, you’re wasting your time! I couldn't hold my feet still for one second, let alone ten!”
“I’m afraid you don't really have a choice, young lady, at least not if you wish to remain employed here” Doctor Barnes replied testily. “Company policy is quite clear on the matter: new hires must submit to all medical tests, without exception. In fact, if you were one of our models you’d have already undergone a more thorough version of this particular test before you were even offered a job. We do this or you go home, just like it says in the contract you signed. Now, if you will please lay back down.”
“Alright,” she muttered sullenly, “you don’t have to get all grumpy.” Taking a deep breath, she lay back and stretched her legs out, steeling herself for what was coming. But dammit, why does it have to be tickling? she asked herself. Ever since she was a little girl, just the thought of someone touching the soles of her feet had been enough to send her into a panic. Even pedicures were an ordeal, something she only trusted to a handful of technicians. Once, when she was much younger, her older brother had capitalized on this weakness, sitting on her ankles and tickling her feet until she wet herself. While the punishment her parents had consequently meted out insured he had never tried that again, the incident had popped up in her nightmares for years.
Well, she thought, maybe I’ve outgrown it? I mean, no one’s actually touched my feet outside of a salon in years. I'm probably not even all that ticklish anymOHMYGOD! Letting out a piercing shriek, Billie jerked her feet back from the toothbrush violently and then unleashed a defensive kick, catching the doctor in the face with the ball of her foot and sending his glasses flying. Suddenly mortified, she exclaimed, “Oh my god I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!”
Unperturbed, the doctor calmly bent to retrieve his glasses, replying, “Quite all right, young lady, clearly just a defensive reflex on your part. Frankly, given your previous reluctance, I probably should have been prepared for just such a response. Although I must admit your reaction was a bit more...energetic than I’m used to seeing.”
“Does this mean I failed?” she asked nervously.
“Oh no, this was never a pass/fail test, just a measurement” he replied. “That said, I think I have enough data. We can forgo any further testing.”
“Oh thank god!” Billie said fervently, reaching for her boots. “Well, if you say the models have to go through a more intense version of that test then I guess it’s a damn good thing I didn't sign up for a modeling gig, huh Doc?”
The doctor gave Billie a strange look. “Yes, that is a good thing young lady” he said in a gravely serious voice. “I would say that is a very good thing indeed.” He opened the exam room door and stepped into the hall. “Now, if you’ll wait here a moment I’ll notify Miss Devereux that we’re finished.”
Huh, Billie thought to herself as the door closed, wonder what that was all about.
A few moments after the doctor left there was a brief knock on the door before Constance opened it and breezed in. “Hope you're decent! Well, my little lamb, the good doctor assures me you’re in the finest of health. ‘Kicks like a mule’ I believe was the phrase he used.”
“Yeah, afraid I went a little kung-fuey on him. Too many Jet-Li movies, I guess” Billie responded sheepishly.
Constance laughed. “Oh my dear, you are delightful! Don’t you worry about him. I’m sure the old goat’s suffered worse, what with all the poking and prodding he’s had to do over the years. Now come, lamb,” she said as she held the door open for Billie, “it’s time you learned just what we do to pay the bills around here.”
As they walked down the hall the older woman said, “So, you’re aware from our earlier conversations that we are producers of fetish material. But I don’t believe we ever discussed the exact nature of that material, am I correct?”
“Yeah,” Billie replied, “I actually looked for your stuff online, just to see what it was like. Freaked me out a little when I couldn't find any of your videos, to be honest. I mean, I’m sure everything here is legit and all, but…”
Constance nodded. “I can understand your concern. One hears so many dreadful stories about what can be found on the deep web these days. I can assure you, however, that our products are all completely legal. Our internet presence is minimal because the videos we produce are only available for sale to those referred to us by existing clients. Which is for the best, really. If the actual nature of our products were easily discovered we’d have the Devil’s own time finding models willing to subject themselves to one of our, frankly, rather grueling video shoots. Our business model relies rather heavily on them not knowing quite how far off of the deep end they’re stepping until they’ve already stepped.”
They stopped in front of a six foot wide opaque glass panel mounted in the hallway’s wall, underneath which was a sign reading “Prep Room One” and a small control pad. “Um,” Billie said hesitantly, “what, uh, what exactly is your, I mean our, product? Ma’am? I mean, Constance?”
The tall redhead looked down at Billie with a smile. “Have you wondered at all about the name of the studio, darling? Gelos is the ancient greek god of laughter.” Her smile turned a bit predatory. “Laughter is, in essence, our product my dear. Laughter and suffering. Now, let’s observe one of our models preparing for her session, shall we?” Still smiling, she pressed a button on the control pad. Instantly the glass cleared, showing the inside of a ten by ten room.
The room was spartan, with institutional grey walls and carpeting. Its only furniture was what appeared to be an oddly modified hospital gurney with various straps dangling off of it and a small control panel on its side. At one end of the gurney a pair of stocks in the shape of a half circle rose perpendicular to the bed’s surface, the holes set about two feet apart and roughly at an even height with the mattress top. Attached to the left side of the gurney by sturdy hinges, a curved fiberglass cover currently hung open like a tanning booth lid, its rim encircled by a thick, black rubber seal and numerous latches; it was apparent from the lid’s shape that, when closed, it would fit snuggly against the edges of the gurney and stocks. What appeared to be light panels and digital cameras were visible on the lid’s heavily padded interior
The room was currently occupied by three people. The first was a beautiful young woman in her early twenties, barefoot and wearing green medical scrubs, with bleach blonde hair and a skin tone that clearly indicated a rather unhealthy addiction to sunbathing. Say hello to Mr Melanoma for me in about twenty years there, Barbie Billie thought to herself sarcastically.
In the room with her were two men in orderly garb, one hispanic and one caucasian, who were placing the compliant but obviously nervous girl into a straightjacket. Having finished tightening the buckles, one orderly walked her to the gurney while the other undid a latch on the side of the stocks and flipped the top half open. As the men began to help the girl onto the wheeled bed she suddenly balked, backing away and shaking her head.
The caucasian orderly approached the girl slowly, hands raised in a nonthreatening manner. Watching the scene intently, Constance said, “While the majority of our permanent employees are locals from one of several nearby villages, this is why it’s important that at least one of the orderlies in the prep room be fluent in the model’s native language. You see, none of our subjects are professional bondage models. Despite the quite lucrative contracts we offer, word to avoid this place spread through that particular community early on. The problem is that amateurs can get a bit skittish when the reality of their situation begins to set in. As per the terms of her contract, this young lady must freely consent to being locked into those stocks before she’s ours to do with as we please. If she refuses now we put her on a plane and send her home, unpenalized but also unpaid. Fortunately for us Randy, the orderly currently talking to her, is usually quite good at convincing…” Constance paused a moment. “Ah, here we go.”
The orderly, no doubt having reminded the girl just how much money she would forfeit if she backed out at this point, was now helping Barbie onto the gurney. As the stocks locked around her ankles the blonde girl gasped visibly, her entire body shivering nervously. Working swiftly, the orderlies began to fasten various straps over every part of her slim frame, including one padded strap directly across her forehead. Due to the angle of the bed Billie could see the girl’s face as she slowly began to realize just how thoroughly she was being restrained. Evidently having second thoughts, the pretty blonde began to beg the men to release her, the expression on her face growing more panicked by the second. The orderlies ignored her with a detached professionalism, concentrating on the task at hand.
Having rendered the struggling girl immobile from the ankles up, one of the men swung the heavy fiberglass cover closed, latching it down securely to the edges of the gurney and stocks. The lid covered the gurney completely, leaving only the model’s wildly squirming feet visible. “We call the device she’s in a pod” Constance said. “Custom made for us at no small expense, and worth every penny. They're soundproof, with microphones, cameras, and ventilation all built in. The stocks’ holes have gel filled collars that form fit around the ankles to help keep the feet from moving back and forth, as well as protecting the subject from injury. But we’re going to need her to be just a bit more immobilized than that, I’m afraid.”
Dangling from tiny holes in the stocks behind either foot were ten cords ending in small leather cuffs. One orderly grasped the girl’s twitching feet and held them still as the other began placing the cuffs on the pad of every toe. Once all of the cuffs were in place the hispanic orderly moved to the control panel on the side of the pod and pressed a button. When he did so the cables began to slowly withdraw into the stocks, bending the girl’s toes back and stretching the skin of her soles taut. Their subject now literally immobilized head to toe, the two men undid the wheel locks on the pod and rolled it out through a door in the back of the room.
After returning the glass to its opaque state, Constance led Billie further down the hallway past several identical windows, commenting offhandedly as they walked, “You know, if the poor dears had the faintest idea what was really in store for them they wouldn’t climb into one of those pods for love or money.” Rounding a corner, they stopped a moment later before another of the glass panels, this one over ten feet wide and labeled “Main Studio Floor“. Hovering a finger over the window’s control pad, Constance said, “And here is the center of our operation, lamb. Welcome to what I like to call The Laugh Factory!” With a flourish she hit the button, turning the window clear and giving Billie a front row seat to hell.
The room on the other side of the now transparent glass was large and rectangular, with a pair of swinging doors and a long table occupying the far wall. In it were five of the bondage pods, each with a pair of naked female feet protruding from its stocks, their toes tied back tightly. Every pod but one had a pair of local girls seated on stools in front of it, the final pod having only a single girl attending it. And, to Billie’s horror, every girl was currently engaged in tickling the helpless bare foot in front of her.
Each of the girls had a tray of brushes and various other implements sitting within easy reach, and brush bristles, comb teeth, and long fingernails all stroked again and again across the defenseless soles of their victims as digital cameras, mounted on stands behind and beside each pod, recorded every moment from multiple angles. Billie noticed one girl texting on her phone with her right hand as she absently scribbled the nails of her left over the bottom of the foot before her. Without taking her eyes from the tiny screen, her left hand paused just long enough to dip down to the tool tray and pick up a hairbrush, which she then began to vigorously scrub across the sole of the now violently twitching foot. Another girl swayed back and forth, her eyes closed and lips moving as she listened to music through earbuds. Cupping a heel in her hands, she stroked her thumbnails in alternating turns down a crease in the center of the arch, apparently in rhythm to the music.
The nonchalance displayed by the ticklers was somehow more disturbing to Billie than the tickling itself. There was no sadism or cruelty evident in their actions, no enjoyment in the suffering they were inflicting. Many of the girls talked and laughed with each other, or simply stared off into space daydreaming, as their nails and tools raked the arches of their victims seemingly on autopilot. They didn’t seem to care or even realize that the owners of the feet they were so casually torturing were likely going insane inside their soundproof prisons. Billie realized that, to these girls, this was probably just an especially well paying job. The sensitive skin they were tickling might as well have been a secretary’s keyboard, their laughing victim a car on an assembly line.
Billie shuddered. For a brief, terrible moment she imagined herself in one of those pods, shrieking with desperate laughter as unseen fingers danced mercilessly across the bottoms of her bare feet…
“So, lamb,” Constance said, jarring her back to reality, “this is the heart of our little enterprise. What do you think?” The tall redhead had been watching Billie the entire time, and was clearly amused at the younger woman’s shocked reaction.
“Um, I think it’s horrifying?” she replied bluntly. “Okay, so the girls in the pods aren’t really all that ticklish, right? Sure, the Doc said you test for that before you bring them down here, so of course you leave the really ticklish ones behind, yeah? ‘Cause if they were actually ticklish then doing this to them would be inhumane and stuff, like actual torture, you know?” Billie knew she was in denial, babbling in an attempt to convince herself, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “So you just get the ones who can act ticklish, ‘cause if you did that to someone who really was ticklish she’d go insane or die or something.” Pausing finally for a breath, she fervently hoped the older woman didn’t realize that Billie definitely included herself in the latter group.
Constance smiled down at her. “Oh no, my dear, the test the good doctor mentioned isn’t to insure the girls we bring her aren’t ticklish. To the contrary, it’s to insure that they are as ticklish as possible, although we certainly don’t tell them that. I can assure you, the young ladies in those pods are currently in every bit as much agony as you are no doubt imagining. But don't worry, no one has ever died laughing on my watch.” Her smile turned into a wicked grin. “Although certainly not from a lack of trying. Now come my dear,” she said as she opened a door next to the wall-length window, “let’s take a closer look, shall we?”
Stepping into the studio, what struck Billie was the sound. When Gelos’ mistress entered all conversation amongst the local girls abruptly ceased, rendering the room eerily quiet. Since the pods themselves blocked any noise made by their hapless occupants, the only thing breaking the silence were the horrible scratching sounds of various implements and dozens of sharp fingernails scraping repeatedly across bare skin stretched tight as a drumhead. Thankfully, at a gesture from Constance, the various conversations resumed, masking the sounds of the torture occurring all around them.
Walking to the table on the room’s back wall, Constance picked up two pairs of expensive headphones and moved next to one of the pods, gesturing for Billie to join her. The girl responsible for the subject’s right foot was currently sawing a toothbrush between each of the victim’s toes, one after the other, as her coworker fluttered the fingernails of both hands continuously over the arch and heel of its opposite. Both women now seemed focused completely on their task, no doubt thanks to the close proximity of their employer.
Resting a hand on the fiberglass lid, Constance said, ”Now the soundproofing of the pods has two main purposes, the most obvious being a degree of sensory deprivation. Tickling is nearly as much a psychological act as a physical one, after all, and a lack of any outside visual or auditory stimuli can be quite powerful in contributing to the intensity of the model’s anguish. But the primary purpose is to prevent our ticklers from empathizing with their subjects.”
Bending down, Constance plugged both headphones into audio jacks in the pod’s control panel. Handing one set to Billie, she continued, “If our artists could hear the effect their tickling was having on their victims, there’s a good chance they might take pity on them and lessen the severity of the torment, leaving us with a lackluster product. That, of course, is something we just cannot have.”
“You, on the other hand, are in a different situation entirely” Constance said, preparing to place her headphones over her ears. “Your position will, among other things, require you to monitor the models as they endure whatever tortures our girls see fit to inflict upon them. So I think it’s fairly important that you get an idea of just what’s happening inside of these pods, don’t you agree?”
“Now, I believe this is the lovely young lady we observed being prepped earlier. Why don’t we give a listen and see how she’s enjoying our hospitality so far” Constance said, donning her headphones. Hesitantly, Billie followed suit, and instantly wished she hadn’t.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH NO, NO, NOOOOOOO! STOP, OH PLEASE STOP! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Barbie shrieked, the panic that Billie had seen in her face earlier now magnified tenfold in her frantic voice. “HAHAHAHAHA STOP! STOP! HAHAHAHAH OH GOD WHY WON’T YOU STOP! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Billie snatched the headphones from her ears as if they were on fire, to Constance’s obvious amusement. Good lord, she thought, the girl couldn't have been here for more than ten minutes, and it already sounds like she’s ready to give up her firstborn just to stop the tickling!
“That’s, um, okay, that’s kind of intense” Billie stammered as Constance unplugged the headphones from the side of the pod. “You’re going to let her out soon, yeah? I mean, ‘cause the girl sounds like she’s going crazy in there. She probably can’t take much more of this, is what I’m saying.”
Constance tilted her head and regarded Billie with feigned puzzlement. “Let her out? Oh no, my dear, I’m afraid her ordeal has just begun. The contract all our models sign is for a four hour session, with any rest breaks issued solely at our discretion. No, this pretty young thing has hours of laughing ahead of her. And screaming and begging as well, apparently. Whether she can take it or not is completely immaterial. She has no choice but to take it for,” Constance glanced at her watch, “approximately three hours and fifty two minutes longer.”
Billie’s mouth dropped open in shock. Four hours? The thought of her feet being tickled for four seconds made her stomach clench. Enduring hours of it, all while tied up and completely unable to defend herself, was almost unimaginable.
As they were talking two orderlies had rolled another pod onto the studio floor, the feet extending from its stocks dark skinned and fine boned. “Ah, yes!” Constance exclaimed delightedly, “Our lovely young indian exchange student finally makes her Laugh Factory debut! I was hoping you’d be present for her arrival, lamb. You see, there’s another technique at our disposal you’ll need to be familiar with.”
After locking the pod’s wheels in place and plugging several cables into the panel on its side, one of the orderlies stepped over to the table at the back of the room. After pulling disposable latex gloves onto his hands, he picked up what appeared for all the world to be a giant steel salt shaker and returned to the foot of the pod. Constance said, “Occasionally a unique subject comes along who’s perhaps not quite as ticklish as we might wish, but who has other qualities that we simply cannot pass up. For instance, our young Miss Kapoor here has the type of exotic accent that can lend a unique flavor to her laughter, something some of our more discerning patrons particularly adore. But, as she doesn’t quite meet our sensitivity standards, we have to add one more step to her prep phase in an effort to soften her up a bit.”
The orderly began sprinkling a fine white powder from the shaker onto the girl’s exposed feet. Having covered them thoroughly, he then gently massaged her soles, working the powder deeper into the soft skin. That done, he snapped the gloves off of his hands and, tossing them into a garbage can, left the room.
As the two women watched silently the model’s toes began to twitch in their cuffs, subtly at first, then with increasing desperation. The Indian girl soon began straining futilely at the stocks that held her ankles apart, in an apparent effort to rub her feet together.
“What you are observing,” Constance said clinically, “are the effects of a very potent itching powder. It was actually designed for the CIA by Merriweather Chemicals, one of our sister companies, as an aid in conducting ‘enhanced interrogation’ sessions without causing visible harm to the prisoner. The sensation intensifies rapidly over the first few minutes until it becomes quite unbearable, and it doesn’t fade over time.” She gestured towards the stocks, where the delicate, dusky skinned feet were now violently jerking against their restraints. “Applied to an immobilized subject like this it really is quite an effective torture in its own right, slowly driving the victim mad as they struggle in vain for any way to relieve that horrible itching. And so, we simply leave our model like this for an hour or so as the powder does its work, not rinsing it off until we’re sure her resistance is quite broken. As I said before, tickling is almost as much mental as physical. Now come along my dear, let’s leave her to marinate for a while. It’s time I introduced you to Gelos Studio’s star employee.”
Constance led her to the pod that was being serviced by a single girl. A beautiful latina with dark, almond shaped eyes, Billie noticed that she alone of all the ticklers in the room wore headphones that were plugged into her pod. The dark haired girl ignored the two women observing her, instead focusing completely on the unfortunate victim she was expertly torturing. Billie watched as she spidered her fingernails rapidly over the smooth sole of the model’s long, narrow right foot, while vigorously scrubbing the left with a hairbrush. Briefly pausing her abuse of the right arch, she bent down and licked the foot slowly from heel to toes, the flat of her tongue pressed firmly against the skin, leaving behind a film of saliva. She then blew lightly on the now glistening flesh before beginning to flick the tip of her tongue against it rapidly as her nails stroked the heel, the entire time never breaking rhythm with the brush in her other hand.
“Sylvia here is a prodigy” Constance said admiringly. “I’ve never seen anyone as gifted as her at causing suffering, myself included. I trust you noticed her headphones?” At Billie’s uncertain nod she continued, “Sylvia gauges the subject’s reaction to her techniques and varies them accordingly, either abandoning or staying with each one depending on their effectiveness. Fortunately, our young genius here doesn’t have a trace of pity in her, so their pleas for mercy don't give her the slightest pause. In fact, I rather think she enjoys them more than our clients do!”
Bending down to read a note on the side of the pod, Constance said, “Well, it seems this young lady’s session is almost over, lucky thing! Although, knowing Sylvia, the poor girl was probably broken shortly after her ordeal started. Billie my dear, would you like to hear what nearly four hours of tickling at the hands of a true artiste can do to a person?”
“I’d really rather not, if it’s all the same” Billie said nervously.
“Oh my lamb, I’m afraid I really must insist” Constance all but purred, plugging both sets of headphones into the pod. “Just consider it part of your training.”
If Billie hadn’t known better she would have sworn the woman inside the pod had been tickled for four days rather than four hours. It was quite obvious the model had reached the limits of her endurance some time before, but Sylvia had not lessened the severity of her torture at all. The only sounds coming from the victim now were a mixture of exhausted laughter and racking sobs, occasionally interspersed with a tearful “PLEEEEEEASE!”, wailed in a tone that suggested the subject had long since given up on any hope of mercy and was now begging purely by reflex.
“Well, how lovely” Constance said as they removed their headphones. “Our little Mozart has delivered to us yet another masterpiece. Come, my dear, let’s leave her to her work. We’ll finish our tour in my office, and then you can get properly settled in.” Taking Billie by the elbow, Constance led the stunned girl through the swinging doors and out of room.
The older woman escorted Billie to a door marked “Mistress Deveraux” and ushered her inside. Still in shock from all she had just seen and heard on the studio floor, Billie looked around numbly, trying to take in her surroundings. In contrast to the drab appearance of the prep room and studio, the decor of the office was quite luxurious and modern. Artistic photographs of the New York City skyline adorned the rich wood paneling of the walls, hanging alongside framed promotional posters advertising past bondage parties and fetish galas in Manhattan. Billie noticed that Constance’s name or picture appeared on almost all of the latter. A large black lacquered desk sat at the far end of the room with a huge monitor hanging on the wall behind it, its screen split into multiple smaller pictures showing live feeds from the studio. Most were of the models as they lay in their pods, their faces contorted by mirthless laughter. Trying her best to avoid looking at the screen, Billie was just grateful there was no audio feed.
A large dark red leather sofa took up one wall. Indicating with a gesture that Billie should seat herself, Constance did the same in a matching chair that sat opposite it. “Alright, lamb,” she said, “I’m sure you’re just bursting with questions. So please, fire away.”
“Where the hell do you find them?” Billie almost shouted, the tension that had been building inside her finally finding a release. “Where do you get girls who’ll let you do this kind of sick shit to them, especially if they know they’re ticklish? No money’s worth that!” A small voice in the back of her mind reminded Billie that she was alone in a foreign country, the guest of a woman with an obvious sadistic streak and a small army of loyal employees. Trying to bring herself under control and not anger her host, she continued in a calmer tone, “I mean, this can’t be legal, can it?”
If anything, Constance seemed amused rather than offended. “Oh, it’s all quite legal, or so our rather expensive lawyers assure me. Every model comes here having signed an ironclad contract and multiple waivers, all containing very precise wording which, unfortunately for them, they never seem to read. Of course, having local law enforcement and a judge or two on the payroll helps as well. We’re not based in Mexico solely for the cheap labor, after all.”
“As for how we find our subjects, well, it’s really not terribly complicated. Our recruiters target local colleges and gentlemen's clubs in various cities, advertising lucrative modeling sessions to any young woman who can pass an audition. Of course we never explicitly state that we’re shooting tickling videos, instead just saying that we’re filming non-nude foot fetish and bondage. Which, after all, isn’t technically a lie now is it? The recruiter interviews them, tests them for ticklishness, and then we get our pick of the litter. By the time they figure out what they've actually signed up for it's too late.”
“Should the girls know better? Of course. But it’s amazing how quickly a few thousand dollars can override a nineteen year old girl’s common sense. And in the end they fly home at our expense, physically unharmed and with the promised check in their pocket. If they end up having to spend that money on therapy sessions, well, that's not really our concern.” Constance finished with a grin.
“But how is this place even possible?” Billie asked. “I mean, this building, paying the models and the staff, flying people in and out. I’m sure your videos are expensive and all, but I can’t believe you sell enough of them to pay for all of this” she said, gesturing expansively about her.
“Not even a quarter.” Constance conceded with a rueful shake of her head. “Yes, even with the exorbitant fees we charge for our product, our little operation leaks money like a sieve. Fortunately, our owners are a small group of obscenely rich men and women who all share an intense love for this particular fetish. Their continued patronage has rendered sales of our videos almost an afterthought.”
“But why?” Billie asked. “I mean, my loser ex boyfriend could find any kind of porn he wanted on the internet for free, I gotta think there’s a cheaper way for these, um, rich folks to get their rocks off!”
Constance laughed. “Oh, to be sure. In fact, there’s countless studios out there that focus on nothing but tickling videos, some of them quite good. However, our owners grew bored with the offerings of more mundane purveyors and decided to use their wealth to take the fetish to its ultimate extreme, stripping away any pretense of playfulness or teasing and leaving behind only pure, distilled torment. Gelos gives them what no ordinary studio can.
She leaned forward, her faint accent growing slightly more pronounced as she continued, “We give them the first stroke of fingernails across the bottom of a bound bare foot, when an unsuspecting subject finally understands just what is going to happen to her and how utterly helpless she is to stop it. We give them the panic in her voice when she realizes that, no matter how loudly she begs for mercy, or screams that she can’t take it for even one second longer, the tickling will just go on and on and on. We give them the glimmer of hope in her eyes when she’s finally granted a respite from the almost unendurable torture, a glimmer that, moments later, changes to a look of horrified disbelief as her tormentors launch an even more vicious assault on her naked soles. And, most of all, we give them the laughter.” Her voice dropped to a husky near whisper. “Oh yes, that desperate, delicious laughter…”
Constance leaned back and closed her eyes, visibly gathering herself. After a deep breath, she said, “I’m sorry, my dear, I’m afraid I get a bit carried away sometimes when talking about our art. What’s the old saying, if you love what you do you’ll never work a day in your life?” She chuckled briefly and then continued, “Now I have a question for you. I realize this is probably all quite strange to you, terrifying even. Believe it or not I was a neophyte myself once, and my introduction to the lifestyle wasn't nearly as...intense. I’m sure your natural inclination is to run home as fast as you can, and if that’s your decision I can certainly understand. In fact, if you insist, we can have you on a plane tonight, asking only that you honor your non-disclosure agreement. But I’m truly hoping you’ll stay with us, Billie. I strongly believe you’ll be a valuable asset here.” She smiled, her eyes hooded. “Valuable in ways you just wouldn’t believe, my lamb.”
Billie started to tell Constance just where she could stick her studio AND her art but stopped herself; after all, acting impulsively was what brought her here in the first place. Yes, Gelos was a horrorshow, built by perverts for perverts, and yes the head pervert in charge was a crazy sadist who looked at Billie like a coyote eyeing a prairie dog. And, most importantly, yes what was being done to the poor girls they tricked into coming here was unspeakably cruel.
But the fact was that a summer working for a subsidiary of an industry giant like MMI could open important doors for her after graduation, to say nothing of the much needed money and college credit she’d gain at the end of the summer if she didn’t chicken out now. And besides, every single model was here of her own free will, and well compensated for their four hours of suffering.
Amazing what you can talk yourself into when there’s a paycheck involved. Billie stood and offered Constance her hand, trying to exude a confidence she didn't feel. “You know, it’s not my fault that sorority girls and strippers can’t read a damn contract. Let’s make someone laugh.”
**************************************************
Billie was slouched down in the control room's chair, paying only peripheral attention to the large bank of monitors before her, when the incoming message tone on her phone chimed. “So who’s onstage tonight?” the text from her college roommate Danielle asked.
After her initial meeting with Constance Billie hadn’t been able to resist filling her friend in on all the sordid details of her new job although, mindful of her non-disclosure agreement, she had kept their conversations limited to texts on her private phone and sworn Dani to secrecy. When Billie informed her of Constance's pretentious nickname for the studio Dani had suggested it sounded like the name of a comedy club, which had become a running joke between the two. “Tonight only!” Billie sent back, “The Hillbilly, the Ho, and the Haughty Hispanic High Society Honey! Here at the Laugh Factory!”
“Wow, UR a poet AND a perv! :-D” Dani’s response read. Billie laughed, then set down the phone with a sigh. With an hour left in her shift, she decided she could at least make an attempt to look busy.
Billie only worked in the studio’s control room one or two days a week, but her eight hour shifts there were interminable. At least her time spent in the editing room the rest of the week, editing four hour shoots down to one hour videos, was engaging; sitting here, staring at this bank of screens that showed her both the torturers and the tortured, she felt less like an A/V tech and more like a shop foreman for the Spanish Inquisition. The video and audio feeds themselves rarely needed adjusting, so her primary task was monitoring the models’ reactions as they underwent their sessions. If a girl grew desensitized and unresponsive to her ticklers’ ministrations, it was Billie’s responsibility to notice this and call a temporary break, allowing time for the model’s sensitivity to return, and anxiety to grow, before her torment resumed.
It was a slow day in the studio, with only three models on the floor. Billie made her rounds, looking in on each one in turn.
Yvette DelaCruz was the twenty one year old daughter of a well-to-do family from Mexico City. Obviously not needing the modelling fee, she had apparently taken the job on a lark, no doubt thinking of it as some kinky erotic adventure she could tell tales of to scandalize her girlfriends back home. If that was what she thought she had come to Gelos for, she was currently paying a very high price for her misconception.
Constance, knowing that the poor village girls she employed would resent the rich girl from the city, had shrewdly made Yvette’s identity known to her stable of ticklers and promised a turn at the socialite to anyone who wanted it. In addition she temporarily suspended her own policy on headphones, allowing the artists to enjoy the effects their torments had on the victim. Two and a half hours into her session six girls had already taken a turn at Yvette, each new tickler taking over before the previous had a chance to grow fatigued and slow down.
Currently two sisters, Gloria and Maria Gomez, were giggling to each other at Yvette’s reactions as they scrubbed stiff hair brushes repeatedly across the bottoms of the poor young woman’s beautifully pedicured feet. The socialite’s soft skin glistened with a thin sheen of baby oil, enabling the bristles to glide effortlessly over and over again across her taut, naked soles.
Billie activated the pod’s audio feed. The beautiful latina’s throaty voice was growing slightly hoarse as she alternated between intense laughter and frenzied begging in spanish. "HAHAHAHA!!! TE RUEGO POR FAVOR NO ME COSQUILLAS MÁS!!!! NONONONONO HAHAHAHAHA!!! TE PAGARÉ CUALQUIER COSA PERO POR FAVOR DEJAR DE!!!” She screamed. “HAHAHAHAHA MADRE DE DIOS POR FAVOR NO MÁS! AAAHAHAHAHAHAH NOOOOOOO!!” Billie had only a general idea what she was saying but, laughter or no, she didn’t sound happy. Ah, well, her parents can probably afford the best therapists in Mexico City when she gets home. Killing the feed, Billie moved on to the next subject.
Maryjane Pulaski could have been sent directly from central casting. The leggy blonde from rural Georgia covered every item on the country girl cliche checklist, right down to the ponytalils and daisy dukes she had been sporting when she arrived at the studio the day before. According to her dossier she graded at the low end of Gelos’ desired ticklishness scale, but the nineteen year old beauty possessed two attributes Billie knew Constance just could not resist: a pronounced accent - in Maryjane’s case a thick southern drawl - and unusually large, shapely feet. Therefore, she was a perfect candidate for the studio’s itching powder “softening up” process.
When the powder first began to take effect the blonde girl had fought against her restraints aggressively, but after an hour of enduring the awful itching sensations it was quite clear all of the fight had been sucked out of her. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes as her lips moved silently on the screen. Billie turned on the internal mics. “Please, please make it STOP! Please, someone scratch mah feet, ah’m beggin’ y'all! Ah swear ah cain’t take it anymore!” The suffering girl took a shuddering breath. “OH MAH GOD, AH CAIN’T TAKE IT NO MOOOOOORE!” she wailed.
Judging her ready for the main event, Billie called an orderly to rinse the powder off, and notified the model’s assigned ticklers that they were on deck. Maryjane’s wish was about to be granted, but the itching was going to be replaced by something much, much worse. Be careful what you ask for there, ‘sugah’, Billie thought to herself nastily as she turned her attention to the monitor displaying the final subject currently on the studio floor.
Meredith “Diamond” Baxter was an exotic dancer from Dallas, toned and limber, with hair dyed a shade of red not found in nature. The heavily pierced and tattooed girl had cheerfully allowed herself to be strapped into the bondage pod, and actually seemed to enjoy the tickling at first. That had changed almost immediately, of course, as Billie had known it would. Diamond was, after all, in the hands of Gelos Studios’ most vicious and skilled tickler.
If Billie found Constance’s cheerful sadism and affected mannerisms creepy, Sylvia Villalobos was downright terrifying. Brooding and aloof, the intense young latina rarely spoke to anyone aside from Constance. Even the other locals gave the sullen beauty a wide berth, seemingly as intimidated by her as Billie was. The only time a smile ever seemed to grace her thin lips was when she was presented a helpless victim to torment.
Billie had spoken to the other ticklers enough during her stay to know that Constance’s policy of insulating the artists from the reactions of their subjects was wise, as most of the village girls tried very hard not to think about the suffering they were obliged to inflict for a paycheck. Sylvia, on the other hand, seemed to revel in it, delighting in finding new and ever more evil ways of wringing agonized laughter from the ticklish feet of her writhing victims. The sadistic raven haired beauty used the reactions of her subjects to adjust her methods on the fly, lingering lovingly on any technique that proved particularly excruciating to a hysterical girl isolated inside her soundproof hell. Sylvia was so brutally efficient in her art that her subjects often emerged from their pods hysterical or violent, forcing Doctor Barnes to always be present at their release with an injection gun loaded with fast acting sedatives readily at hand.
Diamond had passed her breaking point sometime ago but Sylvia, true to form, had not slowed the pace of her torment in the slightest. She was currently employing a wide paint brush in each hand with which she alternated leisurely up and down strokes on the stretched skin of Diamond’s arches, eliciting a frenzied response with each pass of the soft bristles against sensitive flesh. Ignoring the tattooed dancer’s struggles, Sylvia remained fixated on the twitching feet she was torturing with machine-like efficiency, licking her lips hungrily as a particularly violent wave of laughter actually shook the heavy pod.
Billie didn’t need to activate Diamond’s audio feed to assess her condition, as the look of hopeless despair in the girl’s beautiful blue eyes was clear evidence that she was far past the limits of her endurance As she did nearly every time she was called upon to monitor one of Sylvia's sessions, Billie considered halting the shoot, genuinely concerned for the model’s safety. While it was discouraged, the tech in charge of the control room had the authority to pause the tickling and call in the doctor to examine a subject if they felt it warranted. Billie had only done so twice during her tenure at Gelos but both times had been while monitoring Sylvia, and the mexican girl had harbored an obvious grudge against her ever since, acting even surlier than normal when in the american girl’s presence.
A knock at the control room door saved her from having to make a decision. Steve, another A/V tech currently in residence at Gelos, peeked his head in and said, “Yo B. Boss lady wants to see you in her office ASAP. Said I should cover the rest of your shift.”
“Um, okay, sure.” Billie replied a bit uncertainly, rising from the control room chair. “She say what about?” The older man shrugged, holding the door open for her. As she stepped past him and into the hallway she said in passing, “Hey, uh, keep an eye on the girl in three, the one Sylvia’s working on? We probably oughta think about pulling her out of there while she can still remember her name.” Steve grunted noncommittally, and Billie knew that poor Diamond was in there for the duration. Ah, well, at least she tried.
Billie hurriedly made the short trip from the control room to Constance’s office. With her term of service coming to an end in just two weeks she had actually been expecting some form of exit interview soon, and thus wasn’t overly concerned about the summons. Coulda let me finish the shift, though she thought as she knocked on the office door.
Billie was surprised to find Doctor Barnes and Randy the orderly already present in Constance’s lair, the former seated on one end of the couch as the latter loomed by the door. Gelos’ copper haired mistress was seated at her desk with a somber expression, the giant monitor on the wall behind her showing a black screen rather than its usual collage of images from the studio floor.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you in, my dear” Constance began in an uncharacteristically serious tone of voice once Billie had seated herself beside the Doctor. “I have to say I’m tremendously disappointed. I’ve been quite pleased with your work this summer and, to be honest, had considered extending you an offer of further employment once you graduated. But I’m afraid that’s quite impossible now. You see, Billie, we have a serious security issue on our hands, centering on you. It’s come to my attention that you’ve violated the non-disclosure clause of your contract, something that both I and our owners take quite seriously.”
“But, but I didn’t…” Billie began to stammer, stopping herself as Constance raised a hand for silence, the other picking up a remote from her desk and pressing a button. Instantly, the wall sized monitor behind her came to life and displayed a selection of Billie’s text messages to her roommate over the last two and a half months, all concerning her work at Gelos. “What?” she exclaimed, her nervousness washed away by a sudden flood of righteous indignation. “You’ve been reading my texts? How dare you!” she almost yelled.
Constance shook her head sadly. “Why won’t you girls ever read your contracts? It quite clearly states that any outgoing communications are subject to monitoring, just as clearly as it states that employees are forbidden to discuss any aspect of our operation with non-employees. A rule you quite obviously broke less than an hour ago” she finished, gesturing towards Billie’s last message to Dani sitting at the top of the screen.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I mean, Dani’s my best friend, she wouldn’t say anything…”
Constance cut her off. “Be that as it may, lamb,” she said sadly, “I’m afraid rules are rules. Now, in light of your previous excellent service, I’ve decided to award you the full agreed upon college credit, as well as to allow you to list MMI as a positive reference on your resume. No need to ruin a promising career on account of one youthful indiscretion, after all. This is, of course, dependant upon you completing one final day of work for the company, as stipulated in your contract.”
Well there was a huge silver lining, even if her final day was spent scrubbing toilets as punishment. Billie nodded gratefully. “Well, okay, I appreciate that, I really do. So what, you want me to help out in the editing room tomorrow or something?” she asked hopefully.
“Oh no, my dear, for your final day here I thought we’d have you do something special” Constance said with a mischievous grin.
Toilets, Billie thought, It’s going to be toilets. With a sinking feeling in her stomach she asked hesitantly “Um, and what’s that?”
Constance’s grin changed from mischievous to predatory as she leaned forward, her emerald eyes gleaming, and said, “Why, I thought maybe we would give you a try as a model for a day. I know Sylvia has expressed to me several times that she is just dying to work with you.”
Billie stood up as if shot from a cannon. “No!” she yelled shrilly, “No fucking way! You can keep your goddamn credits and your goddamn references! There’s no way in hell I’m getting in one of those fucking pods!” Her heart pounding, Billie’s eyes darted towards the door, wondering if Randy would prevent her from leaving. Distracted, she didn’t notice that the doctor had also stood until she felt a sudden sting in her upper arm.
“Ow! What the hell?” she exclaimed. Turning to look at Doctor Barnes, she saw him holding his injection gun, an apologetic expression on his face. “Doc, what did you…” she began, then stopped as the room started to spin.
As she swayed dizzily she heard Constance’s voice, seemingly a hundred miles away, say, “Nothing to be worried about, lamb, just another CIA approved pharmaceutical from our friends at Merriweather Chemicals to help insure you fulfil the terms of your contract.” Billie felt Randy’s strong hands grab her and ease her onto the couch. The world grew fuzzier around her as she heard Constance’s husky voice say something about prep room one, then everything faded to black.
**************************************************
Billie woke slowly from a deep sleep, snapping to full awareness only when she tried to roll over and realized that she was completely unable to move. Opening her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of a bondage pod lid’s padded interior a mere eight inches from her nose. Testing her bonds, she quickly realized that she had been secured every bit as thoroughly as any of the models she had monitored over the last few months, from the padded strap across her forehead to the cords bending her toes back to the point of complete immobility.
She felt the gentlest breath of air waft across her bare feet as the building’s ventilation system cycled on. The thought of her feet outside of the pod, exposed and vulnerable to tickling or worse from anyone passing by, terrified her. She began to thrash as forcefully as the strict bondage allowed, looking directly into one of the tiny digital cameras mounted to the lid and yelling for anyone watching to release her. After a few moments of frenzied struggling she finally gave up and lay still, panting and sweating inside her straightjacket.
Billie suddenly started with a shriek at the feel of rubber gloved hands gently massaging the bottoms of her feet. To her horror, intense pinpricks of itching appeared almost instantly at several points on her soles, rapidly spreading to fully engulf the sensitive skin from the bottoms of her toes to her heels. The sensations grew more and more unbearable until the frantic girl was cursing vehemently and struggling against her restraints, straining her ankles against the unyielding stocks in a futile effort to rub her feet together, to do something, anything, to relieve the horrific, maddening itching. But nothing she did made the slightest difference as she squirmed and moaned helplessly.
After what felt like an eternity, each moment seeming to Billie to be the one where her sanity would finally slip irrevocably away, a new sensation intruded on her torment as a cool spray of liquid washed over her feet, followed by a rough cloth wiping them dry. Almost instantly the itching ceased, and a panicked giggle escaped her throat as the towel lightly tickled her now hyper-sensitive soles. Thankfully the towel was removed almost immediately, leaving Billie exhausted and waiting in terror for what she feared was coming next.
To her relief, Billie heard the sound of the pod’s latches being undone. After a moment the lid swung open, causing her to blink furiously in the much brighter glare of the room’s fluorescent lighting. Constance stood beside the pod looking down at her with an amused expression, and for a moment Billie dared to hope that she was being released from her restraints. That hope quickly changed to dread, however, as she registered the slight figure standing beside the tall redhead. Sylvia Villalobos grinned at the helpless young woman, a nasty gleam in her eye.
“Why hello there lamb, did you have a nice nap?” Constance asked with a friendly smile. “I took the liberty of providing you with a little pick-me-up to insure you were quite awake and ready for this evening’s entertainment.” She winked at the bound girl. “I’d say I hoped you enjoyed it but, judging from the sounds coming out of your pod during the last hour, I already know better. I must say, you do have a bit of a potty mouth when you’re distressed, my dear!”
“Constance, please let me out of here!” Billie began to beg. “I won’t say anything else to anyone, I swear! You can keep my pay…”
“Oh no, my dear.” Constance cut her off. “It has nothing to do with the money, it's just the principle of the thing.You violated the terms of your contract, and now you have to pay the penalty, as simple as that. To allow you to leave without any repercussions would be setting a bad example for our other employees. And besides, Sylvia here assures me she has some exquisite games in mind for you.” She turned to the latina and asked, “Ustedes dos se divertirán, ¿no es así, Sylvia?”
“Oh sí señora” Sylvia replied, wiggling her fingertips towards the terrified girl. “La gringa no puede hacerme dejar de cosquillas esta vez!”
“You see? Sylvia is so eager to play with you! How could I possibly disappoint such an enthusiastic employee?” Constance asked cheerfully. Running one lacquered fingernail down the side of the pod, she continued in a more conversational tone. “But I can imagine how frightened you must be, darling. After all, you’ve watched my protege at work for months now, so you know as well as I do just how gifted, and how cruel, she is. You’ve seen her reduce a model to a screaming, sobbing mess in minutes with nothing more than her nails and a bit of baby oil, watched her torture a victim mercilessly for hours after they’ve already been broken.”
Walking to the end of the pod, Constance began drumming her fingernails on the top of the polished fiberglass stocks. “And there you’ll be, my poor little lamb, tied up and helpless under that lid while your bare feet are out here with her.” She began stroking her hand gently across the bottom of Billie’s left foot, careful to keep her fingernails from scratching but still drawing frightened gasps from the bound girl with each caress. “Just think about how vulnerable they are like this, with these pretty little toes of yours tied back so very tightly, the smooth skin of your soles stretched taut. A perfect canvas for her every sadistic whim.” Constance shook her head sympathetically. “Honestly, if I were in your position I’d be going mad with fear right now.”
Moving alongside Billie once again, Constance bent to whisper into the trembling girl’s ear. “I was watching that day in the exam room, you know. I saw what happened when the doctor stroked that brush against your foot. I realized just how insanely ticklish you are and I resolved then and there to find a way to get you into a pod. But unlike all the other girls that find themselves in one, you know exactly what’s about to happen to you, don’t you my dear?”
Billie began to cry. “Please, Constance, I’m begging you don’t do this to me!” she sobbed. “You can’t let her tickle my feet, not tied up like this! I’ll die! I swear I’ll…” She stopped as Constance gently rested a finger on her quivering lips.
“Hush, lamb, be quiet now” Constance said, almost lovingly. “Trust me, you’re going to need every ounce of breath in just a moment. She is going to tickle you, Billie. She's going to rake her nails up and down your bare soles for hour after hour while you shriek and writhe in unendurable agony. No matter how frantically you laugh, she won’t stop. No matter how loudly you scream, she won’t stop. No matter how much you beg, she will. Not. Stop. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.” Constance’s voice became teasing, her hot breath sending chills down Billie’s spine as it blew into her ear. “Can you even imagine it, Billie? Brushes, combs, fingernails, all scratching unbearably across the bottoms of your soft little feet, over and over and over? And the whole time you have to just lie there and take it! Well, you’re not going to have to imagine it for much longer.”
Billie was making incoherent mewling sounds, tears streaming from her eyes. The tall redhead straightened, gripping the edge of the pod's lid. “You’ve seen what that can do to a girl, haven’t you? Well, now you’re going to get to experience it firsthand! And by the way, this is all being recorded for our clients. So do try to put on a good show, won’t you my dear? See you in a few hours, lamb. Kitchie Kitchie Koo!” Constance said teasingly, before slamming the lid closed.
Billie lay in the dim light of the pod, listening first to the sound of latches being refastened and then to her own ragged breathing. A small part of her mind somehow clung to the hope that what Constance had just described in such gleeful detail wasn’t actually about to happen to her, that, having been taught her lesson, she would be released and sent home, traumatized but unharmed. Sinking deeper into denial, Billie had actually managed to calm herself and slow her breathing when Sylvia’s attack began.
Sharp fingernails skittered rapidly across Billie’s tightly stretched soles, causing the panicked girl to nearly jump out of her skin. She thrashed wildly against her bonds, her high pitched laughter shattering the silence of the pod as she shrieked “EEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE NOOOOO! OH GOD HAHAHAHAHAHAH, NOT MY FEET DON’T TICKLE MY FEEHEEHEEHEEHEET! I CAN’T TAKE IT, I CAN’T, I CAN’T, I CAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Billie fought violently against the stocks encasing her ankles, her toes straining futilely against their restraining cuffs, in a desperate attempt to escape the rhythmic strokes of Sylvia’s nails along her sensitive arches. The months spent watching models being tickled from the safety of the control room, the nightmares and daydreams where she found herself in their place, hadn’t prepared her in the slightest for the torment she was now suffering. The tickling sensations were a thousand times worse than she had imagined, exacerbated by the knowledge that she was completely unable to do anything to stop, or even slow, the torture.
Although the tiny part of her brain still capable of rational thought realized that pleading would only drive her tormenter to even further depths of cruelty, Billie couldn’t help herself. “AHAHAHAHAHAH MERCY, SYLVIA, PLEASE! HEEHEEHEEHEE I’M BEGGING YOU! OH PLEASE NO MORE! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO STOP! I CAN’T STAND IT! THIS IS KILLING MEEHEEHEEHEEHEE!”
In response to her frenzied begging Sylvia’s nails danced even more rapidly across the bottom of Billie’s right foot as some sort of stiff brush began to stroke over and over on the soft skin of the left. The tormented girl’s pleas abruptly ceased, replaced by peal after peal of agonized laughter. “NOOOOOOHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
The tiny sliver of rationality left to her had time for one last, terrifying realization: this was just the beginning. Sylvia was a pitiless tickling machine, as tireless as she was skilled. As excruciating as the torture was now, it was only going to get worse as it went on and on, for hour after screaming, sobbing, laughter filled hour. Billie had, after all, seen it happen with her own eyes so many times before.
A wail of despair tore loose from her throat as the true horror of her plight finally settled on her. And then a wave of hysteria finally swept away her last vestige of sanity, leaving only the laughter behind.
The End.
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Truly diabolical. 
